The Hunt is On- to Catch a Shade

Fallen London
121

HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T -

Light. Light like the memory inscribed on her skin, the memory of the world before this darkness had become it. Her eyes bathed in white light beneath a blue sky, the air tasting of brine and salt as the ocean waves lapped against the shore. It was a picturesque scene, like one out of a painting or a postcard … though, to be fair, paintings and postcards were all she really had to remember the Surface, wasn’t it? If she closed her eyes, it would feel like … no, home was too strong of a word. It would feel like the past again, when things were simpler, when things were brighter. When she wasn’t trapped in a clockwork city, where pieces moved and all she could do was stand there and push as hard as she could against the tide.

Things had been simpler back then. Perhaps she could’ve lived a simple life, one ignorant of all the wonders she’d seen down here, all the hidden mysteries of the Neath and beautiful secrets found in the darkness. It would’ve been a life bound in its totality by light and law, one where she would’ve stayed bent and bowed … but it might have been a life where she could be happy.

Closing her eyes, she felt the cool breeze rush across her skin, the chirping of birds filling the morning air. She wanted to linger there forever, alone in the nature of the above, beyond the false-stars and dark sky to the memory of a home that never was. But that wasn’t to be. Only a fool would believe they could come to such a place, a paradise found only in song and story. No, this was a memory, that was all, and a false-memory at that, one born from longing and nostalgia. She wouldn’t find that place anywhere the starlight touched.

She lay back with a new weight on her heart. This was but a dream and a dream was fleeting, but she would savor this dream for every moment it afforded her.

Seconds faded into minutes and minutes seemed to fade to hours and days until she next opened her eyes and there was darkness.

Azoth groaned as she sat up from her bedroll, stretching, the Surface-longing still heavy in her heart. I really should visit, just for a day, she thought, still groggy. I hear Naples is nice this time of year. Get out by the Mediterranean, maybe visit the rest of Europe too … maybe Vienna. Always wanted to go there. Just enjoy the sunlight and the stars for a bit before they decide to kill you. Caution had done her good in the Neath. Her face was still an alien one to the Boatman, so as long as she didn’t linger for long, perhaps she’d avoid the consequences of Surface travel. After the hunt, she decided. Once this is over, provided I don’t die first.

Standing, she checked her pocket watch almost on instinct: five in the morning, precisely. Not that it mattered. Her plans for today had definitely been disrupted, but that wasn’t too important. Provided that her associate remained sane and didn’t decide to sell an orphanage’s worth of souls to the devils on a whim, things would be fine. Looking around, Bastet was still sleeping soundly, curled into a ball beside the bedroll. Gently picking her up, Azoth slid the kitten into her pocket and left. This shed was an intriguing place; sure, it was a safe house, but either Gideon was the most paranoid person she knew or he was hiding something.

The Surface could wait. There was fun to be had here.
edited by Azothi on 3/22/2017

122

The Scorched Sailor, perched on a high Watchmaker’s smokestack, drums his new fingers against a chimney, sending small stone chips and clouds of brickdust into the street below. The Clay Scholar might be a maniac but there’s no denying his work is good. A hand that is only slightly less dextrous than its flesh predecessor taps out the beat of patriotic war-hymn that had been popular in Mahogany Hall more years ago than he cares to admit. The pain is gone too, although replaced with an unsettling dysmorphia. Although it responds to his requests, the arm is not his, not really. Rough-hewn and inelegant, the Sailor has done his best to cover the arm up in reams of wrapped bandages, his coat and garments still sliced – as the limb underneath it has latterly been – clean around the elbow. A ribbon of white shale runs from elbow to palm like a vein. He is surprised whenever he sees it.

A low whistle from across the rooftops breaks reverie. “Oi! Mister! Sumfink’s strange, here.” A small urchin has poked his up from a few rooftops over. The Sailor makes his clumsy way across the tiles, wincing every time he hears the shattering of slate on the street below. More often than he would like. He is not as nimble as he was. The urchin regards him with curiosity, and stares without a hint of decorum at his badly disguised arm.

It hadn’t been hard to trace the party after he’d stumbled groggily from the Clay Quarter. Back in Seven Devils Square, stories of the massacre were already taking on the quality of bloodthirsty folklore, and a number of people – most deep in their cups – had been eager to tell him all about the group, bloody and stupid, who had fought the Shadow and limped towards Watchmaker’s Hill. An uneasy clamber to the Watchmaker’s roofs had followed, where he was quickly surrounded by a gaggle of fierce looking urchins bearing the insignia of the Regiment. His rookery password turned out to be a month or two out of date, but his information about a storehouse by the Docks where the Admiralty stores its ordnance was greedily accepted. The Regiment’s cannon is its pride and joy.

Now it looks like his little net of urchin lookouts has paid off. The urchin, managing to look away from the Sailor’s arm, points downward. “Not quite wot’cher asked fer, but mighty odd don’t’cha fink?” Below, a young girl is struggling with an oversized sack, pulling it along the ground behind her as if it contains an anvil. “She ain’t one of ours,” the urchin asserts. “And this time o’ the morning everyone else is usually asleep, drunk or dead.”

The Scorched Sailor nods. He’s been up here a while now, and this is the closest thing to suspicious activity any of the urchins have noticed in the area. Besides, he hates to see a child struggle. “Thank you. Try not to blow yerselves up.” The urchin chuckles, and a number of other small, grubby heads pop out from improbable perches to laugh at him as he makes an inelegant descent back to street level, leaving faint handprint-indentations in a few bricks on his way.

