Fantasy author Jon Cronshaw shares how writing The Nanny’s Secret—his first domestic thriller—reignited his creativity after completing The Ravenglass Chronicles. Discover how his new pen name, J. Cronshaw, opened a new chapter in his storytelling career.
If you’ve been following my work for a while, you probably know me for wyverns, assassins, and dark fantasy worlds.
I’ve been publishing fantasy and speculative fiction since 2016, and I’ve been a full-time author since 2018.
Most of my readers found me through The Ravenglass Chronicles—a long-running epic about magic, destiny, and rebellion that spanned half-a-million words. It was an intense creative journey, and by the time I finished it, I needed to catch my breath.
In 2022, I decided to write something completely different. No magic. No kingdoms. No wyverns. Just people. Ordinary lives under extraordinary pressure. It started as a palate cleanser, a little side project to clear my head before diving into my next fantasy series. That story became The Nanny’s Secret.
At the time, I didn’t think I’d ever publish it. It didn’t fit with my other books. I love reading psychological thrillers, but I saw them as something separate from what I wrote. I wasn’t keen on setting up a new pen name or building a whole second author brand. So I set the manuscript aside and got on with other things.
But the idea of writing thrillers stuck with me.
The stories kept coming—small-town secrets, lies, betrayals, and the dark undercurrents that run beneath everyday life. Before long, I’d written a second thriller, then a third. Now, I’ve written eight and I’m working on my ninth.
When I showed them to a friend who writes thrillers, he told me I was mad not to publish them. I told him I didn’t want to annoy my regular eaders, and I didn’t want the stress of juggling two identities. He gave me a simple solution: drop my first name.
So “Jon Cronshaw” became “J. Cronshaw.”
Same writer. Different shelf.
That small change made everything click.
I’ve since built a new website, newsletter, and social media presence for J. Cronshaw—the domestic thriller author.
I’ll admit, I was reluctant at first. Starting over from scratch after years of building my fantasy world felt strange. But once I began, I rediscovered something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the spark of building something brand new.
These domestic thrillers are grounded in real life. They draw on my years as a court reporter, on real places near where I live—Morecambe, Heysham, Lancaster.
The stories are intimate and claustrophobic, the kind of tension that doesn’t need magic to feel dangerous. And in a way, writing them has made me a better fantasy author too. They’ve sharpened my sense of pacing, dialogue, and emotional realism.
I’m still writing fantasy—always will.
The Ravenglass Legends series is continuing, and there are more stories from that world on the way. But writing thrillers under J. Cronshaw has reminded me how much I love storytelling in all its forms. It’s a different kind of worldbuilding—one built from truth, not myth.
So if you ever fancy reading something a little different from me—something without wyverns, but still full of secrets and twists—you can download your free copy of The Lodger HERE to give you a flavour of what I’ve been doing.
And if you’d like to hear more about what I’m working on—both fantasy and thriller—you can listen to my weekly Author Diary podcast. I’ve been recording every week since 2017 and haven’t missed an episode.
It’s been a strange journey from wyverns to whispers, but I’m glad I took it. Because sometimes, stepping outside your world is the best way to remember why you built it in the first place.
Dive into a world of shadows and secrets with this gripping excerpt from “Guild of Assassins,” the new epic fantasy novel by [Author Name]. When a young sculptor’s apprentice loses his father to a mysterious assassin, he sets out on a quest for justice that will change his life forever.
Soren buckled the leather apron straps around his waist, steeling himself as he marched into Master Kurgan’s studio. The familiar scent of clay and dust lingered in the air, the rhythmic tap of chisel on stone filling the workshop.
Kurgan’s stern eyes narrowed as he looked up from his work, his thin fingers poised above an emerging stone portrait. His bushy eyebrows furrowed. “You’re late.”
Soren swallowed hard. “I apologise, master. I lost track of time. It won’t happen again.”
Kurgan sniffed. “Perhaps you should lose track of those daydreams instead.”
“I really am sorry. I was—”
“I don’t need excuses.” Kurgan pointed at Soren’s cluttered workbench, gesturing towards the coating of dust. “I need you to focus on your work, boy.”
Soren dipped his head. “I know.”
“You’ll never master your craft if you’re always chasing shadows.”
Soren picked up his chisel and mallet, the tools at home in his grip, and continued working on his latest piece—an alabaster wyvern with its wings outstretched.
“Remember, Soren, the world beyond Nebel Hafen’s walls may seem alluring, but it’s as cold and unforgiving as the Braun Sea.”
Soren gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the thought nagging at him. There had to be more to life than this.
