by Rakan Khashman (@rakanrrk.bsky.social)
Adult Fantasy
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Query
WITH DEATH AND DANCE, complete at 109,000 words, is a dual-POV adult fantasy. The story follows two cursed rogues trying to become better people in a crime-ridden city ruled by godlike Judges. It is a Sergio Leone take on a swashbuckling Alexandre Dumas adventure, with the criminal heroes of Scott Lynch’s Gentlemen Bastards and the gritty but humorous tone of Joe Abercrombie.
It is election season in Menetia, the City of Frozen Canals, which means daggers are drawn, bribes are thrown, and blood speckles the cobblestones. Amidst the chaos, two infamous criminals are planning one last heist in hopes that they can escape their lawless lives.
Von “the Giant” Taru, former circus freak turned mercenary, wants to turn away from violence and become a peaceful man. The past is not easily escaped.
Haynstar “the Piper” Vermillion, musician and swindler extraordinaire, seeks to reunite with his eternal love and live an honest life. The future is not easily reached.
When their heist goes wrong, they end up framed for the murder of Menetia’s favoured candidate, and they are targeted by the Fisherman's Guild, who seek to elect a commoner, and the Masked Nobility, who will not give up power. They must survive the city’s bloody politics long enough to find the killer and prove their innocence before the Judges arrive to punish them all. They want to become better men, but there is no time for a better tomorrow—judgment comes with Death and Dance.
I am a member of Sheffield’s Writing Workshop and I have been writing for over ten years. As a British half-Jordanian, half-Cypriot former solicitor, I have been a minority and felt like an outsider everywhere I lived and worked, and I wanted to bring that experience into the misfit protagonists of With Death and Dance.
Thank you for your time and consideration!
First Five Pages
Chapter 1 – Start the Song
Freedom waited to be stolen.
Tonight, it was hidden inside a fat man’s pockets, protected by a drunken audience and obscured by smoke coming off the great hearth, which cast its orange glow on the walls of the Mirthful Mouth Inn. But it was difficult to steal when every eye in the room watched him, and he was adamant in keeping them watching. People deserved to hear good music, even ones he was about to rob. It was only fair. Life was more enjoyable that way.
Haynstar Vermillion’s slender fingers slid across his pipe, while his feet rattled the stage. Mantacarl’s End played loud and clear. The Ballad of the Whitemaiden would follow soon and Hero of the Atmanate was before. One song after another. His chest burst back and forth, never tiring, never stopping, while his stage partner danced her fingers on her lyre, moving almost as fast as him. Almost. Few matched his vigor on stage. He bounced from one corner to the other, lowering his pipe to sing, only to blow again as if he did not breathe between the movements. It was a small stage, made for small performances, but he made it big.
He liked to move, Haynstar Vermillion, almost as much as he liked people watching him move. But above all, he liked to move into people’s pockets and cloaks and bags. Tonight, he had a very particular pocket in mind. One leading to his freedom.
The mark sat alone, close to the stage, bouncing his meaty hands to the tune of the music. His table had enough food and drink to make sultans blush. A wide man, with a wide appetite, wearing a wide mask on his face. Not the only masked face in the crowd. Everyone below the stage covered their faces. Merchants with bronze masks decorated with coins, masons in half-stone ones, the medico behind their thin white beaks. They clapped and sang, all without ever showing their faces. And they drank, shoving reed straws beneath their masks, and taking sips from deep mugs.
Haynstar was the only one in the inn with a bare face, his eversmile the only mask he wore. Even his trusty stage partner covered her face, all narrow edges and forward. She sang loud and clear despite the obstruction. Haynstar was almost impressed. Almost. He sang to a demigod once with a sock in his mouth. It took a lot to impress him.
He took a deep breath and dashed across the stage, sweat beads falling behind. With one swift motion, he jumped, still playing his pipe. Gasps rose. The mark’s table came towards him. Boots smacked wood and dishes flew off, cups and plates shattering on the ground. The table wobbled underneath, but Haynstar clenched his thighs and stood firm, maintaining his balance with a dancer’s grace.
The mark cursed, seeing all his wonderful dishes wasted on the ground, but when he looked up and saw Haynstar, he burst out laughing and banged his meaty fist on the table, shaking his head. The crowd erupted into a cheer and Haynstar bowed before them. This is what he lived for. Well, this and what came next. He winked back at his stage partner.
She nodded and ran forward, jumping off the stage. Another daring display of acrobatics. Almost. A gasp rose, this time in horror. She smashed on the next table and crashed into the patrons, knocking them down with a screech. Ale sloshed on the ground, chairs lay sideways. The patrons grappled with his partner, trying to get up in the midst of a golden puddle. Curses and complaints hurled in every direction. His partner apologized as loud as she could. Every masked face was turned towards the failure, including the mark.
