Tag Archives: Port Naain

The Miser and The Demon

Benor was walking down Slip Pike Lane at a steady pace. Anybody watching him might have noted that his stride was precise, each step exactly the same length as the last. Somebody particularly observant might have noticed that every ten paces, Benor made a mark on a piece of paper with an indelible pencil. At this point they might have realised that they were witnessing a cartographer at work.
Slip Pike Lane is one of the streets that run parallel to Ropewalk. The
original houses were all quite large and now virtually all of them have been divided into apartments. Benor quite liked the area, the houses were solid, everything looked reasonably well maintained and the people put on a brave face and made the best of a very modest prosperity. One house had caught Benor’s eye. Perhaps alone of all the houses on the street it appeared to be derelict. There was no glass in the windows, there were slates missing off the roof and the door hung open. When he’d looked inside previously, it appeared utterly deserted, there wasn’t even any evidence of it being squatted in.
As he passed it this time he noticed two men come out. One could have been a clerk of some sort but the other Benor thought he recognised. It was Gumption Silvernant. Tallis had pointed the man out to him and described him as the meanest miser in Port Naain. He was currently engaged in conversation with the other man.
As Benor overheard the conversation he decided the other man was a clerk of works or similar. Benor heard him say, “You’ll need new roof timbers!” The miser glared at him. “A house nobody will live in and you want me to buy new timbers! So they can just rot unmourned like the ones my father put in?” “Well if you don’t do something soon, the whole lot will be down about your ears.”
Both men had stopped and were looking back at the neglected house. Benor also stopped and commented casually, “If you use decent second hand you could get the roof weather-proof. With a reasonable roof you’ve a chance of getting a tenant.” Silvernant turned to his builder and pointed to Benor. “If a passing stranger can spot something so obvious, how is it you cannot?”
The miser turned back to Benor, “And you are?” “Benor Dorfinngil, Cartographer, at your service.” Silvernant peered closely at him, “You a friend of that Tallis Steelyard individual?” “I am.”“A rogue and a wastrel!” Silvernant paused briefly, “But doubtless an honest
enough friend. Now you were saying about decent second hand timber?” “They’re stripping a lot of timber from the sheds by the Graving Dock. Some of it looked decent.” The miser looked at his clerk of works. The other man shrugged. “I can go and look; we will always have a job for it. But it’s still money wasted if nobody will live in the house.” With that he left.
Benor would have moved on, but Silvernant had rested a gaunt hand on the young cartographer’s shoulder. “Look around lad, how many houses to I own in this street?” Benor shrugged. Silvernant continued, “A nice round dozen. Aye and they’re every bit as well maintained as the others. He turned to glare at Benor. “I’ve got good tenants; they’re all up-to-date with their rent, so I want to keep them happy. A happy tenant is a profitable tenant.” He prodded the young man in the chest. “Never save brass and waste silver.”
Benor was too dumbstruck to reply. He wasn’t sure whether Tallis would entirely believe him if he were repeat this lecture to the poet.
The miser continued. “They say I’m mean, but I’m no fool.” He sighed. “So what am I going to do with this damned house!” Hesitantly Benor said, “Well if you get a roof on….” Heavily the older man said, “More damned expense. What I need is a tenant.” He paused, deep in thought, his hand still firmly clasping Benor’s shoulder in a claw-like grip. “I’ll do a deal with you lad. I suspect you like a wager?”
Benor ignored everything but the deal. “What’s the deal?” “It’s like this. I’ve bits and pieces of land and property all over the city. It wouldn’t hurt to have them surveyed. Probably take a smart lad a
couple of weeks. I suspect a decent plan would show where I’ve space to build. What’s your rate?”“Five alars a week, which covers me and an apprentice.” Silvernant sucked in sharply through clenched teeth. “Only a young chap and he still knows how to charge! Well this is the deal. I’ll book you to do the work. I’ll also book you to get me tenants in this house. If you get me the tenants who stay at least a month, I’ll pay you for three weeks’ work, even if it takes a week. If you don’t get me the tenants I’ll pay you for a week’s work, even if it takes three.”
Benor considered the wager. It wasn’t as if he had a lot of work on. “Tricky getting a tenant for a house with no roof.” Silvernant looked back at the house as if surprised by the revelation. “Tell you what; if this tenant of yours sleeps for a week in the house, I’ll get a roof on sharpish, even if I have to use new timber!” Benor tried to read the old man. There had to be a catch. But as far as he could tell, the catch was working for a poor rate. But there again, it was still better pay than the casual work he’d been picking up and he could work on his ‘Guide to Port Naain’ whilst he was working for the miser. He held out his hand. “You’re on!” The miser grasped his hand firmly. “I’ll get a week’s money to you by nightfall. I don’t carry a lot of cash on my person.”

Benor arrived back to the barge to find Tallis staring mesmerised at a pile of silver coins on the table. Benor looked enquiringly at Shena who just sighed. “Somebody came from Gumption Silvernant saying this was the money the old miser owed you.” Mutt rolled out from under the table. “Well you got all your limbs. Tallis reckoned you’d sold your soul; I reckoned it weren’t worth that much.” “I’m doing some work for him.” Tallis looked up, “Who do you have to kill?”
Speaking as if to a particularly stupid pet Benor said, “I’m doing some
surveying for him, and I’m to find him a tenant for a house of his.” “That ruin on Slip Pike Lane?” Mutt asked. “Yes.” “Forget it, it’s haunted.” “You don’t believe in ghosts surely?” “Don’t matter what I believe. Matters what a tenant would believe.” Tallis said, “Mutt’s right. I’ve heard that that house is haunted, nobody ever stays a full night.” “Well we can change that. I’ll sleep there tonight and for the next few nights and that’ll dispel any silly gossip.”Loyally, Mutt added, “I’ll come wi’ you, you owes me money.” Then he hastily added, “Not to sleep inside but just to be close enough to hear any screams.”