“Worry about yourself, you old sunnelcot!”

Rounding the corner, the Sailor approaches the young girl and does his best not to look threatening. It occurs to him that this is, perhaps, a doomed endeavour. He is bloody, heavily bandaged, his clothes are ripped and torn, there is something quite obviously wrong with one arm, and his unwounded flesh is still… well, hideous. Maybe the smile is not helping.

Still, she has not run away yet, and there is curiosity mingled with the wariness in her look. He gestures to her sack, which looks to contain all manner of improbable and heavy things. Time to see how strong this arm is. “You need a hand?”
edited by Barselaar on 3/22/2017

123

Noah wakes up soaked in sweat, lying mostly next to his bedroll. He feels as though he’d spent the night running or his life, but can’t remember what, exactly, he dreamed of. His nose is full of the earthen smell of the floor he’s had his face against as he pushes himself into a sitting position. He takes the cane-sword from against the wall where he left it, and rummages his pillow, also known as his doctor’s bag, to make sure everything’s still in there. He opens the small box with his tiny friends, and smiles as he hears the quiet buzzing. He gently pours some more honey on the small piece of rag they eat from and tucks them away. Carefully lifting himself up, he heads off towards the washing areas.

Fresh and clean, Noah walks the corridors quietly. He can hardly say he feels good, but walking seems to come a lot easier than he’d expected. Oh sure, he keeps bumping into things and having to stop and correct his direction before hitting a wall, but he’d expected it would take him weeks before he dared take such long strides. Curious but thankful, Noah is considering finding Gideon and asking for coffee, when a voice calls out behind him.

&quot You’re going to break something soon, you know.&quot
Noah freezes up; he hadn’t heard anyone approach, and he’d been listening. &quotI’m sorry. I still have some getting used to all this.&quot

&quotNot that I’d care,&quot the voice continues. &quotBut you humans seem to be obsessed with that kind of stuff.&quot You humans, Noah thinks. Something about the way the voice sounds like it’s not only bored, but wants you to know it’s bored and think that this is probably your fault… &quotMy apologies, sir, but mighty you possibly be a feline?&quot

&quotYou’re a snivelly one, aren’t you?&quot the Ninefold Cat sneers. &quotOf course I am a cat. Do you have somewhere you need to go or are you just trying to see how long it takes until you break something?&quot Noah considers this; the cat seems helpful enough, and he’s really getting sick of the stuffy air of the tunnel, now he thinks of it. &quotCould you lead me up to the shed we arrived through? I would like some fresh air.&quot The cat chuckles. &quotDon’t know how fresh you’ll find the air up there, but sure. Make sure not to step on my tail, though.&quot

The cat leads Noah onwards. Climbing the ladder takes some time, during which the cat deactivates the traps Noah would be most likely to otherwise trip on. How he does this with paws is anyone’s guess. &quotSit here,&quot the cat calls out. &quotThere’s a stool and you can open the window next to it if you want.&quot Noah thanks him and finds the seat he was offered.

The air that greets him from outside is moist and smells of swamp, but also cold and fresh, and goes a long way towards actually waking Noah up. He stays there for a long time, just listening to the cries of bats, the baying of marsh-wolves and the trickle of condensing water dripping from the fungus caps. He feels like he should be terrified, or in anguish over losing his sight, but honestly he’s starting to just feel glad he’s still breathing. That monster would have taken much more from him had the Sailor not stepped in, and now Noah was more aware of the blood that yet pulsed through his veins than he’d ever been. He needs to be careful, to plan things out carefully - maybe fake his death, adopt a new name - but right now, all he feels is a strange calm at having faced death, both razor sharp and jasmin-scented, and yet he lives. Fine. I can’t see, so I’ll listen. I’ll think, I’ll plan, and I’ll get others to carry those plans out. I’ve heard a true player of the Great Game can stop and start wars without ever leaving his chair. Very well! Let’s see how good I am at playing games, then.

A far-away sound of something trudging through the marshes, slowly approaching, brings Noah back to the present. &quotIs that…&quot he begins to ask the cat, who responds &quotYep, people. A man and a girl, the man carrying something big. You know if they’re boss’s friends?&quot Noah considers this. The Sailor was still missing, he’d heard. Hearing the Sailor might be returning should have been disappointing, since the Sailor saving his life left him awkwardly indebted, but curiously all he felt was the lifting of a leaden lump in his stomach he hadn’t even known was there. &quotA member of our team got separated - an old sailor going by the name of Barselaar. He dresses by covering himself in rags so that as little as possible shows, and should be missing an arm. Could you be so kind as to check if it might be him, sir?&quot he pleads his guide. The Ninefold Cat stretches, yawns, and starts making its zig-zagging way towards the approaching shapes.

124

(Co-written with Barselaar)

Jordan had thought she would have been alone and safe at such a late hour of the night, until the Scorched Sailor turned the corner and stopped in front of her. She looks up to the imposing figure with a mixture of awe and weariness. He – she thinks he’s a ‘he’, but she isn’t quite sure – is covered in blood, bandages and tattered clothes, but the bandages around one of his arms are loose and what lies beneath looks more like clay than flesh. Is he one of the Unfinished Men? A shiver runs down her spine: she has heard terrible stories about those who left Polythreme lacking something. Tales that often ended with dead girls. Her eyes dart around in panic: there’s no other people in sight to ask for help, and she knows she is an easy target even with a bag full weapons with her.