The day wore on and Soren soon regained focus on his work, the wyvern’s form slowly revealing itself with each strike of his chisel. It was the closest thing to magic in this world—the ability to create something beautiful and lasting from something as mundane as a block of lifeless stone.
The light from outside caught his attention. He blinked up at the window, his eyes dry and tired from dust and concentration. White-capped waves crashed against the harbour wall as the afternoon sun shone down on the Braun Sea.
Soren took this as his cue and broke away from his work. He cleaned his tools and swept the floor. He gazed at the half-finished wyvern on his workbench, its pink alabaster seeming almost translucent in the dim light. He couldn’t wait to get back to work on it, but errands for his master loomed.
Alaric appeared near the workshop door. He leant against the frame with one foot on the wall, a smirk on his face, and his hair still damp, no doubt from a morning spent at sea.
“Hey, Sor.”
Soren waved a hand in greeting.
“Need any help?”
“Thank you. That would be great.” Soren wiped Kurgan’s tools and gestured to his own workbench. “Help me finish up here. I need to run some errands for Master Kurgan.”
“Sure thing.” Alaric pushed off his leaning post.
Soren placed the last of Kurgan’s tools down and let out a sigh.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Let me guess.” Alaric grinned. “Old Kurgan wants you to clean his smallclothes.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
“It’s not that funny.”
“I know.” Soren cocked an eyebrow.
Alaric wandered over to the wyvern statue and pushed out his bottom lip. “This yours?”
“Yeah, he has me doing pointless little ornaments. Apprentice pieces, he calls them.”
“I guess we’ve all got to start somewhere. Your father had me mending nets again today. I want to be on the bow with a harpoon, bringing in a sperm whale. But, no, I get to sit in the hold, fiddling with old nets while my fingers turn red.”
“And I want to carve mountains.”
“Ah, the life of an artist.” Alaric ran his hands over the statue. “So mysterious and full of torment.”
“Torment? Hardly. It’s just…sometimes. I don’t know.”
“Oh, here we go.”
Soren glanced towards the window. “I feel like I’m stuck in this place, doing the same thing, day after day after day.”
“Welcome to being an apprentice.” Alaric clapped him on the back. “We all feel that way sometimes. At least when you’re finished, you don’t stink of fish guts, or have frostbite to contend with. You know, it was so cold out there today, I felt like my nose was going to freeze off. Imagine that. Your nose getting so cold it would drop off your face.”
“I guess.”
“I know you feel trapped in this place—we all do. But you have an incredible talent. And, one day, you’ll show everyone just how great you can be.”
“It can’t come soon enough.”
“Well, don’t let me get in the way of your fun.”
Alaric headed for the door.
“Yeah, right. Fun.”
Soren glanced around his still unfinished tasks and sighed as the door clicked shut behind Alaric. “Some help you were.”
A narrow stone path led to the cottage Soren shared with his father. He marched homewards, his head pounding, his arms aching, his legs spent. The thatched roof and whitewashed walls had weathered many storms, standing steadfast against the elements.
Warmth hit him as he opened the door and stepped across the threshold.
“Ah, there you are.” Soren’s father smiled across the kitchen as he bustled around, chopping vegetables with deft hands and stirring pots with practised ease. “I was ready to send out a search party.”
“Sorry about that.” Soren offered him a tired smile. “I had errands to run for the master.”
“Ah, well, needs must. I brought back some fine trout today. Not keen on these winds we’ve had coming from the north. Burn the skin off your knuckles if you’re not careful.”
“Alaric said it was cold.”
His father chuckled. “Aye. Very cold below deck out of the winds, I’m sure. He had it easy and he still found time to complain. Needs to buck his ideas up, that one.”
“I think he’s just itching to do more.”
“Oh? Has he been complaining?”
“No.” Soren shook his head. “I just remember him talking about how much he wanted to catch a whale, that’s all.”
“We’re a fisher, not a whaler.”
“I know.” Soren rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands at the basin. “Let me help.”
As they worked side by side, Soren couldn’t help but admire the precision and skill with which his father worked on the fish. With each cut, he removed the bones and excess skin, leaving behind perfect fillets. The sharp blade glinted against the warm light.
“You’ve got that look on your face again.” His father watched him with a sidelong glance. “Everything alright?”
Soren hesitated before answering. “I’m fine. I’m just looking forward to finishing my apprenticeship. I feel like…I don’t know. I can do so much more than ornaments. I’ve improved so much and I’m ready to do more…I know I am.”
“You’ve got a keen eye and a steady hand, son. But Master Kurgan has done you well.”
“I know. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I feel like there’s something more out there for me.”
“Like what?”