Benor had given some thought to his preparations. He took a lantern, some candles, the makings of a fire, and some bedding. He made no secret of what he was doing, brushing out the floor of the main downstairs room and generally getting things as comfortable as possible. One of two of the passers-by slowed down to watch him, one lady shook her head sadly, but nobody stopped to speak. Finally he went out and bought a meat pie for his evening meal. At this point Mutt materialised with two rather more superior meat pies, cheese, some almost fresh bread, and two bottles of beer. After eating, Benor made his bed up in front of the fire. He lay with his head nearest the door, which he proceeded to prop closed once Mutt had made his excuses and left. He read for a while and finally decided it was time to go to sleep. He stoked the fire up and after some thought left the candle burning. He lay there for a while and soon dozed off. After all, in his wanderings he’d slept in far less salubrious surroundings.
He woke up feeling cold. The candle had burned down; at least two hours had passed. He poked the fire and threw more wood on it in an attempt to get a decent blaze. If anything, the cold seemed to increase and even huddling close to the fire didn’t help. It was then he noticed a smell. It was as if some medium sized creature had crawled under the floorboards and had then died. There was a distinct smell of rotting flesh. Benor was puzzled, after all it hadn’t been here before, he couldn’t have faced his meal with that smell lingering. Then for no reason the candle went out and the fire died down. The smell grew worse. The scent of rotting meat had obviously attracted the attention
of an incontinent dog with flatulence. Poking the fire achieved othing.
Benor pulled the blankets round him and looked round the room. here was no sign of anything. He lost track of how long he’d sat huddled, close to the fire. The stench was now so bad he was afraid to doze off lest he was asphyxiated in his sleep. Then he heard something, the gentle scrape of something moving. He looked into the corner furthest from the door. In the darkness there seemed to be a deeper darkness. As he watched, petrified, a dark shape coalesced and seemed to reach out towards him. He felt something brush his ear lightly. It broke whatever dark enchantment was keeping him in place.
Benor was already running when he hit the door and burst out into the road. He tripped over something and sprawled across the street. A voice came from behind him. “Watch yer feet!” Benor rolled over; Mutt had been sleeping across the doorway. Cautiously Benor made his way back to the door and looked into the room. The fire was out and the room was in darkness. He darted in, grabbed his blankets and ran
out. Mutt pushed away the blanket that was dangling across his face, “Aea, they stink!”

Early morning found Benor arguing with the porter on the gate of the Temple of Aea in her Aspect as the Personification of Chastity.
“Look, I just want to speak to the Hierophant.” At this point he was
struggling to stay polite. He was still shaken from the events of the
previous night. “You and a thousand others, you need an appointment just to have him ignore you!” Benor ground his teeth and tried a different tack. “Then can I see Shaleen, the chief virgin and temple dancer?” “Personal friend is she.” Benor leaned across the counter so his nose was an inch from the face of the porter, “And what exactly did you mean by that!” Mutt tugged at Benor’s trousers. Benor, surprised, looked down at him. Mutt mouthed, “Stick with me.” He then ducked past the porter and ran into the quadrangle behind.“ Oy, you…..” The porter turned and fell flat on his face. Benor ran after Mutt, somehow resisting the temptation to kick the porter as he passed. Mutt darted into a narrow doorway and busied himself with the lock. “What happened there?” Benor asked. ”Tied ‘is laces together.”
The door opened and Mutt beckoned Benor inside and closed it after him. “Stay ‘ere, don’t move. I’ll get Valerin.” “Why, where are we at?”
“It’s where the apprentice dancers sleep. You go in, they’ll scream fer fun. Mutt disappeared and Benor stood very still and tried to fade into the shadows. On the other side of the door he could hear shouting. Somebody even tried the door, but Mutt had obviously locked it again.
Perhaps five minutes later Mutt appeared with a girl who Benor recognised as Valerin. She nodded a greeting. “You want to meet Shaleen?” “Well actually I want to meet the Hierophant.”
She shrugged, “Shaleen I can do. Follow me and look like you belong here.” She led them down a dark corridor into a somewhat brighter hallway. From there they ascended a spiral staircase which rose through three landings before Valerin walked across and knocked on a door. She obviously heard a voice from inside because she opened the door and beckoned Benor and Mutt to follow her. Inside Benor saw Shaleen, the chief virgin and temple dancer. She winked at him when she recognised him. “Last time you visited you fell off the roof and escaped dressed as a temple dancer. Were you doing things the other way round this time?” Benor sagged against the door. “I need a priest.”
Still teasing Shaleen asked, “Matrimony at last, who’s the lucky girl?”
“Madam, I need a bluidy exorcist.” Shaleen stared at him. “Holy Aea, but you’re serious.” She looked at Valerin. “Go to the Hierophant’s office, take my ring. Tell him I’m on my way with an interesting problem for him. A probable exorcism.” Valerin grabbed the ring from the occasional table and fled. Shaleen rooted about in a small bedside cabinet. “I have some here somewhere. Ah, here it is.” She passed Benor a bottle. “Drink.” He looked at the label. “Dobbart’s Caramel hair tone to suit a medium skin.” “Urlan plum brandy; if I hide it in a bottle of hair dye the gossips will be so delighted that they won’t even think to check inside the bottle.” Benor opened the bottle, sniffed, and then drank carefully. He passed her back the bottle. “Thanks, I think I needed that.” “Good, let’s go and see Cuddles.”