The Scorched Sailor doesn’t make any threatening gesture, but rather tries to… smile? Jordan isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be reassuring, but she doesn’t feel reassured at all. She feels tears welling up to her eyes, but she manages to stop them. The sailor points at the heavy bag behind her. “You need help?”

Jordan gapes in surprise. Is he really going to help her? “Y-You’re not going to k-kill me?” she blabbers, immediately turning as reed as a beet. She always ends up saying the stupidest things when she is scared.

The Scorched Sailor looks rueful and ashamed. “No. Why would I? Don’t make a habit o’ killin’ girls on the street.”

“Well, but you’re an Unfinished Man, aren’t you?”

Surprise turns to realisation on the shawled and bandaged face. “Unfinished Man. That’s a new one.” He examines the badly bandaged arm. “It’s… a long story, really. But I’m as human as you are, missy.”

Jordan lets out a sigh of relief. He looks scary, but he isn’t an Unfinished Man, and if he did want to harm her, he would have done it by now. “I-I’m sorry, really. It’s just that… London can be a dangerous place for a girl: you never know who you might run into.” She holds out her hand and smiles. “I’m Jordan, Jordan Farchild.”

The Scorched Sailor shakes the hand lightly, as if he’s worried he might break it – which seems very possible… He says his name, too. It’s somewhat hard to say. “Barsal– Barzeel-” Jordan frowns. She cannot say it right. She gives him a sheepish smile. “Can I call you Bart?”

The Sailor looks down at her hopeful face, flustered. Most people take a lot more convincing of his good intentions, and even then regard him with suspicion and disgust, as if appearances are indicative of some deeper-seated evil. But he sees nothing in Jordan’s face but sincerity and worry, as if scared her choice of nickname might cause offense. He thinks better of attempting another reassuring smile. “Bart will do just fine.”

“Well, I’m in a bit of a pickle here, so I could really use your help, Bartie. I need to get this bag to Randy, who’s somewhere in Watchmaker’s Hill. I have a map, look.” Jordan takes out her map and hands it to the Scorched Sailor. It’s little more than a few crudely drawn landmarks joined by a dashed line. The line ends in a huge X with ‘Randy!’ written next to it.

The sailor looks at it with a frown. As far as maps go, it’s extremely poor, but he’s found his way to port at zee with less. Reorienting it a few times, he squints at the end of the street. “Well, this won’t be easy, but I might have an idea of where your friend is.”

§§§

Lyndon idly wonders whether or not he got his priorities straight as he slowly makes his way towards the wine cellar. He knows he reeks horribly and looks worse, but taking a bath without clean clothes would just be wasted effort. He can only hope that bat isn’t a slacker. He grins. A drink will make the wait more enjoyable.

The corridor becomes a bit cooler as he approaches the stairs. He can already smell a faint, but unmistakable aroma of mushroom vintage. It seems that the cat’s instructions are quite precise. Good news, finally.

As he descends the stairs, Lyndon hears some noises coming from the cellar. It looks like he’ll have to share. Fair enough, he didn’t plan to drink the whole cellar by himself anyway, and wine will make whatever company expects him there more bearable.

He arrives just in time to see a bandaged man – one he had never seen before – snatch a cup from Dynamo’s hands and empty it in one gulp. The fellow manages to remark the quality and strength of his drink before passing out.

“Well, I did come looking for a stiff drink, but I might want to pass on whatever he took.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/22/2017

125

For many hours, Phryne wandered the tunnels of Gideon Stormstriders &quotresearch facility&quot. She was careful not to touch anything that looked like it shouldn’t be touched, but she did poke her nose into every nook and cranny. She met a lot of cats, who all looked the same.

When the members of the Hunting party awoke one after another, she kept herself apart, leaving the main tunnels ever further behind. She did run into Drake Dynamo once, the man who looked like the twin of the thing she had fought the night before. She considered him for a while, but just when she was about to say hello, he moved on, looking unnerved. Oh yes, she remembered now: it wasn’t considered polite to stare at someone like they were an interesting, rare specimen in an exhibition.

She also came to a locked and bolted door which she pondered for many minutes, quite intrigued, but she did not try to open it. She was a guest here, after all, and she had not yet forgotten all her manners.

Her mind was mostly elsewhere though. Something was bothering her: a physical sense of tiredness, of depletion. She felt like she was running out of energy, which was really quite surprising considering her body was already dead.

Energy. There was a lot of that, down here. Forms of energy that only existed in the Neath: the Light of the Mountain, the Irrigo of the Nadir, the Chaos of the Iron Republic.

Nobody really understood any of these forces. Maybe no one ever would. But as ever and always, humans had begun to work with them, to try and fashion them into new forces they understood even less. Hesperidean Cider. The Shrines of St Joshua. The Dawn Machine.

There is something here.

I don’t care. Leave me alone.

The voices inside her head had been silent since Seven Devils square. She was not keen to welcome them back, especially not this one. It had a particularly persuasive quality which she found hard to ignore. It seemed to know things.

I can help you. If only you’d let me…

Well, look at the last time you ‘helped’ me. How did that turn out? I’m glad I didn’t kill someone. Again. Also, I think the Mountain-Blood—or the particular mixture running through the Shade’s veins—didn’t agree with me. It is sucking… whatever holds me together out of me. I feel… more human. Which may not be a good thing in my current situation.

Take the left there.

Why?

There is… something that might help you.

Who are you, anyway?

I am in your head, who should I be? I am you.

Indeed? And who am I?

