Desmond Wigsby

Those arms belong to Sir Dagonet, the jester knight, and their current holder is a drunk and a buffoon, with all the bravery of any other senior Knight but none of the judgement, wisdom or tact.  

‘Taylor!’ says Wigsby, as he hurries over with his squire.  He skids momentarily on the polished marble floor, but the squire, obviously well practiced, steadies him discreetly.  ‘Thank God you’re here.  Tricky situation, this.  I say – this one could really blow up in our faces, eh?’  He guffaws. 

‘That’s very funny, Desmond,’ Jory lies. 

Noake stands, an isolated figure, between the rows of pillars in the middle of the cordoned-off marble floor.  At this distance his White Horse tattoo is a dark smear across his cheeks and forehead.  A handful of frightened travellers kneel on the floor around him, hands clasped behind their heads, while two security staff are laid out nearby, dead or unconscious.  Beside him on the ground lies the long raincoat he was using to conceal his bulky inner garment. 

‘That’s what I call a bomber jacket,’ Wigsby observes unhelpfully.  ‘Eh?’ 

The Pendragon Protocol, p262

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Smart, contemporary political thrillers. A new kind of urban fantasy,

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