Soren shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s like Alaric—he’s stuck in the bowels of a ship all day, fixing nets when he’d rather be out hunting whales.”
“I see.”
“What I mean is, I don’t know if I can stay doing what I’m doing for another five years.”
His father paused, his eyes meeting Soren’s. “You’re free to follow your own path, son. But don’t forget where you come from. It might not be glamorous, but it’s honest work. In time, it’ll put food on your table.”
“I know.”
“I’ve paid a decent chunk of coin for that apprenticeship. I could have insisted you follow in my footsteps, but I wanted more for you.”
Soren forced a smile. “I know. And you’re right. I just…I just need to keep focused on getting better, focused on learning my craft.”
“That’s my boy.”
The next day, Soren’s arms were aching from hours of chiselling. He took a step back to admire the completed wyvern sculpture. A mixture of pride and satisfaction bloomed within him that he had transformed a lifeless slab of alabaster into a work of art.
He walked around the piece, studying it from all angles. Master Kurgan would have no choice but to let him move on to more challenging pieces.
A sudden draught drew his attention away from his work.
The door closed behind Alaric. “Nice job.” He sidled up to Soren and gazed down at the sculpture, rubbing his chin. “Is it supposed to look like a chicken?”
“It’s supposed to be a wyvern.” Soren wiped his brow with a dirty sleeve and registered Alaric’s smirk. “Oh, we’re doing this again, are we?”
“Seriously, though, it’s impressive.” Alaric leant in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I bet Kurgan did the finishing touches, though. No way you’d be able to do those scales like this without him holding your hand.”
Soren narrowed his eyes. “You can joke all you want, but it was all me.” He studied his work from several angles. “And I have outdone myself, if I’m being honest.”
“Because you’ve not been honest all this time?”
“You know what I mean.”
Alaric shook his head and grinned. “Nah. It’s good. You’ve done alright.” He gave Soren’s arm a playful punch.
“Careful!” Soren grabbed his chisel, catching it before it fell off the edge. “Tools of the trade.” He glanced towards the door. “But thanks, though. Kurgan’s been pushing me harder than ever. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever think I’m truly ready.”
“Maybe he wants you to reach your full potential, or something.” Alaric leant against a nearby table and picked up a hammer, turning it in his hand. “There’s always room for improvement, right?”
“Easy for you to say.”
“You’re right about that. Turns out I’m pretty good at this speaking lark.” He placed the hammer down and gestured to the door. “Come on. Let’s take a break. There’s more to life than chipping away at rocks.”
“What you got in mind?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have some fun. Cause some trouble, like we used to.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Alaric waved his hands. “Alright. No trouble. But all work and no play makes Soren a dull boy.”
“Fine. You win.”
“Excellent. Get some coin together. We could eat, have a few drinks, play some cards, whatever.”
Soren smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
“Let’s go then, before old Kurgan comes back and gets you to scrub his privy.”
The door opened, bringing with it the chill from outside.
“Oh, well.” Alaric took a step back. “Too late. Looks like you’ve missed the boat.”
Kurgan marched in with his arms folded and scowled at Alaric. “You again?” He gestured to the door. “Go on, do one. Be off with you.”
Soren gave his friend a helpless shrug. “I need to stay here.”
Alaric nodded and ducked past Kurgan. “Later, then?”
“Yeah. Later,” Soren said as Alaric departed.
Kurgan strode over to Soren’s workbench and gazed down at the wyvern. He stood silent for several seconds, his head turning this way and that as he tapped his chin. “You’ve done an adequate job there, boy.” He pointed to the tail. “Watch your tapering on the base. And the barb doesn’t look like that.” He lifted the wyvern and turned it in his hands. “You haven’t touched the underside of its feet. And wyverns have four claws, not three.”
Soren looked at his wyvern through Kurgan’s eyes and noted the flaws for the first time. “Thank you, master.”
“Also, you should add more depth to the scales. Remember, to capture reality, you have to exaggerate it slightly.”
“Thank you, master.”
“Remember, Soren”—Kurgan lay a hand on his shoulder—“true mastery comes not from talent but from humility and perseverance.” He raised a finger. “Talent gets you in the door. But it’s a commitment to learning one’s craft that marks a true artist.”
“Of course, master.” Soren hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “I was wondering…”
“What is it?”
“How many pieces like this did you have to do before you completed your apprenticeship?”
Kurgan shrugged and pursed his lips. “A few hundred at least, maybe a thousand or so.”
Soren gaped. “Are you…are you joking?”
“No joke.” Kurgan stroked his moustache. “And let’s just say, my old master wasn’t as lenient as I am.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing faint scars across the backs of his hands and arms.
