Harker's Hope - A Tale of Fallen London

Chapter One: Regarding the Prospect of a Long Drop

Lorelle Harker awoke to the metallic stench of blood. Her own, by the familiar smell. She cracked the gunk on her eyelids open and took stock; a cold, damp cell. Perfect. She forced herself up into a sitting position, resting her back against the cell wall. Her clothes, her weapons had been taken. Nothing but a set of rags and for some strange reason a urine-stained cheap black cloth mask on her face. She tore the mask off in disgust and used it to wipe the caked blood from around her mouth.

No candles, but weak light from the barred window. Lorelle dragged herself over to it and felt a sharp intake of breath. Stretched out before her was a cavern of unimaginable size; so huge that she could barely see the distant walls. A vast sea covered half of it, dotted with islands and in the distance what appeared to be a mountain. A soft greenish-blue light permeated everything, shimmering from what appeared to be a universal crust of some sort of jewel shards on the cavern’s roof. At the edge of the sea, a curiously out of place city glimmered with gaslight. How far had the figure said? A mile underground? Impossible, yet here she was. The Neath.

After a few moments of gawping, Lorelle turned a more critical eye to the vista below. Below was the right word; she judged herself to be some ungodly distance, perhaps half a mile, from the waters below. The mortar around the edges of the cell bars was weak, but that was hardly a worry; the drop would kill any would-be escapee. As Lorelle attempted to figure out a way around this slight difficulty, a buzzing sound drifted into her awareness. It grew steadily closer until after a few minutes an enormous gasbag appeared just below the window; a dirigible!

Lorelle tugged desperately at the bars for a few minutes, succeeding in loosening one, but by the time she had done so the dirigible was already some distance away. She sat back and studied the flight path; it looked to be some sort of supply airship, travelling at a fairly steady pace. She judged there was perhaps a half minute window to reach the dirigible, should she somehow manage to get the cell bars open and safely egress. But how frequent was the dirigible? She mused for a few moments, coughing once or twice. It was time to play the patience game.

-~==@==~-

There was food here, thank God, even if it was watery prison slop. Twice a day a shuffling, hooded figure passed by and dropped off a bucket, picking up the previous visit’s bucket (disgustingly, dish and chamberpot were the same vessel - Lorelle could only hope they washed them at all). This gave Lorelle time to plan, to observe. There was the gaoler’s iron cudgel, the possibility of keeping an eye out for some sort of rope, hell, even the option of trying to sweet talk the gaoler into an escape. Far more interesting for Lorelle were the rats; they frequently passed through the cell, and for some reason someone had apparently tied pickaxes to their backs? Tiny, rat-sized pickaxes.

On the morning (Lorelle based this entirely on when she was likely to receive her gruel, being underground) of the second day, Lorelle lay in wait, bucket in hand. When the rat scurried out of one hole in the wall toward another, Lorelle slammed the bucket down over it and dragged the helpless creature towards her. She upended the bucket and grabbed the rat -

&quotNo, please, stop!&quot

Lorelle screamed and smacked the rat against the wall until its skull was a bloody mess. Hell’s teeth, had that rat just spoken? She regarded the sad little corpse in her hand with some regret as the realisation sunk in, but set her jaw and steeled her gut. She had killed men (or at any rate, thinking beings) before, no sense in getting wound up over it now. She picked the tiny pickaxe from the grisly mess and set to work on the bars.

She worked the last bar free just in time for the buzzing to begin. It was a struggle to fit through the tiny hole, but years of escapism had given Lorelle more than enough practice. She clambered out and held herself dead against the prison’s wall, clinging to her window for dear life. The dirigible emerged from beneath her and she mouthed a quick prayer before leaping from the face.

Lorelle hit the gasbag with a heavy grunt, but her fingers closed true around the metal supports holding it up. She dragged herself bodily up the dirigible’s bag until she was in a more comfortable position and looked back at her brief former home. Her stomach dropped. New Newgate Prison was not, as she had imagined, some impossibly tall tower. It was an enormous, hollowed out stalactite hanging from the roof of the Neath. Thank God she was free of it. Her future lay beneath, in the streets of Fallen London.
[li]

Chapter Two - Regarding Observatories, Wingdings and Rats

The dirigible took its time approaching the city below, and as much as it ached Lorelle’s arms holding onto the gasbag, it gave her time to appreciate the sight. The Stolen River (once the Thames) snaked through the city and into the vast underground sea, and clustered around it were the ramshackle slums of London, permeated by the occasional grand edifice. With two exceptions one might have recognised the city as being near identical to the one stolen thirty years before, albeit at night and lit permanently by gaslamp. The first being that most of the southern half of the city had been sunk into an archipelago. The second being the huge black spires that stuck out from the southern bank of the Thames; a twisted monstrosity of strangely organic black stone. There were symbols carved into the spires, glyphs that seemed to glow as if lit by hidden lamps from behind. They were too distant to make out, and staring at them made Lorelle’s eyes itch. She turned her gaze to the approach below.