They found the Hierophant in a large office that was obviously part of a suite. If he was surprised to see Benor, he didn’t show it. “An exorcism? So what’s the story?” Benor told the tale of the previous night. The Hierophant walked across to a large map cupboard and pulled out one of the drawers. “Slip Pike Lane you say.”He looked at the map carefully. “Believe it or not, it’s always been Slip Pike Lane. You wouldn’t believe how many streets have changed their name
over the years.” Benor stared at the map. “You’ve got a full map of the city!” His tone was almost accusing. “Of course we have, we’d struggle to manage without one.” “You knew I was trying to produce one and just let me get on with it?” Shaleen patted his arm. “Well you needed something to keep you amused.” More seriously the Hierophant explained, “Yes, but if you’d copied ours, you’d just have embedded our mistakes in your map. We intend to buy a copy of yours when it’s done and bring ours up-to-date.” He walked to the bookshelves and looked along the line of leather bound tomes. “Here we are Se to Tu.”
He took the book down and opened it on his desk. “Let us see what we have for Slip Pike Lane.” Benor whispered to Shaleen, “You record all the exorcisms?” She whispered back, “Yes. Apparently it helps if an exorcist knows what has happened there previously.” The Hierophant had obviously overheard them. “Given the number of mages and
demonologists this city has seen, an exorcist needs all the help they can get.” He flicked through the pages. “Here.” He paused to read. “Oh, you’ve got a good one. No less a person that an Arch Hierophant of Aea was accosted on Slip Pile Lane by a demon, in daylight, no less than five hundred years ago.” Shaleen explained to Benor, “That’s about as senior as you can get, the priests of Aea undivided are few and far between. Not every generation produces one.” The Hierophant was reading. “They don’t make them like this any more. Listen, it’s written by the man himself. ‘I met the demon with a stout heart and recited the six rituals of banishment. Then, strong in the faith, I abjured it, spurned it and rejected it. Finally I struck it repeatedly with my staff until it fled.” Benor said, “Was his staff a magical artefact or something?” Shaleen said, “No, heavy oak with a solid brass head; it isn’t what you’re wielding, it’s who does the wielding. Urlan can banish a demon with an ordinary steel blade.” The Hierophant stood contemplating the text. “I think I know the priest for this one. He’s the only priest of Aea undivided still living.” He turned to Valerin who was standing quietly next to Mutt near the door. “Girl, please ask Faldon if he would come to see me. Then take the young gentleman with you, yes the one who appears to be appraising the silverware on the occasional table, and go and get something to eat.

Faldon wasn’t quite what Benor had expected. Benor had assumed the priest would be somehow older, perhaps even venerable, and have about them a discernable aura of sanctity. Instead he found himself leaving the temple with somebody who wasn’t much more than ten years older than himself. Faldon wore the long off-white robe of a priest of Aea undivided. He had a staff, although it looked similar to the sort of stick Benor had for when he was walking any distance. It was a useful walking stick and sturdy enough to be a reasonable defensive weapon. He carried a carpet bag in his left hand. Benor pushed a chest on a handcart. The cart also carried an assortment of
bedding, brooms and similar household impedimenta.Finally arriving at the house Benor tried to lift the chest. It was longer than he was tall. He stopped. “This will take two of us. I thought priests were supposed to be sworn to poverty.” “That’s the temple we’re bringing with us. The bag contains my kit.” Faldon took the other end of the chest and tried to lift it. “Look we’ll open the chest on the cart and empty it that way. But first we’ll get the room clean.” With that he took the broom and set to work with a will on the floor. Benor cleaned out the grate and laid a new fire. The floor clean and the fire nicely alight, Faldon asked, “Where did you see whatever it was?” Benor pointed silently to the corner. Faldon walked to the handcart and opened the chest. “Grab this.” Benor took a rope handle and lifted. Together he and Faldon manoeuvred a small stone altar into the corner of the room. On it Faldon placed three candle sticks and lit them. He turned to Benor. “Can you cook?” “After a fashion, I’ve fended for myself in the wilderness.” “Seems appropriate; in the chest there’s a bowl containing a mess of meat and beans which needs warming through. I think you’ll find some fruit there. It’ll feed two.
Leaving Benor to prepare their meal, Faldon turned back to the altar. He knelt before it and stayed there, apparently lost in silent prayer. It was perhaps an hour later he turned back to Benor who was growing a little concerned. Benor said, “I kept it warm for us.” “I should have told you to eat yours. Still it’s always better to eat in company.” They lifted the much lighter chest off the cart and put it in front of the fire, then companionably they sat on it and ate their meal. Apropos of nothing, Faldon said, “I think your hair needs cutting.” Instinctively Benor ran his fingers through his hair, “Perhaps.” ”I’ll do it now.” Benor looked at him. “I thought you were a priest?” “I soon discovered people are happier to talk to their hairdresser than heir priest. So I learned to be a hairdresser. We’ll sit you outside on that stool and I’ll cut your hair. It normally draws people and with any luck I’ll have more work to do and more people to talk to. Also how much food is there in the chest?” “None.”
“And that’s the way it’ll stay until somebody gives us some.” So Benor sat in the afternoon sun and Faldon cut his hair. At the same time he chatted to passers-by, bantered with tradesmen, flirted outrageously with those ladies who encouraged him and performed magic tricks for the children by having coins appear out of Benor’s ears. By the end of the afternoon he’d earned a quantity of low denomination copper coinage, an assortment of provisions, and the golden opinions of his
neighbours. As they ate their supper, Benor asked, “Do you want me to stay tonight?” Thoughtfully, Faldon said, “No. I’ll be better on my own.” Benor was genuinely surprised. “You will?” “Yes, I know several of my clients have said they’ll drop round with something to pay me with. What they really mean is that they’re looking for an excuse to talk to me. For this, they’ll need privacy.” “What about the demon, or whatever?” Faldon gestured to the altar. “It’ll be weighing things up. It will attack but it’ll do it when it thinks it is ready, not when it thinks I’ll be expecting it. But the longer it waits, the harder it’ll find it.”

