Went well, although I’m going to need that extra 20 grand in wordcount to make this book coherent when it’s done. Also: margaritas! I wrote before I drank, don’t worry. But the week I had more or less required a discreet amount of tequila.
“I thought the bishop wasn’t involved in what Brigham was doing. He didn’t mention anything about a cellar.”
“That’s right, he didn’t,” I agreed as I started levering up the lid of a crate. “You remember the first Rule of the Shamus?”
Graciella started to reply, then burst out in a coughing fit. I looked back; the poor girl had managed to stir up a cloud of dust, and was starting to sneeze. There really was a lot of dust in the cellar, wasn’t there?
I turned my attention back to the crate. The nails were in there pretty good. “So, yeah, the first Rule of the Shamus: everybody lies. Sometimes it’s a lie of commission, like ‘Why, that strayed sheep Brigham ran off to the wicked big city all on his own!’ And then there’s a lie of omission, like – ah, here we go.” I levered open the crate, and found what I expected to find, all metallic and dully gleaming in the half-gloom.
Graciella wandered over, and whistled at all those sword blanks. “Yeah,” I said. “Then there’s the ‘Oh, Shamus, I completely forgot to tell you that Brigham was helping us run arms to the diehards.’”