The dirigible sank low as it headed towards the bright lights of the River’s docks; Lorelle thought twice about disembarking somewhere with quite so many witnesses. Instead she looked around the murky marshes over which the dirigible now passed. A drop might kill her, depending on the fall and just how marshy the ground below was; too solid and she might snap her neck; too soft and she might drown in quicksand. Ahead, gaslamp flared on the edges of a large dome; an observatory! Lorelle lowered herself down the side of the gasbag, her arms straining with the effort, until the observatory dome came within falling distance. Trusting to God, she let herself fall.

Several hard knocks and a tumble down the observatory’s dome later, Lorelle picked herself up and wiped the worst of the marsh-muck from her body. She still had the rat-sized pickaxe, so she spent a few minutes breaking off the manacles on her wrists and ankles before dragging herself out of the swamp and towards a collection of dank streets and houses on the edge of the marsh.

Lorelle’s first priority was to get out of these rags; they screamed &quotPrisoner&quot to anyone who might look at them. It didn’t take long to spot a mark; a hard-faced woman gathering roots of some sort at the edge of the swamp. A few quick steps, a handy rock to the back of the head and the herbalist was flat on the ground. Lorelle dragged her into an alleyway and divested her of her clothing; a rough gown of surprisingly thick fabric. To her particular surprise, Lorelle also felt something sewn into the hem; a quick examination revealed a magnificently cut if tiny diamond. She tucked the diamond away with a mental note to sell it as soon as possible.

Lorelle headed out into the streets beyond the marsh, looking to figure out her next step, when a bright young voice called out from behind her.

&quotWotcher, mistress!&quot

Lorelle turned to find a young urchin of the Oriental persuasion, somewhat at odds with her thick Cockney accent. A warm smile spread across Lorelle’s face.

&quotAh, Wingdings. I was wondering when my favourite little China doll would show up.&quot

&quotIt’s Huin Jin, mistress,&quot said the urchin with a touch of reproach. &quotAnd I’m not Chinese, I’m-&quot

&quotEnough chatter, Wingdings. Where the devil am I?&quot

&quotWatchmaker’s Hill, mistress, on the edge of Bugsby’s Marshes. Dangerous place, full of monsters crawling in from the marshes.&quot

&quotSounds like my kind of place. Have you settled back in, alright? You were gone three years.&quot

&quotOh, Spite’s still Spite. Silk, stabbings, sh…adows. Drop by if you want to lighten a few pockets sometime.&quot

&quotMaybe later. Right now I need work, and a place to live. And a piece, if you have one.&quot

&quotGot you sorted there, mistress.&quot Wingdings tossed Lorelle a wrapped package. She tore away the wrapping to reveal the most pathetic flintlock she had ever seen.

&quotReally? Really? I don’t think this will even hold together after a shot. For Christ’s sake, the barrel is rusted!&quot

&quotBeggars and choosers, mistress. Or pickpockets and choosers, anyway. I can’t help you with a better weapon, but if you really need an edge go see the spider tamers here in the marshes. A sorrow-spider should set you up a treat.&quot

&quotSorrow spider?&quot Lorelle asked.

&quotNasty things. Climb into your house at night, steal your eyes. Well, usually one eye. Tears from the socket, hence the sorrow, see? Devil in a fight, but I hear they train them for pit fights here. Won a bunch of rostygold on a pit fight once, lost it all on the next one.&quot

&quotNice to see your itinerant gambling is not a new feature, Wingdings.&quot

&quotThanks, mistress. Anyway I hear there’s an attic room going free in Spite, if you can make the rent, and you can always make money here ratting, if nothing else. Tons of rats. Evil little blighters, thieves and murderers the lot.&quot

&quotAbout that. Do all the rats talk down here, or did I just get unlucky?&quot

&quotWhat? Naw, 'course rats talk. Never got why they were so quiet on the Surface, though. Not nearly as chatty as cats, though.&quot

&quotYou’re pulling my leg. Next you’ll be telling me you can strike up casual conversation with a bat.&quot

Wingdings gave Lorelle a look. &quotDon’t be ridiculous. Talking bats? You got some strange ideas, Miss Harker.&quot

&quotNot as strange as you, I promise you. Alright, I should be able to handle things from here. Good luck, and I’ll see you in Spite.&quot

&quotTake care, mistress, and if you need to buy or sell anything go visit the Bazaar. You can’t miss her.&quot Wingdings gestured at the ominous black spires on the horizon, gave a little salute and disappeared into the alleyways of the Hill.

Lorelle watched her go for a moment, then examined the rather pathetic pistol in her hand. Time to find out if she could shoot a barn door with this, let alone a rat…
[li]