Next morning Benor arrived at the house about dawn. He wasn’t sure how the priest had slept, but he’d felt guilty for enthusiastically abandoning him and hadn’t slept well at all. Even before he pushed the broken door aside he could hear snoring. As the sunlight streamed in, Benor could see that Faldon had a bed made up on his chest and was still fast asleep. He built the fire up and started boiling some water. When the priest awoke Benor could offer him coffee. “Good night?” Benor asked. “Yes. If you don’t believe me, sniff.” Cautiously Benor sniffed. There was no hint of the stench that had accompanied his stay. Indeed when he thought about it there wasn’t even the dank smell of a musty old house. There seemed to be a hint of something fresher, more pleasant. Faldon looked at the expression on his face, “Get a good fire going, and a chimney that draws well and you’ll soon start to change the air and dry things out.” “Anyway, are you happy here?” Benor asked. “Oh yes.” “Are you sure about that? It’s just I’ve got to inform the landlord.” With this Benor turned and started to leave. Faldon continued speaking.“ Yes, tell him I’m very happy here and the temple is pleased with his generous gesture.” Benor froze, “Generous gesture?” Faldon gestured around the room, “Giving us this room for a shrine.” Cautiously Benor asked, “What about the rest of the house?”
“I don’t need the space; I assume he’ll have other tenants.”

Benor walked pensively to where Gumption Silvernant had his offices. The old man had the ground floor of a building. Benor knocked on the door and a voice shouted for him to enter. He found himself in a single large room with a stove in the centre of it. Half a dozen clerks were working at desks around the stove; the Miser himself had a larger desk by the window. He was talking to his clerk of works. When he saw Benor he leaned back in his chair. “Got me a tenant, lad?” With forced cheeriness Benor answered, “Yes.” Silvernant elbowed his clerk of works. “There’s a catch here. Come on lad, what’s the problem.”
“Well the house was haunted.” “Oh that, I’ve known that for fifty years.” “Well I couldn’t hope to get a tenant for a haunted house. So I decided to call in an exorcist.” The old man was nodding along to his words. “Hear that, the lad’s got initiative. So how much is this here exorcist costing you?” Hurriedly Benor said, “Nothing. It’s just that he’s set up a shrine to Aea the undivided in the most haunted downstairs room and of course doesn’t expect to pay rent. But of course you’ll be able to rent the rest of the house out to new tenants, and you never know, the shrine might count as a sinecure of some sort.” “Stop gabbling lad.” Silvernant glared at him. “I’m a miser, not a
philanthropic institution. Now let’s stop and think about this.” He turned to his clerk of works. “Did you see about that timber?” “Yes I got a lot of decent stuff, very reasonable. I was surprised really
because there was somebody from the Jorrocks Boat Yard, but they only wanted the rubbish.” “So we have enough timber to do the roof?”
“Yes, because the tiles are still sound and we can reuse them.”
Silvernant turned back to Benor. “So lad, between you and young Bradders here, I can fix the roof up for sensible money. So at least the tenant who isn’t paying me any money is going to sleep dry.” “I was thinking about our wager,” Benor said cautiously. “How gratifying; pondering new ways of tricking an old man out of his last few coins?”
“Well it struck me that whilst I have got you a tenant, it’s not perhaps the tenant you had in mind when we made the wager. How about I just do the work you want me to and you pay me a week at a time for as long as it takes.” The miser turned to his clerk of works. “Hear that Bradders, another young fly-by-night wanting to keep his hand in the till.” “Relying on your reputation for reckless generosity sir.”
Silvernant stared at him. “Damn me but you said that without the trace of a smile!
======================================================================
And now the hard sell
I’ve thought long and hard about blog tours. I often wonder how much
somebody reading a book wants to know about the author. After all, I as a writer have gone to a lot of trouble to produce an interesting world for my characters to frolic in. Hopefully the characters and their story pull the reader into the world with them. So does the reader really want me tampering with the fourth wall to tell them how wonderful I am? Indeed given the number of film stars and writers who have fallen from grace over the years, perhaps the less you know about me the better?
Still, ignoring me, you might want to know a bit about the world. Over the years I’ve written four novels and numerous novellas set in the Land of the Three Seas, and a lot of the action has happened in the city of Port Naain. They’re not a series, they’re written to be a collection, so you can read them in any order, a bit like the Sherlock Holmes stories in that regard.
So I had a new novella I wanted to release. ‘Swimming for profit and
pleasure.’ It’s one of the ‘Port Naain Intelligencer’ collection and I
decided I’d like to put together a blog tour to promote it. But what sort of tour? Then I had a brainwave. I’d get bloggers who know Port Naain to send me suitable pictures and I’d do a short story about that picture. It would be an incident in the life of Benor as he gets to know Port Naain.Except that when the pictures came in it was obvious that they linked together to form a story in their own right, which is how I ended up writing one novella to promote another! In simple terms it’s a chapter with each picture. So you can read the novella by following the blogs in order. There is an afterword which does appear in the novella that isn’t on the blogs, but it’s more rounding things off and tying up the lose ends. Given that the largest number of pictures was provided by a lady of my acquaintance, I felt I had to credit her in some way.
So the second novella I’m releasing is ‘The plight of the Lady Gingerlily.’ It too is part of the Port Naain Intelligencer collection.
So we have ‘Swimming for profit and pleasure’
Benor learns a new craft, joins the second hand book trade, attempts to rescue a friend and awakens a terror from the deep. Meddling in the affairs of mages is unwise, even if they have been assumed to be dead for centuries.
And we have ‘
The Plight of the Lady Gingerlily
No good deed goes unpunished. To help make ends meet, Benor takes on a few
small jobs, to find a lost husband, to vet potential suitors for two young
ladies, and to find a tenant for an empty house. He began to feel that
things were getting out of hand when somebody attempted to drown him.
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Only Themselves to Blame – Tallis Steelyard Six Men in a Boat

