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- Jan 22, 2008
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This is the opening to a noir-ish fantasy novel.
General comments are welcomed, but two things stand out for me. First, this is a mock-Italian pseudo-Renaissance setting, a bit like Scott Lynch's Camorra (although the dialogue is modern rather than "fantasy", if you see what I mean). Julia is a local. I've used the English form of the name throughout - the Italian version would be Giulia - for ease of reading and pronunciation. Does that seem out of place?
Secondly, I keep coming back to this sentence: "She stood on the threshold of his home, sure that something bad awaited her but unable to tell quite why." I know what I mean to say, but the last few words feel awkward. If anyone can think of a better way of putting it, I'd be grateful!
Julia knew that Carlo was in trouble the moment she opened the door. She stood on the threshold of his home, sure that something bad awaited her but unable to tell quite why. Then she took a deep breath and stepped inside.
She closed the door behind her and waited, listening. The house was silent. The ground floor smelled of dust and the ashes of last night’s fire.
There were two chairs next to the table. One lay on its back, as if someone had got up too quickly and knocked it over. Julia crossed the room, treading carefully. There were a few crumbs on the tabletop. That was all.
She stood there, feeling the beating of her heart. Julia drew her long knife and she turned to the staircase.
The boards creaked softly under her boots. As she reached the top of the stairs, she saw him.
Carlo lay on his back, mouth open. The blood on his chest was as black as shadow.
They had cut his throat.
She saw the fingers of his left hand, how they had been twisted and broken. “S**t.”
Julia stepped back from the body. She thought: My money. He had it.
She sheathed her knife and looked for the chest where he kept his cash. Relief ran over her like sweat as she saw that it was still there, pushed into the darkest corner of the room. Julia crouched down and fumbled with the lid of the chest. The metal felt wrong.
No, no.
The lock was twisted, wrenched out of shape. They’d blown it open with gunpowder, or magic or something –
She lifted the lid. Even in this bad light, she knew at once that the chest was empty.
My money.
She clamped her hand over her mouth and screamed silently into the palm.
Think, damn it. Think.
Then she realised that she was kneeling beside a corpse, looking into a chest that had been full of stolen coins, and that whoever had murdered Carlo was probably still nearby.
“You’re the woman.”
She looked around. A man stood there, a metal bar in his hands. He was about twenty, very stocky, slightly hunched. There was something dead in his eyes: he was a living man, but he had the dull menace of a revenant. He seemed to blot out her way of escape, to swell up until she was trapped in here with him.
She heard the threat in his voice and knew that there would be no talking her way out of this. She knew his type: the kind of scum who’d carved her face six years ago.
Julia stood up. “I’m the woman,” she said.
“You stay still.”
She glanced towards the stairs.
“No! You stay still or I f***ing smash you.”
He took a step forward, remarkably quiet for his bulk, and she knew he meant to beat her, no matter what. Something inside her tensed, hardened itself ready to break loose. She felt the old fury rise up inside her, together with a kind of vicious contempt.
He raised the bar in his right fist and grabbed at her with his left hand. His thick fingers caught hold of her shirt.
Julia sidestepped to dodge the bar, pulled his left arm taut and chopped down onto his locked elbow with the edge of her right hand.
He bellowed, she tore free, and he came in swinging wildly. She ducked and pulled the long knife from her belt. As he swung the bar down again, his front was wide open. She darted forward, threw her weight against him and stabbed him in the neck.
He collapsed like a dropped marionette. He made a coughing noise and blood ran down his front. The man looked up at her with a kind of wonder, his hand pressed to his throat. Then something went out in his eyes and he slumped back.
It was him or me, she thought. She made the Sign of the Sword across her chest – not for his soul, but for her own.
A voice came from outside: stern, educated. “Luca! Luca, what the hell’s going on in there?”
Julia ran.
General comments are welcomed, but two things stand out for me. First, this is a mock-Italian pseudo-Renaissance setting, a bit like Scott Lynch's Camorra (although the dialogue is modern rather than "fantasy", if you see what I mean). Julia is a local. I've used the English form of the name throughout - the Italian version would be Giulia - for ease of reading and pronunciation. Does that seem out of place?
Secondly, I keep coming back to this sentence: "She stood on the threshold of his home, sure that something bad awaited her but unable to tell quite why." I know what I mean to say, but the last few words feel awkward. If anyone can think of a better way of putting it, I'd be grateful!
Julia knew that Carlo was in trouble the moment she opened the door. She stood on the threshold of his home, sure that something bad awaited her but unable to tell quite why. Then she took a deep breath and stepped inside.
She closed the door behind her and waited, listening. The house was silent. The ground floor smelled of dust and the ashes of last night’s fire.
There were two chairs next to the table. One lay on its back, as if someone had got up too quickly and knocked it over. Julia crossed the room, treading carefully. There were a few crumbs on the tabletop. That was all.
She stood there, feeling the beating of her heart. Julia drew her long knife and she turned to the staircase.
The boards creaked softly under her boots. As she reached the top of the stairs, she saw him.
Carlo lay on his back, mouth open. The blood on his chest was as black as shadow.
They had cut his throat.
She saw the fingers of his left hand, how they had been twisted and broken. “S**t.”
Julia stepped back from the body. She thought: My money. He had it.
She sheathed her knife and looked for the chest where he kept his cash. Relief ran over her like sweat as she saw that it was still there, pushed into the darkest corner of the room. Julia crouched down and fumbled with the lid of the chest. The metal felt wrong.
No, no.
The lock was twisted, wrenched out of shape. They’d blown it open with gunpowder, or magic or something –
She lifted the lid. Even in this bad light, she knew at once that the chest was empty.
My money.
She clamped her hand over her mouth and screamed silently into the palm.
Think, damn it. Think.
Then she realised that she was kneeling beside a corpse, looking into a chest that had been full of stolen coins, and that whoever had murdered Carlo was probably still nearby.
“You’re the woman.”
She looked around. A man stood there, a metal bar in his hands. He was about twenty, very stocky, slightly hunched. There was something dead in his eyes: he was a living man, but he had the dull menace of a revenant. He seemed to blot out her way of escape, to swell up until she was trapped in here with him.
She heard the threat in his voice and knew that there would be no talking her way out of this. She knew his type: the kind of scum who’d carved her face six years ago.
Julia stood up. “I’m the woman,” she said.
“You stay still.”
She glanced towards the stairs.
“No! You stay still or I f***ing smash you.”
He took a step forward, remarkably quiet for his bulk, and she knew he meant to beat her, no matter what. Something inside her tensed, hardened itself ready to break loose. She felt the old fury rise up inside her, together with a kind of vicious contempt.
He raised the bar in his right fist and grabbed at her with his left hand. His thick fingers caught hold of her shirt.
Julia sidestepped to dodge the bar, pulled his left arm taut and chopped down onto his locked elbow with the edge of her right hand.
He bellowed, she tore free, and he came in swinging wildly. She ducked and pulled the long knife from her belt. As he swung the bar down again, his front was wide open. She darted forward, threw her weight against him and stabbed him in the neck.
He collapsed like a dropped marionette. He made a coughing noise and blood ran down his front. The man looked up at her with a kind of wonder, his hand pressed to his throat. Then something went out in his eyes and he slumped back.
It was him or me, she thought. She made the Sign of the Sword across her chest – not for his soul, but for her own.
A voice came from outside: stern, educated. “Luca! Luca, what the hell’s going on in there?”
Julia ran.