Hi all,
This will be my first posting for a critique, so I'm looking forward to seeing some serious sharpening of teethies and claws
A quick précis: this is the first chapter of Jewels, and as it stands this is the 5th draft of the novel. I've had half a dozen rejection letters from agencies based on submissions containing chapters 1-4, so rather than keep bashing away blindly, I'd like to understand where improvements could be made. I have ideas of where I believe the improvements could be, but I'll keep those thoughts to myself for now.
Liberestes is one of 5 POV 3rd-person narrators in the novel. Also, please note there are some swear words contained from the start.
Happy reading!
Chapter 1 - Bird Of Pray
Get on with it, you insufferable *******.
Liberestes watched Castas reading aloud and drummed his bony fingers upon the arm of his chair.
‘The Forestry reports an exceptionally poor yield of cereals this winter,’ said Castas. ‘Food is scarce. What little there is remains highly priced…’
Liberestes, sitting in his Seat of Execution in the Lord’s Hall of the Stuor Mark Citadel, noticed Castas shifting from side to side as he spoke; a tell-tale tic for his anxiety. Why was Castas anxious? Liberestes could understand if he was bored, having to read out this utter rubbish at the Trade Updates each month in his presence, but anxious? Liberestes wondered if an unpleasant kicker approached at the end of the messages.
‘…In such times have we learned that we must subsist upon the kindness of our neighbours,’ Castas continued. ‘The heads of the City Merchants League Misters Almseve and Gondenall, seek an audience with you; they desire the abrogation of the twofold tax on both their purchases from neighbouring lands, and the tax they pay upon their profits. Without such an annulment, they are being forced to sell at prices beyond the means of the citizenry…’
On and on the witless Castas droned. Taxes, annulments… why should Liberestes, the Executor of this great city, Stuor Mark, still have to listen to this sh*t? Thirty years ago, when he first sat upon this bloodied seat, he would never have believed the thought that ruling could become boring. Sometimes he yearned for the return of the axe, but he learned a long time ago that the fulsome inclination to swing it in peacetime hardly endeared oneself to the citizenry.
The Seat of Execution was a thin ebony chair, supported by four bulbous legs, which had long since lost its sheen. The sleek, curved arms were at the sides furnished with dull silver trim, and a silver back. Upon it was a faded, purple cushion, woven and craft with great skill, yet beginning to wear at the seams. Where Liberestes had slouched upon it for so many years, as he did now, the cushions had been moulded into the shape of his rump. Yet every time he sat into it he felt it pulling his greying, balding head down, as if invisibly yoked to his chest. He was dressed in a fine grey doublet and breeches, all straps and buckles of brown leather and dull gold. Upon his left breast he sported the insignia of a seven-pointed star above a circle in yellow stitching. About his shoulders he wore a large, dirty cloak of furs dyed blue. Castas had stopped speaking, and Liberestes took several moments to digest the bitter words.
‘******* Merchants’ League,’ the Executor said at last. The words were perfunctory and monotonous, expelled with minimal effort or movement that suited his gaunt, hungry face. If a man were to suppose that all rulers must eventually represent their growing majesty through increasing corpulence as a mere fallacy, Liberestes was such proof. He was lean, his flesh scratched away by a fastidious and unsatisfied sculptor. He moved his eyes first, then at last his head to eye Castas directly. He kept his movements small and efficient, reptilian. ‘They seek to rob me for their own wealth. What should I do with those who would not seek to contribute to the upkeep of our fair city, eh, Castas?’
‘Executor…’
‘Think on it not, Castas. It’s not a question for you. Tell those peasant merchant shits that I shall see them. Summon them here, at a time most inconvenient for them.’
‘Perhaps at the time of the next market…’
‘I do not care when, Castas; simply do it,’ spat Liberestes. ‘What of the city folk, who must subsist off of the poison of these shitty men? I care only for the people; I would have them love me.’
‘Of course, they love you still,’ said Castas. ‘But their love does not fill their bellies, not keep warm their children. They are frustrated, and frightened. The merchants can see this. They require you to be at one with them, be one of them.’
‘One of them?’ asked Liberestes. ‘You make it sound as though I am not one of the people, Castas?’