Charlon Drane is the eldest son of Garrat and Taffetia Drane. This often comes as a surprise to those writers and poets who consider that his arrival in this world was due to him being summoned, like a particularly necrose demon. Indeed I have heard some speculate, in all seriousness, as to whether he was born or spawned. Various unlikely and undoubtedly blasphemous unions have also been suggested.
Yes I have it on excellent authority that as a child he had a remarkably open and sunny disposition. Indeed those who knew him then always stress how he was such a joy to be with. A happy laughing little boy, utterly devoid of cynicism or malice who, even into his late teens, seemed determined to see the best in people.
Thanks to the excellent education given to him by his mother, he loved nothing better than reading and could always be found with his nose in a book. Indeed if he ever went missing, his mother always knew where to find him. He’d be sitting in a quiet corner of Alen Gaetz Books, his nose stuck in some dusty second hand volume.
Thus when they were looking for somebody to edit the Port Naain Literary Review he wasn’t an entirely remarkable choice. Yes, at the time he was a usurer’s clerk and only in his mid twenties but still when the editorial board interviewed him they were won over by his natural charm and his obvious love of books.
To be fair he was, and is, an excellent editor. His knowledge of the field
is encyclopaedic; his own prose is crisp, clear and lucid. He sets a very
high standard for his contributors. Unfortunately, to put it bluntly, when he entered upon his new profession, he was an innocent abroad. There he was, a commissioning editor with a budget out of which to pay contributors.
Writers clustered around him like rakes around the drunken chorus girl at the society wedding! Had they merely approached him soberly, he could have coped. A nicely written proposal would have elicited from him a sober letter of acceptance, or alternatively a polite refusal. Instead he had writers of all genres and genders offering him sexual favours! He had poets standing in the street outside his bedroom window bellowing out their verses in the middle of the night.
He dined at one restaurant, (which I will not name, the proprietor is
entirely guiltless in this matter) where the waiter, instead of a menu,
proffered Charlon a selection of his verses. He tried to relax in the
Goldclaw Baths, only to discover a poet was frantically scribbling lines
from his latest poem, on the tiled wall in wax crayon. On one occasion he took a sedan chair and discovered he’d been hijacked. The bearers locked the doors from outside and he was forced to listen to a novelist read large excerpts from his three volume novel.
Then there was the issue of unsolicited submissions. Initially he made  it his rule to actually ready them. He felt that if the Port Naain Literary Review was to live up to it’s name, it ought to review things.
So, on his first day in the office, he sat down next to the pile of manuscripts, picked up the first one and commenced to read. Forty minutes later, his head swimming, he put the manuscript down. The author seemed to have written it using a system of spelling and punctuation known only to herself. He wrote a brief note, suggesting that the author find some kind friend to help her in this area and had it sent back to the return address on the envelope.
The next manuscript was easier to read, but that was perhaps a disadvantage. The writer had presented their diary for publication. In some cases this is an excellent idea. More than one lady has discovered the truth of the old saying, ‘keep a diary and one day your diary will keep you.’ Yet this presupposes that the keeper of the diary has actually done something worth hronicling. In the case of this writer, the highlight of one week was a successful bowel movement. This was sent back with a brief note saying that the editor felt that Port Naain was not ready for such dissipated excitement.
He worked steadily through the day, sending perhaps a dozen manuscripts back to their proud authors. That night he retired to bed feeling that in some small way he might have done something to improve the standard of literature in Port Naain. Whilst not rendered smug by this observation, he did at least allow himself a warm glow of self-satisfaction.
Next morning he was besieged by the writers whose work he had critiqued the previous day. Each wanted to debate his comments in detail, in some cases with a stout cudgel in hand. Charlon was forced to leave his office by window that opened out into a little used alley way.
In retrospect this may have been the last straw. Next day he instructed one of his clerks to place all unsolicited manuscripts into the coal scuttle. These he would toss onto the fire whenever the room started feeling chill. By taking this simple step he felt he’d improved the standard of literature in Port Naain immensely.
Then there were the published works to be reviewed. To be fair, some work published in Port Naain is published by a publisher who spots a book that will sell and invests their money in it. On the other hand far too much work is published by the author, or by a moneyed friend over whom the writer has too much influence. This second category can include some excellent work. My own Lambent Dreams falls into this category. On the other hand it includes an awful lot of dross. Charlon picked up his pen and reviewed them all. He held nothing back. His reviews were the work of a man who had been seen the future and who knew it was likely to be far worse than the present, unless he took a stand.
I still treasure that issue of the Port Naain Literary Review. He reviewed over two hundred books in a single issue, a feat that was never attempted before and has never been attempted since. Many reviews are but a single line. Of Bossop’s ‘Poems inspired by toothache’ he wrote, ‘Too many words, few of them good.’ Muntal Vergwil’s ‘Collected musings’ produced the comment, ‘I lost the will to live.’
Then in response to the three volumes of Madame Glorwan’s ‘A life well lived,’ he wrote, “This book was recommended to me by somebody I thought I could trust.” Mind you, these got away lightly. Lancet Foredeck submitted a monograph on the meaning of literature in the modern word. Charlon merely commented, “A village somewhere appears to have misplaced its idiot.”
My own Lambent Dreams was described as, “A gratifyingly slim volume.” I confess that in the circumstances this seemed almost like praise. From that day onwards Charlon has remained sternly acerbic. Anybody attempting to enter his office without an appointment is summarily ejected by two of the largest and most muscular clerks I’ve ever met. It has to be said, whilst he is not loved, it is generally agreed that he has done wonders to his magazine’s circulation. Whatever the quality of the books reviewed, the standard of insult remains gratifyingly high.
And now the hard sell!
OK so perhaps the not so hard sell. It’s just that this is part of a blog
tour which is peering into the lives of Garrat Drane, and his lady wife
Taffetia Drane. Now we are meeting their various offspring, delightful
people and pillars of the community. Or perhaps not.
But still now is your chance to meet them and inadvertently you may discover their importance to our hero, Tallis Steelyard. Tallis has his own blog at https://tallissteelyard.wordpress.com/
But actually the purpose of this blog is to draw your attention to the fact that a new book has been published. ‘Tallis Steelyard: Six men in a boat.’
Rather than a collection of his anecdotes, this is indeed an ‘adventure’ as Tallis ventures forth from the city of Port Naain.  Questions are asked that may even be answered, why is Tallis ‘run out of town’ by hired ruffians? Why does a very sensible young woman want his company when plunging into unknown danger? Who or what was buried in the catacombs? And why has there been so much interest in making sure they stay dead? Also featuring flower arranging, life on the river, and a mule of notable erudition.
Treat yourself; you know you’re worth it!
Jim Webster