You are you, too. All of us, we’re you. When will you accept that?

She then came to a small room at the end of a long and dark tunnel. Indeed, it was utterly dark there, but to her dead eyes it was clear as day. The room was a jumble of boxes and abandoned things, both mundane and esoteric. Gideon’s junk room, apparently.


he sun the sun the sun the sun the sun the sun t


Do you feel it?

Yes. There, on the lowest shelf.

Such a small thing, but so powerful.

Even from here, I can feel its madness. Its hatred. I don’t want this.

Together, we can deal with it.

Slowly, Phryne bowed down and took the battered, dusty cargo box from the shelf. She briefly wondered how Mr Stormstrider might have come upon it. A New Sequencer would treat it as a holy artifact, a piece of his living god, like the Southerners treated Mountain-Shards. But here it was, stored away—or hidden away?

She blew the dust off the lid and opened the box. Bright light flooded the cluttered chamber, and some of the tunnel outside.


HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T

Such a small thing, but so powerful…

This should keep us going for a while. Long enough to deal with this Shade-abomination, if we’re lucky.

Lucky… she couldn’t help but smile at hearing that word, again. She was quite sure she once knew what it meant.

Phryne Amarantyne opened her mouth, far wider than any human being should be able to, and swallowed the Element of Dawn whole. What was one more voice inside her head?
edited by phryne on 3/22/2017

126

(Co-written with Barselaar and John Moose)

Jordan slowly trudges along the muddy path following the Scorched Sailor’s lead. Even with Bart carrying the bag, the road is still hard on her feet. Maybe she should have worn more comfortable shoes. Her guide suddenly stops. “This should be the place, Jordan.”

Jordan squints. There’s nothing in sight except a small mound covered in fungi. “Are you sure, Bart? Randy wrote he’s in a safehouse. This doesn’t look like a house. And it doesn’t look very safe.”

The Scorched Sailor nods solemnly. “Aye, I’m sure. That, or your map’s wrong.”
Jordan makes an embarrassed smile. She wonders if maybe she hasn’t drawn the bat’s directions correctly. Well, she should have gotten most of them right. She thinks. “That… that could be.”

As they look towards the mound, they notice something small approaching from its direction. The shape turns out to be a black cat, walking from left to right, sometimes back towards the mound, but slowly making its way toward the travellers. As it gets close, it sits down and takes turns between looking at the pair with an expression of mild interest and washing itself. Before the two say anything, however, it breaks the silence by asking “Hey big guy, what’s your name?”

Rather taken aback by the cat’s forwardness, the Scorched Sailor simply answers. “Captain,” he adds as an afterthought. “Helpin’ the girl with a delivery.” He hefts the bag with his new hand, and the sack clanks and crashes in an alarming manner.

“Well then you’d better follow me, hadn’t you. Don’t step where I haven’t or you’ll blow up, see if you don’t.” The cat starts making its way back to the mound, in the same winding pattern as before, with Jordan and the Sailor following it as best as they can. Following his advice is made slightly difficult due to his paws being the size of the Sailor’s big toes, but in the end they manage not to explode.

Jordan looks up to Bart with an unexpressed question in her eyes. What’s going on here? She’s supposed to meet Randy, but the cat let them in without her even telling his name. Does he know Randy, too? The Scorched Sailor shakes his head. That is a question that is better left for later.

As they arrive, they see the mound is actually a very old and dilapidated shack. A young man with messy dark hair, a white wooden cane and oversized clothes stands at the doorway. “Captain Barselaar? That is you? …I am glad to find you alive. How is the wound? Did you receive care? We have your arm, but I doubt attaching is even remotely possible anymore…” Noah gulps visibly, looking uneasy. The two notice the blurry texture of his eyes, and that he isn’t looking at them, but somewhere next to their feet without turning his gaze at all. “I… Thank you. Sir, without you, I doubt I would be alive today. I promise I will do all I can to help you, and… Well, if you ever need a favour, I believe I owe you rather many.” An uneasy smile flashes on Noah’s lips, but his eyes remain unfocused. Instead, he seems to be turning his left ear towards the Sailor and Jordan.

The Scorched Sailor grunts. ”Yeah, ‘m alive. Arm hurt like the Cantigaster had at it.” He fights the urge to snap at Noah - fat lotta help you were - but the man has clearly sustained his own injuries, ones perhaps irreparable. “Thanks, but don’t need favours. Need to be not dyin’.” He looks around the dilapidated exterior. “This where you all holed up?”

“Yes, Gideon had a hideout handy. I’ll show you in, the rest are recovering downstairs. Do be careful, mind, I think the place has more boobytraps than the Masters’ towers. The cat is a good guide, though.”

Jordan has listened to the two men without really understanding much. They were in a fight together, maybe? In any other moment she would be glad to know more, but she has a big problem right now. She tugs the blind man’s sleeve. “Sorry, sir. Do you know Randy, maybe?”

Noah bends towards Jordan and smiles. “We might, miss. There’s rather many people here, actually. Could you describe Randy to me?”

“Like, how does he look like?” Jordan’s expression becomes thoughtful. She raises a hand above her head, roughly at the level of the Scorched Sailor’s shoulder. “He’s this tall, more or less. He has brown hair, but he usually wears a cap, so I don’t know if that helps. Oh, yes. He’s, like, suuuupeeeer grumpy all the time, and he doesn’t like to talk to people much. And he has a sword!” Jordan smiles, quite proud of her thorough description.

Noah turns in the general direction of the Sailor. “What do you think? Lyndon, maybe? Or Henchard…?”