‘That was not my intention,’ Castas stuttered. Liberestes smiled internally at Castas’s discomfort, but he would never show it. ‘Your glorious rise from…’ He corrected himself. ‘Who you are is not in dispute by me – nor any member of the city which you have freed and served.’
Castas quickly looked around the room. Four of the Forty Nine, the Citadel’s elite guard, last line of defence, and effectively Liberestes’s bodyguards, stood motionless by the door, dressed in stained indigo plate and black leathers, topped by indigo helms. He looked back at the Executor, who did not move his eyes. The air was silent for a few seconds; Liberestes enjoyed making them wait.
‘No, Castas, I understand,’ said Liberestes, taking the effort to gesticulate a wearisome, dismissive wave. ‘It is a harsh winter. People needed to have their hearts cheered, no? They need to be inspired. A man needs a purpose to carry him through dark times; people should remember it is better to die penniless in a great city than to make one’s fortune in a field of sh*t.’
‘What do you propose, Executor?’ asked Castas.
‘There is no greater purpose than serving your fellow man, Castas,’ he said. ‘Such works we have done over these thirty years in deconstructing the corruption of the Chamber. As streets have been cleansed so have hearts. Let us break the past altogether. I will give them a new vision of reckoning for Stuor Mark. Tell me, Castas; how long has the Passmire Library stood in the city?’
Castas shuffled awkwardly at the unexpected question. ‘Ah, many years Executor. Lord Passmire erected the building when the Mark was first built, but it has been a library not all that time. I could find out…’
‘Do not waste what little remains of your brain, Castas. The answer is that it has stood for too long. No-one has read these obsolete texts in an age; none except decrepit academics and cranks. It is an oddment, a curiosity.’
‘It has housed the records of many generations of the city’s people, their deeds and tales. It is a monument like no other in the Westerlands for recording the deeds of our forefathers.’
‘Our forefathers nearly brought this city – this world – into ruin!’ Liberestes growled, stirring ferociously. He felt flecks of spittle nestle in his beard as he frothed, and the rims of his eyes flush red. The Executor stared at Castas’s greyed head for a few seconds before switching his gaze to the guards, who maintained their silent obsequiousness. These sycophants were certainly useful, and most malleable, but by the earth they were dull.
~
This will be my first posting for a critique, so I'm looking forward to seeing some serious sharpening of teethies and claws
A quick précis: this is the first chapter of Jewels, and as it stands this is the 5th draft of the novel. I've had half a dozen rejection letters from agencies based on submissions containing chapters 1-4, so rather than keep bashing away blindly, I'd like to understand where improvements could be made. I have ideas of where I believe the improvements could be, but I'll keep those thoughts to myself for now.
Liberestes is one of 5 POV 3rd-person narrators in the novel. Also, please note there are some swear words contained from the start.
Happy reading!
Chapter 1 - Bird Of Pray
Get on with it, you insufferable *******.
Liberestes watched Castas reading aloud and drummed his bony fingers upon the arm of his chair.
‘The Forestry reports an exceptionally poor yield of cereals this winter,’ said Castas. ‘Food is scarce. What little there is remains highly priced…’
Liberestes, sitting in his Seat of Execution in the Lord’s Hall of the Stuor Mark Citadel, noticed Castas shifting from side to side as he spoke; a tell-tale tic for his anxiety. Why was Castas anxious? Liberestes could understand if he was bored, having to read out this utter rubbish at the Trade Updates each month in his presence, but anxious? Liberestes wondered if an unpleasant kicker approached at the end of the messages.
‘…In such times have we learned that we must subsist upon the kindness of our neighbours,’ Castas continued. ‘The heads of the City Merchants League Misters Almseve and Gondenall, seek an audience with you; they desire the abrogation of the twofold tax on both their purchases from neighbouring lands, and the tax they pay upon their profits. Without such an annulment, they are being forced to sell at prices beyond the means of the citizenry…’
On and on the witless Castas droned. Taxes, annulments… why should Liberestes, the Executor of this great city, Stuor Mark, still have to listen to this sh*t? Thirty years ago, when he first sat upon this bloodied seat, he would never have believed the thought that ruling could become boring. Sometimes he yearned for the return of the axe, but he learned a long time ago that the fulsome inclination to swing it in peacetime hardly endeared oneself to the citizenry.