 

Questions Happily Unanswered – Tallis Steelyard

It is my extreme pleasure, to welcome that rascal among men, Tallis Steelyard, to my blog. Please, give him your undivided attention.  Cheers!

Questions happily unanswered

My sojourn in those parts of Port Naain’s hinterland less frequently visited served two purposes. Firstly, any ferment in Port Naain that might have adversely affected me had time to die down. Secondly it never hurts a poet to gaze upon new sights and see new things.

My route took me close to the mountains. I hugged their foothills, drinking in their majesty, intending to follow them until they met the sea. At that point I would travel south again, following the coast to Port Naiin and home. I’d left Woodpin and its inhabitants far behind me. I saw few people, although admittedly I stuck to minor trails and headed north rather than following the more heavily used roads running east-west.  After travelling for some days, I came to the Bottomless Lake. There is a village on its shore which is known, somewhat prosaically, as the Village by the Bottomless Lake.  The village itself was little more than a large hamlet, but it did boast a hostelry. This rejoiced, almost inevitably, in the name of ‘The Bottomless Lake Inn.’

As I entered the inn I noticed two young fellows I knew from the University. So, I greeted them and they waved me across to sit at their table.

Aluin and Oliander both lecture at the University of Port Naain, but frankly they spend as little time as they can in the city. They use the place as somewhere to rest after one expedition, and as somewhere to raise funds for the next. So, I asked them what they were here for.

Aluin poured wine into my glass. “The Port Naain Physiographical Society’ has funded us to explore the Bottomless Lake.”

Even as I listened to him I realised that there were sources of patronage in the city that I had barely tapped. Surely societies like this one should realise that having a poet commenting upon such an expedition, even from the comfort of home, can add much to the final report.

Oliander broke across my musings. “I just wondered Tallis. We were given a small sum in our budget to hire locals to help, but if you were to assist us, we could put the money towards your bills here.”

Even through seated, I bowed deeply. “I would be delighted to join your enterprise.”

&&&&

The three of us went out onto the lake next day in the small boat they had hired. The lake boasts more than one mystery. The first thing you notice is the phenomena the locals refer to as ‘the veiled reflections.’ If you catch the lake on a still day, the reflection of the cliff in the water appears to show cave mouths or windows that cannot be seen on the cliff itself. The first day we spent examining the cliff face. Firstly, we examined the cliffs from the boat. Then we landed on the far bank, climbed up round the shoulder of the cliffs and lowered Oliander, who is the lightest, down the cliff face on a rope. He searched diligently but found nothing which matched the reflection in the water.

Next day was hot. After a cool start the sun came out and it was one of those glorious days you can get in early autumn. This time we rowed across the lake and Aluin went into the water. A fine swimmer he swam along the cliffs and dived repeatedly under water to check that what we assumed to be the reflection wasn’t actually the reality. As the afternoon got warmer, first Oliander and then I joined him. I can vouch for the fact that the rock face below the water is smooth and featureless.

That night as we ate in the Inn we had to admit that we had no answer to the mystery of the reflection. Still, next day we planned to find the depth of the lake, and this we all felt was a comparatively simple task.

