Since you insist...

Well, since everyone seems to be demanding more excerpts from Feather and Fang, and since I have forgotten the deep and mind-stimulating post I was going to write (I really should write these ideas down when I get them), and nothing new has come to me during the last ten minutes of staring at my blog header... I guess I'll post an excerpt!

But, there is reasoning involved here. Seeing as I have given you the set-up for Freeborn and Freegiven, it stands to reason that I should do the same for Feather and Fang. However, doing so in the straightforward, no-secrets-kept sort of way I did before would spoil a good deal of the last part of Freeborn. But to understand Feather, you need a least a little bit of backstory. So what I'm going to do is inform you in the same way any other reader would be informed: straight from the book. So you'll know exactly what you need to know, and not a cent more. *evil chuckle*

Anyways... the excerpt


The Blue Beard had the best ale for miles, or so it many patrons swore. Be that as it may, its warmly-lit windows and spacious common room looked especially inviting on a night such as this. The stranger strode up the wooden steps that led to the abandoned porch, knocking his boots against the railing to rid them of most of their mud. Then, pulling his wide-brimmed hat down closer over his eyes, he entered the building.
It was fairly quiet at the moment, only a few folk were out of their homes on a night like this. The stranger looked around carefully, taking stock of the room and its occupants before choosing a table in a corner next to the stone fireplace and sitting down with his back to the wall.
On the far side of the large room sat a low bar, with a portly man sitting behind it polishing spoons while four elderly men sat at table telling tales. Two young boys sat at a second table, playing a game of fourlens, and a third held two middle-aged men talking politics over their ales.
“They say the Featherwen faction’s planning to assassinate Flamehope’s Fanglen leader.”
“Scaeldren, Lynx-lord?”
“Aye, the very one.”
“Bah, you listen to every rumor you hear, Scratch. There isn’t an assassin good enough to even get close to the Lynx-lord! Why, he’s won the Fistfire matches every year for nigh on four years now!”
“Aye, but that’s why they’ve got the best assassin since before the Blood-Invasion.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “Tell me, did ye ever hear of Crestlen, Hawk-assassin?” 

(More after the break!)

The other shook his head, leaning towards the other.
“They say he’s the one what killed Toring, Bear-tooth.”
“You don’t say!”
“And… Castar, Jackal-fleet”
“Really?”
Scratch nodded. “Let me tell you, Havi, if anyone could do it, he could.”
Havi whistled under his breath. “If the lynx-lord were to fall… who would take his place?”
Scratch shrugged. “Who can say? But the Fanglen faction ain’t going to let Crestlen walk in there as easy as the wind, no sir! They’re prepared, they are, an’ if they catch him snooping around…”
He drew his finger across his throat, grinning devilishly.
Havi frowned. “How do they know what he looks like? I mean, would they know it was him if they saw him?”
Scratch laughed. “Oh, he doesn’t keep his face a secret, he likes to let folk know it’s him what got the job done. Plus there’s the way he dresses, all flashy and flamboyant. He didn’t used to be called Hawk-flare for no reason!”
Havi chuckled. “So, what do you mean, ‘flashy’?”
“Well, he’s got lots of daggers strapped all over his body, an’ he’s always got strings of beads hanging from his belt, an’ strips of cloth around his wrists, an’ brightly colored feathers in his hair. An' they say his boots have silver spurs on ‘em.”
“You mean, like the stranger’s over there?” And Havi jerked his thumb subtly back towards the stranger in the corner.
Scratch picked up his mug and took a drink, leaning back to peer over the edge of the pewter at the cloaked and hatted stranger. When he finished, he leaned in again, nodding softly. His voice turned to a whisper.
“Aye, the very same!”
Havi’s eyes widened. “Say, you don’t think…”
His friend nodded again. “Aye, he’s even got the cloth round his wrists an’ everything!”
“What do we do? He could kill us without old Forster even knowing who did it!” He motioned to the aging tavern keeper as he spoke.
Scratch tried to look unconcerned. “Well, what would he want us dead for? We’re just simple fisherfolk!”
Both pondered the situation for a moment, casting uneasy glances all the while back to the shadowy corner.
Havi spoke first, his voice an emphatic whisper “Well, I’m not going to just sit here and get killed like a fish in a net! I’m going to go warn the Fanglen leaders in Hillseat!” He nodded to himself, then took a large swig from his mug, as if to steel himself for the task.
If he had been a little less hasty in his drinking, he might have noticed the look of abject terror that had frozen Scratch’s face. As it was he stood up, turned around, and found himself face to face with the stranger. His own face froze in terror, and he gave off a whimper of fright.
“Sit down, Havi. I’m no Hawk-assassin,” said the stranger, his voice strangely gentle.
Havi sat down promptly, and the stranger took a seat opposite the two.
There was a pause, and then the stranger lifted her hat, revealing a pretty face creased with a merry grin.
“Do I look all that dangerous?” she asked, eyes twinkling.