“What happened?”
“They’re reminders. They’re reminders of the importance of hard work, of commitment to your craft.” He jerked his sleeve back down. “But they also remind me that violence is ugly and terrible.”
Soren looked down at the back of his hands and chewed on the inside of his lip. “Thank you.”
“I received those beatings for much less than your mistakes.”
“I will try my best. I swear it in the eyes of Creation.”
“Good.” Kurgan cleared his throat. “Maybe if that fish boy wasn’t in here every day, you might produce some better work.” He placed the statue down and gestured to a block of white marble resting on a nearby bench. “I’d like you to try another piece. Work from the same brief, but this time in Sieshin marble. The stone is much harder to work, so keep your chisel sharp and your rhythm steady.”
“Another wyvern?”
Kurgan nodded. “Another wyvern. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, master.”
“Have you considered experimenting with different materials?” He gestured to a collection of various stones and metals along the workshop wall. “It might help you grow as an artist.”
“I like working with alabaster. I really want to get good with it.”
“And leave everything else behind?” Kurgan shrugged as he began to pace. “Heed my words, boy. If you only master one thing, you will be an apprentice forever.”
Soren shook his head. “How am I supposed to become a great artist if I don’t have a specialism?”
“The specialism comes when you have mastered all parts of your craft. A solution in modelling may provide a fresh perspective on carving. Techniques and processes can be adapted from one medium to another. Don’t allow complacency to stifle your growth. If you’re not growing, you’re dying.”
“I understand.”
Kurgan patted Soren’s back. “You don’t.” He chuckled to himself. “But you will.”
The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Soren locked up the workshop for the night. The dying light cast long shadows across the cobblestones, while a chilling breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the scent of brine and the faint hints of fish and seaweed.
He double-checked the lock and started when Alaric slipped from the shadows.
“By Creation.” Soren’s hand shot to his chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
Alaric rubbed his hands together, his face obscured by his hood. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Plan for what?”
“For tonight, fool.”
Soren shrugged a shoulder. “I’m tired, my arms ache, and I’m covered in dust. I just want to head home…It’s been a long day.”
Alaric grinned and placed both of his hands on Soren’s shoulders. “Great. We’ll head to yours. Get yourself changed and grab some coin, and then the night is ours.”
Soren let out a sigh and nodded. “Fine.” He headed back along the path through Meerand, Alaric at his side.
“I bet this place used to be so different back in the day.” Alaric gestured up to Meerand Castle. “Imagine living in that place when it was whole.”
“You’re not going to start with stories of the Guardians again, are you?”
Alaric shook his head. “I wonder what it was like, though, all those people. I bet there must have been hundreds of people living there.”
Soren gazed up at the ruins. “I guess everything comes to an end. I wonder what happened to them?”
“Maybe they’re still around, working in secret.”
“Yeah. And maybe the Wolfsbane clan are still hiding in the forests.”
Alaric sniffed. “I think we can definitely say that’s not happening.”
“Would you have joined?”
“What? The Guardians?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Might be more fun than mending nets. Be a hero. Go on adventures. Bit of swashbuckling. Yeah, I could do that.”
“I bet it would be boring. I’d join up, do a seven-year apprenticeship, and then I’d probably end up in the offices, doing paperwork, knowing my luck.”
“You make your own luck in this world.”
“You sound like Master Kurgan.”
“Don’t say that. Never say that.”
“Are you going to start lecturing me on proper chisel care?”
Alaric laughed. “Yeah. And make sure you dust off those…tooly things.”
As they reached his cottage, Soren pushed open the door and entered the kitchen, still grinning, Alaric following on behind.
“Father?”
No answer.
Soren glanced around the dimly lit room. His gaze fell upon his father’s pipe smouldering on the table.
A muffled thump echoed from elsewhere in the cottage.
Soren turned to Alaric, his grin fading. “Stay here.” He bolted across the kitchen and headed for his father’s chamber. He threw open the door.
Soren froze. There, sprawled across the floor, was his father—his limbs contorted at unnatural angles, his throat cut.
Crimson blood pooled by his father’s side, and his eyes stared vacantly.
“This is…this is…”
Alaric joined Soren’s side and stared. “By Creation—”
“What kind of monster—?”
“Shh.” Alaric gestured behind him and ducked. “Someone’s here.”
Soren’s heart thundered in his chest. He willed his body to respond, and he crouched, hearing light footsteps move through the house.
But he couldn’t stay down long. He rose to stand. “We need to know who did this.”
Alaric jerked him back. “Are you completely mad?”
Soren shrugged off Alaric’s hold. “Better mad than a coward.”