Next morning, we loaded a hundred fathoms of rope into the boat. One end we tied to a thwart in the boat so we couldn’t lose the rope. The other end was tied round a heavy stone with a narrow waist. Thus equipped, we rowed out to the foot of the cliffs again and started lowering the rope into the water.

As we lowered away I asked, “How deep is it supposed to be.”

Aluin, who was paying out the rope hand over hand answered. “Galnwash and Wetherspeal claimed to have measured the depth; in their book, ‘Exploring the north on a budget’ they maintained it was ‘more than 50 fathoms’ deep.

I took over the unwinding of the coil as Oliander held the boat steady and Aluin paid the rope out. We’d got to the fifty fathoms knot when Aluin stopped.

“The rope’s gone slack; the stone must have fallen off.”

Oliander sighed, “I’ll tie it next time.”

Aluin hauled in the sodden rope and I coiled it carefully out of the way. Finally, he held up the end. “It’s been cut.”

Oliander and I studied the end of the rope. The end was sliced clean, and showed no sign of whipping and tying off.

Aluin took the rope end back. “I wonder if it’s somehow rubbed on a sharp edge. We’ve ten fathoms of light chain with our kit on the bank. I’ll tie that to it and see if it makes any difference.”
So an hour later, we were back in the same spot, this time lowering the weighted chain over the side. When Aluin said the chain was light, he meant that the metal that made up the links was not the thickness of a pencil. We still had to wrap it round a large stone because without the weight it’s possible a current would have caused the chain and rope to drift somewhat.

All the chain soon went in, and then the rope. As we got close to the forty fathoms knot we lowered more slowly, as if we were trying to feel our way down. I felt a quiver through the rope and Aluin cursed. “The blasted stone has come off again.”

Again, we hauled the rope back up, but when we got to the end of the chain, something had cut it. The chain was two fathoms shorter than it had been. The three of us stared at the end of the chain. I pointed to the bottom link. “Something tried to cut this one but gave up and tried lower down.”

On the chain, you could see where two cutting surfaces had been forced together, as if shears had been used.

Aluin studied the chain. “This stuff was almost too thick for it. So if we use something thicker…..”

At the bottom of the boat was the anchor chain. It was a good deal heavier than the other stuff. He knotted the lighter chain through the anchor chain. “Right, let’s try this.”

This time, perhaps because we had an anchor weighting everything down, or perhaps we were more practiced, everything went smoothly. We had reached the forty-fathom knot on the rope when suddenly Aluin fell out of the boat and into the water. The rope kept disappearing over the side without our help so I stretched out a hand to help Aluin back in the boat.

He climbed in and pointed at the rope which was still disappearing over the side at some speed. “I felt something tugging at the rope so I gripped it more tightly. Suddenly it just tugged me out of the boat.”

With one hand, I grabbed the rope. It stopped briefly but then something tugged. I let go hastily.

We watched the rest of the rope uncoil and go over the side. Finally, all that was left was the length tied to the thwart. Now the boat started to tilt.

Oliander asked thoughtfully, “Is something perhaps trying to climb up the rope, or is it trying to pull us down into the water?”

I didn’t hesitate; I drew my knife and sawed rapidly through the rope. It whipped over the side of the boat and disappeared.

Aluin looked at me, “Now we’ll never know what is doing it.”

Oliander unshipped the oars and started rowing for the shore. As he rowed he said, “I’m with Tallis on this one. I don’t want to share a rowing boat something that can snip through steel chain.”

I took up the other set of oars and started rowing as well. Aluin peered into the water and then took his seat and the third set of oars.

As we pulled for the shore he said, “Now we’ll never know how deep it is.”

I asked, “How deep did Galnwash and Wetherspeal say it was?”

Oliander answered me, “More than fifty fathoms.”

“Guess the height of whatever was cutting the chain, assume it was standing on the lake bed, and add fifty fathoms to the total.”

“How do you feel about fifty-two fathoms then?” Aluin asked.

I kept on rowing, but commented, “It’s not really my place to argue, but frankly if anybody isn’t happy with your figure, they can come and measure it themselves.”

At this point it seems pertinent to mention that the story of Tallis’s escapades continues on other blogs. They will be reblogged in what may one day be accepted by biographers as the chronologically correct order on his own blog. Thus, and so you can easily follow his gripping adventures.

 

Also, as an aside, the reason for this whole performance, (aside for being ‘Art’ with a capital ‘A’) is that another volume of his anecdotes has been published. Containing some work that has never appeared on the blog, this is ;-

 

Tallis Steelyard. The Monster of Bell-Wether Gardens and other stories.

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Steelyard-Monster-Bell-Wether-Gardens-stories-ebook/dp/B075DG5JJ6/

 

https://www.amazon.com/Steelyard-Monster-Bell-Wether-Gardens-stories-ebook/dp/B075DG5JJ6/

Tallis Steelyard A Harsh Winter and Other Stories Blog tour

Annette here, I am honored to hold the space for the debonair Tallis Steelyard, to share his new book!  Of course, that means Jim Webster is along for this tour too!  There is contact information for both gentlemen further down in this post. Without any further ado, I shall turn this over to my favorite poet from days of yore….  Tallis Steelyard.