Haynstar slid off the table, going to help his stage partner, or rather, pretended to. His hands slipped into the mark’s coat, and out came a letter that disappeared into his tunic. The mark continued to stare at the struggling women on the ground, his meaty hands relaxed on his knees, oblivious to his emptied pocket.
“Monsirs and Monseras,” Haynstar announced. “I am sorry for my dear companion’s performance.” He was not. The lyrist rose and bowed before the patrons. “Forgive her, for she is clumsy.” She was not. “And I have failed as a teacher.” He had not. “This marks the end of our performance tonight.” It did not. The real performance was just about to begin.
Haynstar bowed, shoving the letter deeper into his pocket. The applause tingled his body, washing over him like a lover’s embrace. Oh, Elly, if only you were here with me. What do I have without you?
Haynstar shut the back door of the Mirthful Mouth, and snow tumbled down, nearly onto him. He pulled down his hood, fighting off a shiver. The cold had a hateful bite tonight. An icycle night, the locals called it. Tiny crystals of frost whirled in the air, cutting any bare flesh unlucky enough to be caught. No wonder the locals always wore masks. Even the air was said to be dangerous in Menetia. If the patrons of the Mirthful Mouth saw him outside with a bare face, they would call him mad. And they would be right.
He pulled a barrel underneath the shelter of the inn’s crooked roof and slid off a handful of snow, wiping it dry with his cloak. The icycles still danced in the air but he was protected here. For a while, at least. He took another deep breath, looking around to make sure no one was watching. Besides it, of course. He was not an ordinary man, Haynstar Vermillion, not because of his magnificent skills in music or quickness of his fingers or even his constant smile, unique to his people. No. From the darkness of a crack of an alley, two eyes stared at him from the shadows, and he shivered.
He pulled the letter from his tunic and swiped it open with his dagger. A map of Menetia was unveiled before his eyes but not of the city itself. This map did not show the labyrinthine canals that spread like broken arteries through the endless buildings that almost piled onto each other across the peninsula. It did not show the vast harbours and the crooked wharfs that dotted the frozen Mantic coast. It did not even show the gargantuan Magrave’s Palace that rose in the middle of the city like a mountain of black stone.
This was a map of Menetia’s underground. Hundreds of tunnels carved beneath. He traced his fingers across the parchment, shivering from the cold. And excitement. This was a map of opportunity. Haynstar rubbed his fingers together and blew hot air into them, a smile spreading to his already upturned lips, and the shadows howled at his happiness. Gold to be free, gold to be merry, gold to even love. He ignored it. Freedom was a tunnel away.
The door groaned open, rattling against the winds. Warm light spilled out, lighting up the map even more clearly. He did not turn around to see who approached. The sound of clinks made it clear. His stage partner appeared next to the barrel, her masked face looking down. She had abandoned her lyre and donned three daggers on her belt, which were clanking into each other with every gust.
“Did we find it, Master Vermillion?”
“Yes, Mira, my dear,” Haynstar said. “We found it.”
“Is it true?”
He traced his finger across a particular tunnel, his eyes narrowed down. “Yes.”
Mira laughed, shaking her head, and hugged him. Her daggers pushed against his pants.
“Finally!” She let him go but kept a hand on his back. “We will rob that son of a bitch. We will take everything Marquis Mazhaar owns.”
“His everything might be too much for us, my dear,” Haynstar said. “He is the richest man in Menetia, and this city is famous for its rich men but, aye, we will get our due.” And I will pay my debt. And I will be free. Wait for me, Elly. The eyes were still on him. He wondered what Mira would feel if she could see them. She might be reluctant in helping him if she knew of his infernal debt and the shadows that never left him.
“Aye, he is rich,” Mira said, tracing her hand up to his shoulder. “They say he has as much money as half the Monsignorate combined. The prick is rich enough to challenge the Magrave in the upcoming election.”
Haynstar furled the map. “He will have to do it with a bit less. If we can help it.”
“This is exciting.” Her hand squeezed his shoulder, her masked face was close enough to kiss, her body touching him. Nothing stirred in him. Elly would find this funny. He gently grabbed her hand and lowered it down.
“It is,” Haynstar said.
Mira took a step back. “Apologies, I did not mean to.”
He wondered if she was flushed, embarrassed under the mask or perhaps disappointed.
“It is fine, my dear. I am promised to another.”
“Is that why you never return the affection of all those ladies?”
Haynstar chuckled. “Not exactly. Besides, I would not know what to do with a Menetian. You never take off your masks.”
Mira touched her masked face. “I understand. Apologies again. What now, then?”
He shoved the map down his tunic. The winds picked up, howling over the roofs. “We are going to break into the home of the richest man in Menetia. And we are going to rob him blind. Do not be mistaken, Mira. It will be difficult, it will be mad, it will be plain dangerous.” He parted his upturned lips. “And I am all for it.”
Mira grabbed two of the hilts on her belt. “I am with you, Master Vermillion.”