The Sailor shakes his head in disbelief. Madmen in the street preach about how accidents don’t exist, how chance is another name for inevitability, and right now he’s inclined to agree. He wonders whether fate is after his death or whether he has a more productive part to play this time. “Noah’s right, it must be one of them. I expect your Randy is inside, lass. Looks like we were both headed the same way after all.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/25/2017

127

Phryne Amarantye reclines on a bedroll, glowing softly from within, smiling like a Cheshire cat on opium, and showing a quite indecent amount of leg.

Everything is wonderful. Everything is just dandy. And even more important, for the first time in her life, everything is totally, absolutely clear.

She is not just feeling well, she is feeling—yes, ‘orgastic’ sounds about right.

The voices in her head are finally stilled, drowned out by THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN

All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Especially for her. She just knows it.

Energy, yes. The kind that could fuel but also destroy you. Never mind the missing heart—soon, she’ll have no organs left at all: the Element of Dawn is burning her up inside, her skin like a papier-mâché housing for her soul. Or the thin crust of the Earth enclosing the undying fires inside it. The sheer unlikelihood of her existence makes her giggle. The true child of the Iron Republic, how many Laws has she broken by now?

But never mind that, either. Soon, she’ll be done with this body for good. Not with the Law-breaking though. Oh no, far from it.

She has found that absolute certainty that only being one with a god can provide—even if it’s just a mechanical god. Far to the South, she can sense the Dawn Machine crying out towards hE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN TH

Oh yes, surely her soul would feed it well. But she has other plans, thank you very much. After all, if you could become one with a god, what’s stopping you from becoming one yourself?

Speaking of plans… Slowly, she gets up and makes her way to the hideout’s bathroom facilities, softly humming along tHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T

Once there, she turns on all the hot water faucets, and waits.

The irony does not escape her. Having left the ‘Great Game’ disdainfully behind, she has joined a greater one. And she was going to win, too; oh yes, make no mistake. If she could destroy, or hurt, this ‘Shade’ thing along the way, all the better. But it didn’t really matter now. Had people not always accused her of being a tad egotistical? Well, for once she was not going to disagree.

When the bathroom mirror is all steamed up, she writes a message on it, in reverse. Then she waits some more.

After a while, a vague shape materializes on the other side of the mirror. A hand becomes distinct, writing an answer below her own message—in reverse, so Phryne can read it. She smiles and quickly adds a few more words of her own, then wipes everything away.

It’s so good to have friends.

Hours later, the shape housing Phryne Amarantyne’s soul is still dancing through the tunnels of the hideout. Maybe she’ll compose another opera when this is over. That tune was just sUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE S
edited by phryne on 3/25/2017

128

Lyndon is still appraising the quality of the dubious liquid his host has generously poured in his glass when a delighted cry echoes in the cellar.

“Randy!”

Lyndon manages to do a half-turn towards the source of the noise before he’s hit by something that envelops him in a hug. The sudden contact makes his wounds explode with renewed pain. He looks down at the small girl clinging to him with the same look he would usually give to a particularly slimy Rubbery Man. The kid looks up to him and smiles in blissful ignorance of his shock.

WHAT!?!
No.
Not the kid.
Not here.
Not the kid here.

Lyndon opens and closes his mouth repeatedly in a poor imitation of a fish. He can feel the curious stares focused on him. He can feel the blood rushing to his face and make it an embarrassing shade of red. However, his mind seems unable to articulate any meaningful sound. An awkward silence lingers in the cellar for a moment.

“What the h__l?” cries the Sergeant, as soon as he manages to regain a measure of self control. “What the h__l are you doing here, kid?”

The kid lets go of him immediately, as if he was covered in spikes all of a sudden. She pouts and hands him a crumbled piece of paper. “No fair! You asked me to come, Randy.”

Lyndon accepts the note with a look of horror on his face. He doesn’t need to open it to know what that is. He also realizes that he should have seen this coming, considering how nosy and meddling the kid is. He makes a mental note to strangle the particular bat responsible for this should he run into it again. “You know that… this wasn’t meant for you, right?”

“Yeah, but there was no one else home, and it sounded urgent. What was I supposed to do?”

“Anything that wasn’t coming here on your own and without what I asked for would have been great.” snorts Lyndon. “I swear to Stone, you should be dead by now. How did you even manage to get this far?”

Obviously, the kid is all teary-eyed at this point, and she’s about to cry. However, Lyndon’s frown doesn’t mellow. “T-That’s not true! I-I was with Bart, and I brought everything with me! Even more than what you asked! Guns, knives, swords… I took everything I could! It’s all in a big bag, and Bart’s carrying it.”

Lyndon is about to cry he doesn’t know any Bart and wonder how could she be so foolish to ransack his armory only to give it to a complete stranger, when the shambling figure of the zailor enters the cellar, carrying a huge bag in his hand.

Lyndon knows that the situation warrants a clever quip, but he cannot think of anything but obvious platitudes. He settles for the least meaningful one. “Oh. Fancy meeting you here.” he extends his free hand. “Now hand over my belongings.”
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/28/2017

129

&quotGlad yer not dead too, Sergeant.&quot The Sailor hefts the bag and gets a grim satisfaction from watching Lyndon register, in sequence, the arm, the clay and the apparent ease with which it lifts the clanking sack. &quotSounds like you got a lotta stuff in here. Sent this poor young lass across half o’ London, luggin’ this behind her. Let’s hope it’s good.&quot He tosses the bag to the floor at Lyndon’s feet.