Draw a bow at a venture

Asilrigg Wellhopper was a much admired young man, charming, tactful, and
frankly too handsome for his own good. He was, as they say, an adventurer.
Now I know that in modern parlance the word can be a synonym for ‘rogue’ or
‘bounder’ but in Asilrigg’s case that usage would have been unkind.
Within strict limits Asilrigg was almost entirely honourable. If a maiden
carrying a purse full of gold and leading a small child needed escorting,
the Asilrigg was the one you could safely entrust them to. The small child
would arrive somewhat more widely educated, the gold would be intact, and
the maiden possibly still a maiden. As I said, almost entirely honourable.
His presence in Port Naain was just ‘one of those things.’ I never found out
why he arrived here. Perhaps a temporary shortage of monsters to slay, or
tyrants to overthrow; perhaps he’d accepted a commission to deliver
something of immense value safely to the city? Frankly I never asked him and
those who did received various responses which translated as ‘I’m afraid I
cannot tell you.’
Still, he arrived in Port Naain with enough money to live rather well for
several months. During this happy period, he seems to have found his way
into polite society and polite society, always keen on novelty, welcomed
him.
Now it must be admitted that free-spending young heroes of obvious gallantry
and irresistible charm never seem to lack for admirers. Asilrigg could well
have been swamped by them had it not been for his less than secret weapon,
his valet, Gort.
Gort was a weather-beaten, wry-faced, dark-visaged man. He scowled
perpetually, acted as Asilrigg’s valet in refined places and guarded his
back, axe in hand, when they ventured away from the comforting illumination
of civilisation. He it was who would interpose himself between Asilrigg and
an admirer. He had many weapons in his armoury, he could leer most
impressively, had a fine grasp of crude innuendo, and it is rumoured that he
could even break wind at will.
So those who wished to ‘set their cap’ at Asilrigg had to first separate him
from his valet. Effectively this meant when Asilrigg was invited to some
soiree and Gort wasn’t present. Unfortunately for the lady with Asilrigg in
her sights, she then had to somehow overcome the competition from sundry
other ladies who had the same idea. For Asilrigg there was indeed safety in
numbers.
Lesser ladies would bow out at this point, but not Miss Melinia Verbit.  A
young lady of wide accomplishments she was no shy and retiring wallflower.
If she had been forced to list her accomplishments, they would include not
merely dance and witty conversation, but hunting, fishing, and the use of
assorted improvised melee weapons. (The latter accomplishments almost
inevitable for a mettlesome girl brought up with six brothers.)
She laid siege to Asilrigg with the cunning that one of the great
condottiere captains of our glorious past would have admired. She separated
him from Gort by inviting Asilrigg in person to her home, and then separated
him from everybody else by suggesting they spent the afternoon riding out in
pleasant countryside to the north of the city.
Thus the battle was on, Melinia fighting with all her cunning against Gort
for possession of Asilrigg.
Melinia had considerable advantages; she was charming, witty, beautiful,
wealthy and not afraid of an active life. Gort was as ugly as sin, but
cunning and of course had known Asilrigg longer. Thus he knew just which
strings to pull which tugged most painfully at the young man’s heart.
Hence after a few months, with money running low, the Port Naain season
beginning to pall, and in spite of Melinia’s best efforts, Asilrigg
announced that he must return to the south.
Melinia redoubled her assault; she may even have tried weeping. Certainly it
is almost certain that the pair of them enjoyed considerable intimacy over
this period. But all to no avail. Asilrigg, with Gort riding behind him,
rode south.
Melinia was not a lady to take this sort of thing lying down, (Whatever the
level of intimacy.) A betrayal such as this must be avenged!
In grim earnest Melinia rode south, remaining elegantly attired in spite of
the conditions she had to live in and overtook the dastard who had betrayed
her. Now as I’ve said, I am not one of her intimates, and have only various
second-hand tales of what came about. There are stories that circulate, of
her cunning, her skill, her ability to sleep fully dressed in a cave and
emerge next morning looking as elegantly coiffured as if she had been
accompanied by three maids.
On the other hand I was present when she arrived back in Port Naain and rode
directly to the house of Mistress Hanchkillian. The old matriarch was held
in high regard by the younger ladies, and her wisdom and approval were
widely sought.
Melinia walked into the grand salon and gave a slight curtsey. Mistress
smiled at her and asked how her trip had gone. Will an eloquent gesture
Melinia emptied a sack onto the floor. A human head rolled out. I stopped it
with my foot and found myself staring down into the twisted features of
Gort.
Mistress looked at Melinia and raised an expressive eyebrow.
Melinia gave a complicated little shrug and said, “Well killing the other
one would be a waste.”
Mistress Hanchkillian smiled slightly. “Quite right my dear.”

It may be that you might not realise that Tallis Steelyard has just produced
his second book of stories and anecdotes. This is book, ‘Tallis Steelyard, a
harsh winter, and other stories,’ is available from the first of June.

The book is available to all discerning readers at £0.99 from
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tallis-Steelyard-harsh-winter-stories-ebook/dp/B071LH1THB

or $1.28 from
https://www.amazon.com/Tallis-Steelyard-harsh-winter-stories-ebook/dp/B071LH1THB

Were Tallis less busy he’d doubtless remember to thank me, Jim Webster, for
the efforts I make on his behalf. But you know what it is with someone like
Tallis who is constantly in demand. So I just get on with writing his stuff
down for him and from time to time making collections of his wit, wisdom and
jumbled musings available for a grateful public.

Tallis does have a blog, it is apparently de rigueur now for all writers. It
is available at

https://tallissteelyard.wordpress.com/

Riding in on his coattails I’ll merely mention that my own books can be seen
at Jim Webster’s Amazon page
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jim-Webster/e/B009UT450I/