The Seat of Execution was a thin ebony chair, supported by four bulbous legs, which had long since lost its sheen. The sleek, curved arms were at the sides furnished with dull silver trim, and a silver back. Upon it was a faded, purple cushion, woven and craft with great skill, yet beginning to wear at the seams. Where Liberestes had slouched upon it for so many years, as he did now, the cushions had been moulded into the shape of his rump. Yet every time he sat into it he felt it pulling his greying, balding head down, as if invisibly yoked to his chest. He was dressed in a fine grey doublet and breeches, all straps and buckles of brown leather and dull gold. Upon his left breast he sported the insignia of a seven-pointed star above a circle in yellow stitching. About his shoulders he wore a large, dirty cloak of furs dyed blue. Castas had stopped speaking, and Liberestes took several moments to digest the bitter words.
‘******* Merchants’ League,’ the Executor said at last. The words were perfunctory and monotonous, expelled with minimal effort or movement that suited his gaunt, hungry face. If a man were to suppose that all rulers must eventually represent their growing majesty through increasing corpulence as a mere fallacy, Liberestes was such proof. He was lean, his flesh scratched away by a fastidious and unsatisfied sculptor. He moved his eyes first, then at last his head to eye Castas directly. He kept his movements small and efficient, reptilian. ‘They seek to rob me for their own wealth. What should I do with those who would not seek to contribute to the upkeep of our fair city, eh, Castas?’
‘Executor…’
‘Think on it not, Castas. It’s not a question for you. Tell those peasant merchant shits that I shall see them. Summon them here, at a time most inconvenient for them.’
‘Perhaps at the time of the next market…’
‘I do not care when, Castas; simply do it,’ spat Liberestes. ‘What of the city folk, who must subsist off of the poison of these shitty men? I care only for the people; I would have them love me.’
‘Of course, they love you still,’ said Castas. ‘But their love does not fill their bellies, not keep warm their children. They are frustrated, and frightened. The merchants can see this. They require you to be at one with them, be one of them.’
‘One of them?’ asked Liberestes. ‘You make it sound as though I am not one of the people, Castas?’
‘That was not my intention,’ Castas stuttered. Liberestes smiled internally at Castas’s discomfort, but he would never show it. ‘Your glorious rise from…’ He corrected himself. ‘Who you are is not in dispute by me – nor any member of the city which you have freed and served.’
Castas quickly looked around the room. Four of the Forty Nine, the Citadel’s elite guard, last line of defence, and effectively Liberestes’s bodyguards, stood motionless by the door, dressed in stained indigo plate and black leathers, topped by indigo helms. He looked back at the Executor, who did not move his eyes. The air was silent for a few seconds; Liberestes enjoyed making them wait.
‘No, Castas, I understand,’ said Liberestes, taking the effort to gesticulate a wearisome, dismissive wave. ‘It is a harsh winter. People needed to have their hearts cheered, no? They need to be inspired. A man needs a purpose to carry him through dark times; people should remember it is better to die penniless in a great city than to make one’s fortune in a field of sh*t.’
‘What do you propose, Executor?’ asked Castas.
‘There is no greater purpose than serving your fellow man, Castas,’ he said. ‘Such works we have done over these thirty years in deconstructing the corruption of the Chamber. As streets have been cleansed so have hearts. Let us break the past altogether. I will give them a new vision of reckoning for Stuor Mark. Tell me, Castas; how long has the Passmire Library stood in the city?’
Castas shuffled awkwardly at the unexpected question. ‘Ah, many years Executor. Lord Passmire erected the building when the Mark was first built, but it has been a library not all that time. I could find out…’
‘Do not waste what little remains of your brain, Castas. The answer is that it has stood for too long. No-one has read these obsolete texts in an age; none except decrepit academics and cranks. It is an oddment, a curiosity.’
‘It has housed the records of many generations of the city’s people, their deeds and tales. It is a monument like no other in the Westerlands for recording the deeds of our forefathers.’
‘Our forefathers nearly brought this city – this world – into ruin!’ Liberestes growled, stirring ferociously. He felt flecks of spittle nestle in his beard as he frothed, and the rims of his eyes flush red. The Executor stared at Castas’s greyed head for a few seconds before switching his gaze to the guards, who maintained their silent obsequiousness. These sycophants were certainly useful, and most malleable, but by the earth they were dull.
~