The Sailor looks around at the assembled faces, ranging variously from shock to puzzlement to curiosity. &quotThanks fer waiting up. Don’t spose you killed the b_st__d after it…?&quot he wiggles stony fingers. A glance around the room confirms that no, they did not. &quotShoulda gone back to the Reck,&quot he mutters to himself, before swiping a drink - with his real hand - from the Sergeant and sagging against a wall. He downs the drink - whatever it is, he doesn’t care - in one long, inelegant draught.

To Jordan, who still looks rather lost and on the verge of tears, he now turns and crouches so that the two are face to face. &quotWe found him, lass! You did good. Brave, gettin’ all the way here with -&quot a gesture to the bag &quot-all that stuff. But you look after yerself, you hear? Especially around… Randy.&quot
edited by Barselaar on 3/27/2017

130

Gideon untangles himself from the collapsed step-ladder, looking around to see if the hangover cure jar is intact. It seems to be getting quite crowded down in the cellar now. So much for all his fine vintages. The place may well be stripped bare by noon.

His head is throbbing, and there are some alarming bruise-like colours creeping across his vision. Perhaps he hit his head on the way down. He very much hopes he hasn’t suffered any brain damage.

COULD ANYONE TELL THE DIFFERENCE? mutters Voice 2. Since its natural tone of voice is roughly the same volume as a foghorn, it’s still louder than most people’s shouts, but it’s an improvement.

He leaps upright and shuffles over to Sergeant Lyndon. The man seems to be pouring out the jar of hangover cure into a glass! “No, no, that’s not how it works at all!” says Gideon, snatching the jar and glass from him. “This is for afterwards - you can’t cure a hangover that you don’t have yet!”

He pauses, struck by a thought. “Actually, I may need to do some more research into that.”

There seems to be a small girl standing next to the Sergeant. A child? In here? Surely he would have remembered one coming in with them. Unless something has gone terribly wrong with the Tyrannical Timepiece, and this is actually Emma… no, she’s just over there. Of course.

The girl looks at him sullenly with teary eyes. Gideon smiles, and holds up a finger in mime – hold on a moment – as he rummages through his coat.

His clenched hand comes out of the pocket, glowing blue from within. “Hold out your hand,” Gideon says. The girl frowns, but does so after a moment. Gideon reaches out and opens his hand, dropping a small faceted stone into her palm. Its soft blue radiance lights up her face, and she looks down at it, confused.

“It’s a piece of a false-star,” he says. “Or, at least, something very powerful and ancient. Think of it as a good-luck charm. Or, if you’re not one for trinkets, it’d probably fetch a pretty penny on the Spite markets. Either way, it’s yours now. Do what you want with it.”

The girl frowns, but she no longer seems to be on the verge of tears. Gideon looks up, hearing his name called by Emma.

“A communications system? Well, I suppose I have something like that, although he tends to be rather temperamental. He’s fond of fish, though.”

Gideon removes a tin of sardines from another coat pocket. He opens it with a curious red contraption resembling a knife-handle; it seems to contain an arbitrary amount of useful tools, including corkscrews, pliers and, appropriately enough, knives.

A few moments after he lays the sardine tin down on the floor, the Ninefold Cat slinks out of the shadows and begins eating from it. Gideon holds up a hand to forestall any protests from Emma and lets the cat finish his meal before speaking to him.

“Would you mind sending some of yourselves to inform the rest of our guests that we’ll be convening in the Scheming Chamber in ten minutes?”

The cat turns his head as if looking at something nobody else can see, and nods curtly. “Done.”

“And try not to scratch them too much.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Gideon pops open another sardine tin, and the Ninefold Cat returns to his feast. Elsewhere in the tunnels, his other selves head out to give the remaining party members a potentially rude awakening.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/27/2017

131

Mr. Hamilton groggily stumbles to the rest of the party and sits down in a chair, then looks up at the rest of them, waiting for further instructions.

132

&quotYou. Yes you. Wake up already!&quot Evensong blinks at the ginger cat sitting on her chest and glaring down at her. She rubs all the dreams of jungles and zee voyages away from her eyes and wonders when she got so lax. Her family had words for when you grow lax - most of them were just synonyms for dead. Well, if today (or maybe it was the same day. . .) was anything like yesterday, her heavy sleeping wasn’t going to kill her.

With some not very gentle prodding, Dirae Erinyes was stirred from their near death slumber, with a course of static electricity that sent the Nine Fold Cat off yowling, and simply made Evensong’s face itch. They still needed a shower, but Evensong wasn’t sure if she trusted Gideon’s showers, no matter how much blood Dirae Erinyes stank off.

Having recovered it’s dignity, the cat summoned the two’s attention back to it, with an angry swish of it’s tail and inpatient &quotReady?&quot Evensong nods, wishing for tea. Dirae Erinyes nods, fingers still massaging the new stitches on their arm. &quotI will have to be your guide, because you would get lost otherwise, since nobody here believes in a sensible layout.&quot With the last flick of it’s tail, it disappeared into the long and strangely angled hallway to the Strategy Room.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/27/2017

133

The lights were dead. Nothing Azoth tried did anything. Lighting a fire gave no light, though the heat radiated as usual. Burning beeswax left nothing but a rather annoying smell in the air. Even captured irrigo refused to shine, leaving no trace anywhere, or perhaps she’d merely forgotten if it had. Either way, it was useless.

