Skybound Sea Progress & Mini-Excerpt

So, I note that Cherie Priest and Gail Carriger both use these things called “word metrics” which allow people to keep track of exactly what the progress of their projects is based on a meter that goes up as more words are put into the document.  That’s all fine and good…for someone who actually uses the metric system and/or knows how to measure based on multiples of ten.

But I live in AMERICA. I eat meat with every meal and I don’t tread on nothin’. And I ain’t got time for puny metrics.  So I put together a chart to illustrate the progress of The Skybound Sea in a much more logical, easy-to-understand fashion.

I think that makes things perfectly clear.

What?  Not enough?

Oh, fine.  Here, have a mini-excerpt featuring your favorite rogue for redemption:

Denaos looked at himself in the mirror.  No scars, still.  More wrinkles than there used to be.  A pair of ugly bags under eyes that he chose not to look at.  But no scars.

He had that, at least.

Appearance was one point of pride amongst many for him.  There were other things he had hoped he would be remembered: his taste in wine, an ear for poetry and a way with women that sat firmly between the realms of witchcraft and barroom brawling.

And killing, his conscience piped up.  Don’t forget killing.

And killing, he was forced to admit to himself.  He was not bad at it.

Still, he thought as he surveyed himself, if none of those could be his legacy, his looks would have suffice.

And yet, as he saw the man in the mirror, he wondered if perhaps he might have to discount that, too.  His was a face used to masks: sharp, perceptive eyes over a malleable mouth ready to smile, frown or spit curses as needed, all set within firm, square features.

Those eyes were sunken now, dark seeds buried in dark soil, hidden under long hair poorly kempt.  His features were caked with stubble, grime, a dried glistening of liquid he hadn’t bothered to clean away.  And his mouth twitched, not quite sure what it was supposed to do.

Fitting, he thought, for he didn’t know who this mask was supposed portray.

Looks, then, were not to be what he was remembered for.  His eyes drifted to the far side of the table, to the bottle long drained of its deep crimson liquid.  His preferences in alcohol, too, had broadened to “anything short of embalming fluid, providing nothing else is at hand; past that, anything goes.”

He would not be remembered as a handsome man, then.  Nor a man for wine.  What else was left?

The glistening of steel answered.  He looked down at the blade resting gently upon the table, its edge everything he wasn’t: sharpened, honed, precise.  An example, three fingers long and with a polished wooden hilt and a taste for blood.

Killing, then.

“Are we doing this or what?” a growling voice asked.

That, he thought, and the way with women.

He titled the mirror slightly.  She was still there.  He had hoped she wouldn’t be, though that might have been hard, given that she was bound to the chair.  Still, less hard considering what she was.

Indeed, it was difficult to see how Semnein Xhai was still held by the rawhide bonds.  They might have bit into her purple flesh, they might have been tied tightly by hands that were used to tying.  But that purple flesh was thick over thicker muscle, and his hands were shakier these days.

She stared at him in the mirror, her eyes white and without pupils.  Her hair hung about her in greasy white strands, framing a face that was sharp and long as the knife before him.

And looking oddly impatient, he thought.  Odder still, given that she knew full well the knife was there and knew full well what he could do with it.  The old scar on her collarbone attested to that.  The fresh cut beneath her ribcage, shallow and hesitant, gave a less enthusiastic review.

He had been wearing a different mask that day, that of a man who had a better legacy than him, a man who was less good at killing.  But he would do better today.  He had people counting on him to find out information.  That was a slightly better legacy.

Still killing, though, his conscience said.  Or did you think you were going to let her go after she told you what you wanted to know?  Pardon, if she tells you.

Not now, he replied.  People are counting on me.

Right, right.  Terribly sorry.  Shall we?

His face changed in the mirror.  His mask came back on.  Dark eyes hard, jaw set tightly, twitching mouth stilled for now.  Hands steadied themselves, plucked up the steel before him.  He smiled into the mirror: knife-cruel, knife-long.

Let’s.