“Fine.” Alaric’s jaw clenched. “But if we die, I’m blaming you.”
Soren crept through the cottage, every creak of the floorboards seeming to echo off the walls.
“Damn, he didn’t even let him finish his pipe.” Alaric shook his head. “That’s just rude.”
Soren glowered at Alaric.
By the faint light of the moon, he caught a glimpse of someone retreating outside. A man in grey, his face twisted by a gnarled scar across his right eye.
The man vanished into the night.
Soren wanted to give chase. But all he could do was stand in place, paralysed by it all. He stood at the cottage door and looked out into the darkness. “I swear in the eyes of Creation…”
Alaric stood beside him, his expression grim. “What do you want to do?”
“Find him.” Soren took his time scanning for any signs of the killer. “And catch him.”
“And then what?”
“And then we bring him to justice.”
Alaric nodded. “What about…” He gestured behind him.
“I can’t think about that right now.”
As they stepped outside, Soren took a deep breath. “We need information. Someone must have seen this bastard skulking around.”
I’ve been dying to share this with you for months, and the day has finally arrived. It’s my great pleasure to unveil the official book trailer for my upcoming epic fantasy novel, “Guild of Assassins”!
With this series. I wanted to create a tale that would transport you to a world of intrigue, where shadows hide secrets and danger lurks around every corner.
At the heart of “Guild of Assassins” is Soren, a young sculptor’s apprentice whose life is shattered when his father is murdered by a mysterious assassin.
Driven by grief and a thirst for justice, Soren sets out to uncover the truth. But his quest takes a dark turn when he’s forced to join the very guild responsible for his father’s death.
As Soren navigates the cutthroat politics of the assassins’ guild and endures a training regimen that pushes him to his limits, he discovers a web of secrets that could bring an empire to its knees.
But to survive, Soren must embrace the way of the assassin and become the very thing he hates most.
This story is packed with pulse-pounding action, searing betrayals, and a deeply human story of loss, redemption, and the price of vengeance.
“Guild of Assassins” is perfect for fans of Robin Hobb, Mark Lawrence, and Michael J. Sullivan. If you love gritty, immersive fantasy tales that keep you turning pages late into the night, this book is for you.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the trailer…and of the story.
Drop a comment below and let me know what you think!
Dive into the deadly realms of fantasy literature’s top assassins. From Arya Stark to FitzChivalry Farseer, explore their intriguing worlds.
I’d hazard a guess and say we’ve all thought about hiring an assassin from time to time, especially when someone nicks the last digestive biscuit.
But alas, they don’t often pop up in the Yellow Pages, and frankly, they don’t come cheap.
If you, like me, have a morbid fascination with these masters of shadow and intrigue, you’ll likely find these ten fantasy literature assassins a delightful bunch of homicidal maniacs.
Fitz is the illegitimate son of a prince who gets handed the delightful job of royal assassin. It’s all fun and games until you have to murder for a living. Even with a name that sounds like a medieval dating service, Fitz is the bloke you’d want on your side. He does have a terrible knack for getting nearly killed, but who doesn’t love a trier?
Arya has a hit list and she’s not afraid to use it. Who knew ‘Stick ‘em with the pointy end’ could be such profound life advice? Atta girl, Arya. Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear the faces of other people.
Vin knows her way around a knife and a secret identity. A street urchin turned assassin, she’s proof that life can turn on a penny, or in her case, a coin. If you thought your teen years were tough, try adding ‘assassin-in-training’ to the mix.
Azoth/Kylar Stern from Brent Weeks’ Night Angel Trilogy
Azoth masters the deadly art of assassination under the mentorship of Durzo Blint. Durzo, by the way, is a lad who’s seen it all, done it all, and has the emotional capacity of a rock. Azoth’s rise from gutters to greatness is a tale to behold, especially for those who love a good ol’ rag-to-riches… or perhaps rag-to-homicidal-maniac story.
Jorg Ancrath from Mark Lawrence’s Broken Empire Trilogy
Jorg, the poster boy for troubled youth, is what happens when you mix a prince, a traumatic childhood and a lawless band of outlaws. He may not be a traditional assassin, but with his moral compass lodged somewhere south of ‘chaotic evil’, he certainly gets the job done.
Celaena Sardothien from Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass Series
A badass with a taste for fashion, Celaena proves that one can indeed kill and look great doing it. Her speciality? Delivering death with a side of fabulous.
Severian from Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun
Not an assassin in the traditional sense, but as an executioner, Severian definitely has an intimate relationship with death. He’s got the melancholic brooding down to a fine art and a memory that’s sharper than his blade (or, so he would lead us to believe).
