1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Crockett Rev 2

Name: London Crockett

Genre: Young Adult Fantasy

Title: The Blasphemer’s Cypher

PITCH

Lady Margaté wants to ruin Jinxx’s life. Not make it uncomfortable, but send the fourteen year-old seamstress and apprentice mage begging for coins in the street. As Baroness-in-Waiting, Margaté can do whatever she desires, and she believes Jinxx’s family is responsible for her father’s death.

Jinxx is hired by Margaté’s mother to make Margaté a quinceañera dress. While working in the castle, Jinxx discovers a hidden, enciphered note. After breaking the code, she realizes Margaté’s appetite for vengeance is worse than she imagined: Margaté anonymously accused the local priest of molesting Jinxx. 

As word of the accusation spreads, people think the priest is innocent, but Jinxx is immoral. The priest doesn’t believe Margaté is behind the accusation, even after Jinxx shows him the note. Nor does a second one convince him, but Jinxx knows Margaté isn’t going to stop at an accusation: her next step will be violent. 

Reliant on crutches, Jinxx is the worst sneak in the world and a dreadful liar. She has one advantage: her secret magic studies. If she can learn how to cast a spell—any spell—she might be able to prove she’s innocent and Margaté is guilty.

PAGES

Rules are important. Without them, you have people strutting into houses of worship with hands on their sword hilts. It’s not a rule anybody ever wrote, because everybody knows to never do it.

In the middle of community girls’ choir practice, the temple doors slam open. An hour before siesta, the light almost blinds. Nothing but the silhouette of a slender boy shows, his legs apart as if trying to take up the space of both doors. Together, the doors are wide enough you could stand three cows side-by-side in the gap. The boy hardly occupies a sixth of it. 

People don’t enter a temple like that. I doubt you enter a tavern like that unless you want to fight somebody. 

The only sound as he struts down the center aisle is the click of his boots on the mosaic tiles. When my eyes adjust, I gasp. Everybody does. The boy isn’t a boy. It’s a girl in pants. Women don’t wear pants, and certainly not in temple. Her only accommodation to modestly is a black scarf tossed over her hair. Otherwise, she looks like an idalgu freshly dismounted from a horse.

When she gets to the base of choir stand, I notice her sword. It’s long and…well, I don’t know much about swords. It looks fancy and lethal. None of that matters: it’s a sword in the Temple Naserys. Pants are shocking. A sword is an offense beyond words.

Pra Traceu rushes down the choir stand and nearly knocks poor Hope Eternyl down. “Lady Margaté.” 

Lady Margaté Sesedo Tucánrarin Dogualfse, heir to the Barony Naserys.

He bows. Then everybody does the same, except me. I’m sitting, because I can’t stand for a whole choir practice. Nevertheless, I bow my head and say, “Your excellency.”  

Why is she back now? I thought she’d be away at whatever fancy academy she attends until she inherits her father’s title at seventeen. She’s my age, fourteen.

“I’d like to join the choir.” It doesn’t sound like a request.

“We would be honored to have you join us, your excellency, but you’re attired inappropriately,” Pra Traceu says. “Can you come back next week, please? We start two hours before siesta.”

Her hand goes to her hilt. She’s remarkably fine-boned for somebody wearing a sword. Why would anybody carry a sword? People haven’t dueled for a century. “I’ll stay today and listen. My mother wrote me last year and told me you were bringing cantes into the temple. It’s as dreadful an idea as the modern reforms. But she insists I participate.”

“So you’re aware Lady Sesedo supports the choir?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Expressions aren’t my forte, but her look is a challenge. She has no respect. 

He holds her eye until she answers. 

“I’m aware of my mother’s choices,” she says. “Don’t expect that I’ll continue that support once I inherit my title. This experiment in theological democracy ends in three years.”

“With respect, Lady Margaté, I sought Lady Sesedo’s approval as a courtesy. I’m serve by the Deóm Siódossio’s grace, not your family’s. Should you disapprove, you may join another faith community. From now on, if you wish to enter the Temple, you must leave your weapons at home.” 

Pra Traceu is possibly the nicest person I’ve ever met, so he doesn’t say this with a hint of anger, which I suspect is a feat. I’ve just met Lady Margaté but I’ll need to pray a lot to not hate her.

Her fingers creep about her hilt, then her hand falls away and she smiles. It’s more like a child’s drawing of a smile, exaggerated and crooked. “We all serve under somebody else’s authority. I wouldn’t assume reformists like the Deóm will exert theirs forever.”

He gestures towards the pew at the front of the temple reserved for the Sesedos. “There is no authority except that of the Lord’s, your excellency. We must return to our practice.”

As Lady Margaté unbuckles her sword belt and sits, Promysed comes over and whispers in my ear, “Oo-la-la,  Jinxx, what a delicious scandal the Lady is.”

Promysed says things like that. I don’t even know what “oo-la-la” means. She read it in a book and now says it all the time. 

I hide my frown and shrug. There is nothing delicious about Lady Margaté and her scandal.

“Girls, I believe Miss Melesda and Doñita Promysed were on the verge of a solution before our esteemed visitor arrived. Let’s continue and see if we can get it down before we break for lemonade.”

 Promysed scrambles off to work with Melesda on figuring out how to turn the song we’re practicing into a bulería. Going from a staid 4/4 time song to a 12/12 one with plenty of duende is something only Melesda can work out. 

“Miss Jinxx,” Pra Traceu says, coming up next to me, “can we continue?” I adore him, but he has less rhythmic talent and duende passion than Doñita Mouse-Mouse, the temple cat. 

I nod, distracted by Lady Margaté’s stare. I haven’t seen her since Lord Sesedo’s funeral. There’s no way she knows who I am, but I can’t help but check on my crutches, as if instead of Pra Traceu, she’s staring at them or my patched and threadbare dress. Perhaps she hears my belly complain about eating nothing but some olives and a slice of bread today.

He smiles, as if he’s unaware of her menace. “I’m certain I have it down this time. The emphasis is on the three, six, eight, ten and twelve, right?”

“Yes. The same as all the soleás. Ready?”

He holds his hands up in front of his grin. If enthusiasm were duende, he’s have more than the Song Thrush.

I count the beat out loud, less for him than to distract myself from Lady Margaté. She’s clapping along with exaggerated hand motions. She holds the emphasis beats instead of hitting them harder. My rhythm synchronizes with her off-beat one.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Can we start again?” 

“Of course. It appears Lady Margaté would appreciate some instruction as well. Your excellency?”

“Has no desire to have her teach me anything,” she hisses.

How could she know who I am?

I pull my crutches between my legs, imagining how I’d use them to fend off her sword. I might be tiny and a cripple, but it doesn’t mean I’m not strong.

Pra Traceu moves between us. “Let’s try again. I’m so close to getting this.”

I nod and push myself to focus on the rhythm. Soon, Lady Margaté’s terrible clapping mostly fades from my mind.

Ten minutes later, the rest of the choir girls go quiet, leaving only Melesda and Promysed’s singing. Melesda’s smokey voice does a paso doble around Promysed’s crystalline tones until they reach the bridge. They’ve figured out how to make it work. At moments like this, the combination of their voices is more delightful than a chess game with a kitten in my lap. 

Lady Margaté stands as if to watch the girls sings, but picks up her sword belt. Her eyes don’t waver from mine until I avert my gaze. She slides her sword out a few hands and takes a quick step towards me.

When I force my eyes back to her’s, she scowls at me like a bull threatening a fallen picador.

Melesda and Promysed finish the song and the choir bursts into applause.

“Bravo, girls, bravo!” Pra Traceu says.