Bastet whimpered. She’d never been in total darkness, not like this. In the Neath, there’d always been the false-stars or a stray candle or something for her eyes to capture. Here there was nothing. &quotThis isn’t right,&quot she whispered, a hint of panic entering her voice. &quotNo place should ever be this dark. We need to go back.&quot

&quotCalm down,&quot Azoth replied. &quotIt’s just shadows.&quot

&quotShadows need light,&quot Bastet protested. &quotThis is just -&quot

&quotYou know what I meant,&quot Azoth interjected, pressing forward, her right hand (the more useless of the two) firmly pressed against the wall. If there was a room to enter, she’d find it, and if there was a way out of this darkness, she’d reach there eventually. But this was a matter too intriguing to let go. An entire hall shrouded in Unclearness … or did they just call it darkness? The semantics escaped her; the University hadn’t cared for her previous inquiries into the topic and her revolutionary acquaintances were tight-lipped about their research.

It was a curiosity, indeed. Still, there was -

&quotI thought one of you’d found your way down here.&quot

A cat, Azoth thought. In the darkness, it was hard to tell, but the voice had come from far too close to the ground to be human. If it was here, it was likely Gideon’s, which would make it a friend, or at the very least not hostile. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm to wait and see. Not stopping, she continued to move. The cat had her scent; he could track her. Still, why not see if he let anything slip while annoyed.


&quotReally?&quot the cat sighed. &quotYou apes really make life difficult, you know?&quot By the sound of his voice, Azoth could tell he was moving, stepping from side to side, following right behind her. &quotAnd your kitten really needs to take a bath. She smells like an urchin dropped into a Relicker’s scrap heap collected from the Young Stag’s Club.&quot

&quotHey!&quot Bastet protested. Azoth only sighed.

&quotAnyway, have a nice day,&quot the cat continued. &quotIf you ever find your way out of here, you can join your little friends in the Scheming Chamber. Not that you’ll make it on time. You probably have … let’s see … five minutes or so, and no time travel allowed. Not that you’d know how to do that.&quot It stopped at that point and Azoth assumed it was leaving the way it came. She turned around too, a map of the tunnels forming in her mind. She could probably make it if she ran. And if she didn’t run into any walls.

&quotYou have a nice day too.&quot

134

Gideon leads the way, marching through the tunnels. Their path twists and turns, occasionally turning back on itself or taking unexplained detours, but he never falters. Finally, they reach the depths of the tunnels, where the constant chugging of the monstrous steam-engine thrums through the air. The machine spins and writhes like a creature of iron and flame. The noise is pervasive and devastating. The boilers spew heat through their grilles, making the room uncomfortably hot; the steam from the engines escapes through some unseen vent.

“I’d stand well back if I were you,” he says. Then he snaps on his welding goggles and sets to work.

Gideon dances around the machine in an arcane ritual, spinning wheels and pulling levers seemingly at random. Terrible groaning sounds reminiscent of speech echo through the chamber. Previously unseen Correspondence sigils on the chaotic orgy of moving parts flare to life. The vents are no longer enough; steam begins to fill the room, rolling across the ceiling like clouds on the Surface.

The terrible machine pumps ever faster, flywheels spinning madly, its piston-limbs trailing fiery Correspondence after-images. Gideon yelps as he touches a hot surface, spinning around precipitously and narrowly avoiding falling into the crushing mechanisms. He pulls a bandage from his pocket, wraps his burnt hand and continues the work.

It must have only been a minute or two, but every second seems to stretch endlessly in the inescapable heat. The machine begins to slow; the boilers burn down. Gideon dances over to a small slot in what looks like a barrel fitted with velocipede wheels. With a clatter, something small and spherical falls out of the slot into Gideon’s hands. For a moment, he stares at the metal sphere on his palms as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Then he stands up.

“We’ll need this. The Paradox Engine may make a hell of a noise, but it churns out impossibilities like nobody’s business.”

Gideon looks at the others, who mostly seem to be in various states of shock and confusion. The Scorched Sailor is unreadable as always, and Lady Orosenn seems utterly bored by the whole spectacle.

“Come along now; we don’t have all night! Or is it day now? I tend to lose track of these things.”

Off they go again through the tunnels. Down this deep, they cut directly into bedrock. Strata of debris from older Cities run across the walls.

Gideon rounds a corner and the corridor abruptly ends in a large brass door that wouldn’t look out of place in a bank vault. It is pristine and gleaming, out of place in the rough-walled stone tunnel. Bolts run down the sides; a large wheel in the centre serves as a door-handle. This door is the very picture of impregnability.

He turns to the very small wooden door to the left of it, fishes a key from his coat to open it, then beckons everyone inside.

“Wait, what about the other door?” someone says.

“That’s a broom cupboard.” Gideon ducks low through the tiny wooden door and enters the Scheming Chamber.

The Chamber is a low-ceilinged bunker-like room dominated by a long varnished wooden table. A tangle of pipes snake across the ceiling. A small furnace-like machine with two taps protruding from it lurks in one corner.

When the furnace is lit and the boiler filled with water from one of the many mysterious pipes, the taps produce passable tea and coffee. The table is stacked with illegible notes in many different hands and littered with discarded cups and saucers – coffee is, after all, the fuel of progress.

A motley assortment of chairs huddles around the table – not quite enough for everyone, by Gideon’s count. Seated at the far end is the young lady who showed up unexpectedly earlier – Phryne; that was her name. As the group enters, she looks up at them and smiles unnervingly, glowing softly from within.