Jerek Mace from Michael Moorcock’s The Eternal Champion series
More of a warrior than a straight-up assassin, Jerek’s blighted life will have you laughing, crying, and questioning your own existential dread. Nothing like a bit of light-hearted anguish over a cuppa, right?
Locke Lamora from Scott Lynch’s Gentleman Bastard Series
He’s the cheeky chappy who could swipe the skin off a rice pudding and make it look like an accident. Less of an assassin, more of a con man, but let’s not split hairs. If there’s one thing to learn from Locke, it’s ‘why murder when you can manipulate?’
The Lady from Glen Cook’s The Black Company Series
She’s the epitome of ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ The Lady is a formidable sorceress with a casual side gig in ruling empires and killing dissidents. It’s multi-tasking at its finest.
So, there you have it. A smorgasbord of fantasy assassins who’ve spiced up our literary lives with their unique takes on professional homicide.
Just remember, the next time you get the urge to toss a blade at your annoying flatmate, maybe just settle for a strongly worded Post-It note.
Murder, as these characters have shown us, is rather a messy business.
If you enjoy reading about thieves and assassins, download my novel Birth of Assassins as part of your free Ravenglass Universe starter library!
Life is tough in Nordturm, but for Fedor, a street kid turned shoeshine boy, it becomes hell. Join him on a thrilling journey as he gets entangled with a gang of thieves in this prequel novel to the Dawn of Assassins series. Experience a coming-of-age high fantasy filled with assassins, thieves, and magic. Perfect for fans of Scott Lynch, Robin Hobb, and Brent Weeks. Get your copy now!
Fedor blew out the flame and dipped his brush into the melted polish. He studied the man’s shoes—simple, but well-made, soft black leather fastened with silver buckles.
He applied the polish to the right shoe, building up the first layer with gentle circles until the leather turned matte.
“You know, child. I was once where you were.”
Fedor applied the foundation layer to the left shoe.
“Though it was Hafendorf where I first plied my trade.”
Fedor gazed up at him with a raised eyebrow. “You were a polish boy?”
“No. I used to run messages on the docks.”
Fedor spat on the right shoe and brushed back and forth across the polish.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I did?”
Fedor shrugged. “What’s the point?”
The man chuckled. “What’s the point? The point is I’m trying to teach you something. Tell me, child, how old are you?”
“I don’t know.” He brushed around the buckles and moved onto the other shoe.
“You’re not a man yet. What are you—twelve, thirteen?”
“I said, I don’t know.” He glared at the man’s questions and quickly averted his gaze—this was no way to get tips.
“I started off as a lowly messenger, dodging the curses of sailors, and I now run a merchant company with trading houses in Welttor, Nebel Hafen, Reichsherz, and I’m always looking to expand my operation.” He chuckled to himself. “And yet I still find myself dodging the curses of sailors.”
“Right.”
“And do you know how I did it?”
“I don’t.” Fedor pulled a leather cloth from his box and made small circles in the leather, bringing the surface to a deep shine.
The man leaned forward and tapped Fedor’s shoulder. “Do you want to know the secret?”
Fedor frowned. “To what?”
“To everything, of course.” The man looked around the market square, seemingly seeking inspiration from something or someone. Alchemical lights shone from the cave roof above, twisting his features with shadows. “The secret, my boy, is integrity.” He held Fedor’s gaze. “If you can be trustworthy, people will come back to you again and again.”
“Right.” He pulled his gaze away and wiped a mark from the left buckle.
“Believe me. It works much better than fear.”
Fedor sniffed. “You should tell that to the gangs round here.”
“Of course, you can get things done with fear and intimidation, but no one will thank you for it. As soon as your back is turned, you’re likely to find someone willing to drive a knife into your back.”
“I get it. Treat people bad and it comes back threefold. Priest talks about that all the time.”
“But it’s about more than merely avoiding pain. No, it’s about building trust over time. It’s about being reliable. It’s about integrity.”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
The man shook his head. “Simply put, integrity is about knowing the difference between right and wrong.”
“I know about sin.”
“Indeed. But there’s a difference between knowing and doing.”
Fedor raised the man’s feet to check the soles. He scraped away bits of dried dirt and salt from the grooves. He studied his work for a long moment and got to his feet on creaking knees. “All done.”
The man examined his shoes and took a piece of hack silver from his pocket. “This is for you. Thank you.”
Fedor pocketed the silver and tipped his cap. “Thanks, mister.”
“Remember what I said.” He held Fedor’s gaze. “We all have choices in this world.” He turned and walked away.
Fedor dropped his scraping tool into his box and sighed. “Whatever.” His eyes widened at the glimmer of silver resting on the seat. He snatched it up and turned it in his fingers. It showed a wyvern crest on one side and a profile of Ostreich’s last empress on the reverse—a one krone coin.
He hurriedly stuffed his cloth and brushes into his box and slammed the lid shut.
What if he kept the coin for himself?
With a sigh, he picked up his box and chased after the man.
He caught up to him at the stairs leading to the arena. “Hey, mister.”
The man spun on his heels and smiled at Fedor. “Ah, child. Is there a problem?”
Fedor handed the coin to the man. “This must have dropped from your pocket.”
The man studied the coin and tossed it back. “That coin is for you.”
“For me?” His eyes widened. “I didn’t know. You should have said.”
“If I had said, you wouldn’t have done the right thing.”
Deep lines set between Fedor’s eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
The man reached into his purse and pulled out another one-krone coin. He held it between his fingers and flicked it with his thumb, sending it turning through the air into Fedor’s hand. “And now you have two.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Remember what I said about integrity. Take care of yourself.”
“Erm, thank you.” The man strode away and Fedor shook his head. Who was he? What in the void was he trying to prove? His heart raced. Maybe it was another test. What if the priests had sent him to make sure Fedor was not pocketing the gains for himself? They would beat him again and feed him only scraps for a week. He refused to go through that again.
But if it was not a test—
A hand slapped down on his shoulder. “I don’t know what that was, but that was great. Never seen one like that before.”
Fedor vaguely recognised the lad, a few years his senior. He wore a grey shortcoat, white shirt, trousers, and boots, his sharp features shaded by a flat cap.
“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, mate.” He pumped Fedor’s hand. “I’m Lev.”
“I’m confused.”
“Confused? Thought your name was Fedor?”
“It is. Wait, how do you know—”
“Quick.” He tugged Fedor’s wrist and ducked into a tunnel at the edge of the market square. “This way.”
“Where are we going?”
Lev stopped. “Here’s fine.” He looked past Fedor and nodded to himself. “Never tell who’s listening, you know?”
“What do you want?” Fedor glanced back over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, mate.” Lev held his palms open. “I got no intention of robbing you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just want to know how you pulled it off.”
“Pulled what off?”
“You think I don’t recognise a scam when I see one? I’ve not seen that one before. How did it work? Is it just you?”
“Just me, what?”
“Mate, seriously?” Lev rolled his eyes and sighed. “I saw what happened. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
“It wasn’t a scam. Honest.”
“No, mate. I saw it with my own eyes. You got Bartok Schultz to give you coin for no reason.” He fixed Fedor’s gaze. “I know a scam when I see one, trust me. How did you set it up?”
“It’s not a scam.”
“Course not.” He dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned forward. “Don’t worry. I’m not with the filth, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“I know you’re not with the watch. I’ve seen you around. The priests say you’re no good.”
Lev spat on the floor. “The priests. The bloody priests? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’d sooner trust a wyvern than a priest.” He took a step forward and sneered. “Tell me. Priests make you grab their dicks yet or shoved things up your arse?”
Fedor started at the curses. “No.”
“Maybe it’s just the girls they do that to. Dirty bastards, either way.”
“They wouldn’t do—”
“I bet they hit you, don’t they? Give you a good smack for no reason.”
“Only sometimes.” He shuffled on his feet. “Only when we’ve sinned.”
“Yeah, I bet. Perverts, the lot of them.” He jabbed Fedor’s chest. “You need to get out of there, mate, before they start trying to bum you.”
“Bum me?” He pressed his back against the wall, his eyes growing wide. He had never heard anyone speak like this about the priests before.
“Good-looking lad like you.” He shrugged. “Surprised they haven’t already. Bloody pervs.”
“How would you know?”
“Everyone knows, mate.” He let out a sigh. “That’s how they do it.”
“Do what?”
Lev inclined his head. “You’re not the smartest kid around here, are you?”
Fedor stared at him, his mouth unable to form words.
“Think about it. Where’s the best place to find kids who won’t grass to their parents?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged one shoulder. “An orphanage?”
“See, you’re not a complete thicksicle.” He rubbed his hands together. “When you think about it, it all makes perfect sense.” He spat on the floor again. “Dirty bastards. You need to get out of there, get as far away from those nonces as you can.”
“I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“Those coins you scammed are a good start, mate. You got two, didn’t you?”
Fedor nodded.
“So, out with it then. How did it work?”
“I swear it wasn’t a scam.”
Lev eyed him up and down and nodded to himself. “You’re either a good liar, or you’re telling the truth.” He folded his arms. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was shining his shoes and he was talking about doing good, and how he’d been a messenger.”
“Go on.” He tapped his foot.
“When I finished, he left a coin on the chair, and I went after him to give it back.”
Lev sniffed. “I would have kept it.”
“But he said the coin was for me and gave me another.”
“And that’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“So, it was like a reward. You returned his coin and he gave you two? That’s genius, that is, mate.” Lev pushed out his bottom lip. “Great angle. Do-gooders like to do that. What you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know much, do you, mate? You should get us a good meal and place for the night. Get away from that orphanage.”
“I don’t know.” He fingered the coins in his pocket. “I think it might be a test.”
Lev studied him for several seconds. “What kind of test?”
“Doesn’t seem real, does it? I think the priests might be behind it.”
Lev rubbed his chin. “Make sense. Seems a bit far-fetched, though, doesn’t it?”
“But what if it is?”
“Nah, mate. You’re wrong.” He shook his head. “What difference does it make to the priests?”
“It’s not my money to keep.”
“He gave it to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes. But anything I earn goes to the priests.”
“Really?” He cocked an eyebrow and snorted. “And I thought they abolished slavery.”
“It’s not slavery. They feed me. They give me a roof, a bed.”
“Honestly, mate. They used to give slaves places to eat and sleep. That’s your money, that is. I’d be in half a mind to tell one of the watch, though we don’t exactly see eye to eye, if you get my meaning.”
“I suppose.”
“You get money for shining shoes, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He paid for that as well, didn’t he? Bit of hack for your efforts, like the rest?”
Fedor narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been watching me?”
“I watch everyone, mate. It’s what I do. You’d be surprised what you see when you take time to watch. That’s what I do. I pay attention. I see things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Lots of things. Pay attention and the truth reveals itself, isn’t that what they say?”
Fedor shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Trust me. People don’t pay attention to things. I do. I might even tell you what some of those things are if we work together.”
“Work together?”
“Sure. Why not? I can take you under my wing, show you what’s what. You seem like a smart enough kid. Bit wet behind the ears, like, but I’m sure we can sort you out.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Here’s an idea. Keep that hack aside for the priests and I can show you a good way to spend that coin.”
Fedor rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his voice. “But what if it’s a test?”
“What if it is? You’ve got to live in the moment. Take whatever they give you and move on. At least you’ll have a good night to show for it.”
Fedor licked his lips. “What you got in mind?”
“Meal. Nice room. Some good ale. Or, you could go down into the stinking foundries, spend another night with a priest who wants to bum you.”
“They don’t bum me.”
“Yet.” Lev raised a finger and grinned. “But there’s always time, mate.”
“But it’s a sin.”
“Depends who you ask.”
Fedor shook his head. “They wouldn’t do that.”
“You keep thinking that, mate.” He gestured back towards the market. “You get to the pubs much?”
Fedor shook his head. “No. We’re not allowed.”
“Well, in that case, we definitely need to do it. What you got to lose?”
“I don’t know.” Fedor shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”
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Discover why Terry Pratchett’s ‘Hogfather’ is a must-read all year round. Explore witty humor, satire, and relatable characters in this whimsical yet heart-warming fantasy novel.
Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather is a novel I can’t help but love.
Published in 1996, it’s the twentieth book in Pratchett’s popular Discworld series, and tells the story of Death and his granddaughter Susan trying to save Christmas and rescue Santa…erm…I mean, save Hogwatch and rescue the Hogfather.
Full of witty humour, clever satire, and relatable characters, the Hogfather skewers fantasy tropes while still embracing them.
The book is set during the Discworld equivalent of Christmas, where the Hogfather, a jolly fat man in red, delivers presents to children. But when the Hogfather goes missing, Death steps in to take his place. This setup allows Pratchett to poke fun at the commercialization of Christmas while still celebrating the spirit of giving.
Pratchett explores the idea that if enough people believe in something, it can become real—the Tooth Fairy exists because children believe in her. But the Auditors of Reality are trying to use this idea to stop people believing in the Hogfather, and force him from existence.
We find Pratchett’s usual wide range of characters, including Death, his granddaughter Susan, and the bumbling wizards of Unseen University. But it is Mr. Jonathan Teatime, (pronounced “Teh-ah-tim-eh”) who is my personal favourite.
Sent to assassinate the Hogfather, Mr. Teatime is cold and brilliant. He is a gentleman who relishes being an assassin, though not for the money, but for the sheer joy of killing.
Hogfather’s a book that I cannot recommend enough. It’s dark and witty, but somehow whimsical and heart-warming.
Is this my favourite Pratchett? I’m not sure. He wrote so many great books, but this was the one that had the biggest impact on my own work as a writer.