That one could be a problem, says Voice 3.
edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/27/2017

135

Normally, Lady Orosenn would not mind standing through the meeting, but this room is so low that the idea is completely out of the question. She snatches the two next best chairs and moves them some way apart from the rest of the group, most of whom are hesitating—torn between the allure of coffee/tea and wanting to save a chair, no doubt. Well, Emma won’t need one anyway, as leader of the party she’ll stand up front. Now, for the coffee…

At this moment, the mysterious woman—what was her name again?—with the kitten enters the Scheming Chamber, fashionably late. Where had she been snooping around? No matter: Azoth, yes, that was her name.

&quotAzoth,&quot she calls over, &quotI’ll save you this chair if you provide both of us with coffee. Deal?&quot Azoth nods, and Lady Orosenn winks at her. Good thing some people in this party were quick thinkers.

She suspects that she’s going to need a lot of coffee to stay awake during the impending bickering and squabbling. Hopefully, Emma would be able to cope. Otherwise, she might actually have to speak up herself… Ah, here’s Azoth with the coffee!

&quotThank you, lass. Can’t say I’m looking forward to this very much. I wager it won’t be five minutes before all the boys are shouting at and over each other. It will fall to us ladies to keep a cool head here.&quot

Only now does she realize the presence of the weird monster-woman. Well, she seems to be doing all right… wait, is she glowing?
edited by phryne on 4/2/2017

136

Henchard lay slumped over against a wall. His eyes fluttered as he struggled to fall asleep. It seemed the rest of the group couldn’t keep quiet for five seconds, always throwing something to the ground, or bursting into an argument, stomping their way down the corridor to their big fat room, or starting construction work because even that fat room couldn’t fit some of their egos.

His breath hitched, and he exhaled.  God d__m concussion.  He hoped a doctor or something would take a look at him soon.  Be annoyed this easily was bloody annoying.

And another thing!  Why did he have the zailor’s arm with him?  It was wrapped in rags beside him, oozing a strange substance.  If the man hadn’t seemed sane, Henchard would almost accuse him of being a seeker.  A snuffer perhaps?  Someone would need to keep an eye on him to make sure.

Henchard’s molasses thoughts were cut short by a quick tapping coming down the corridor.  Questions' curls floated in front of his face, writhing like a snake.  He blinked, bringing it into focus.

The question marks disappeared as the two ginger cats sat down.  Henchard stared at them for a moment, smugness overlapping smugness.  He focused, the cats colliding until they were one.  That one bit him.

“Are you gonna stare, or are you actually good for something?  Your friends are having a meeting, and of course, I have to escort you to it.”  This cat was not helping his head, and he tuned out the rest of it.

Henchard slowly stood up, ignoring the cat’s cries of “Good lord, the ape can move!”  Should he bring the arm?  He hesitated (“Are you gonna eat that?” the cat said).  He decided to take it with him.  Probably give it to Drake, he seemed to know the zailor, perhaps he could return it.

“Shall we go?” he asked the cat, who turned and walked away, thankfully silent.  Henchard followed.
137

Jordan dashes inside the Scheming Chamber, leaving Randy lagging behind in the corridor with his heavy bag. He shouts something about not causing any trouble, but she doesn’t listen to him: he can be such a stick-in-the-mud sometimes. Actually, he’s like that all the time.

The room isn’t too big and the ceiling is quite low: if she stretches her arms on the tip of her toes, she can almost touch it. A large wooden table and some chairs are placed in the middle of the room and some people have already taken a seat: a smiling woman who glows softly like a firefly, another one who is almost as tall as the room even when seated, a beautiful lady, and two gentlemen.

Jordan is about to take a seat herself, when she sees something that makes her forget everything about that: in a corner of the room, a hooded figure is operating a large machine. The contraption whirrs and snorts loudly, then it coughs out a steaming hot dark liquid. A faint smell of coffee fills the air. The shadowy person fills two cups and heads towards the table, leaving the machine free.

Jordan takes place before the mechanism and starts to experiment with it, imitating the movements of the nice gentleman who operated the far lager machine in the other room. The results are quite bizarre: Jordan jumps around the small furnace spinning all the wheels she can reach, and pulling everything that even remotely looks like a lever. She flourishes the procedure with a lot of unnecessary jumps and spins to avoid flywheels that aren’t there and jets of steam that the machine isn’t likely to produce. When the furnace finally lets out some liquid, the girl squeals in delight.

She’s about to fetch a cup, when a hand reaches for a wheel just above her head and stops the flow of coffee before it goes out of control. She turns to meet Randy’s cold, disapproving glare. “I think I told you not to touch anything here. Salt knows what half of these things do. Most of them seem more likely to blow up than anything else.” He points at an empty chair. “Go take a seat.”

Jordan pouts, but she doesn’t complain and sits on one of the few empty chairs left.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/28/2017

138

Timmel Orosenn frowns at Emma’s near-panic. She looks over at Phryne and shrugs. &quotI don’t know anything about her. Yes, she glows. And she seems… drugged. Maybe Gideon or one of the doctors gave her something? I have no idea what any of the others were doing while we were… busy.&quot She smiles a little and puts a hand on Emma’s shoulder, briefly. &quotIf she’s spying on you, we can worry about that later. Now calm down, I’ll keep an eye on her. She saved my life, remember? All our lives, probably. Look, she’s talking to your brother. Why don’t you ask him what he thinks of her?&quot

Phryne had not realized the room was full of people until Drake started talking to her. In her head, glass orchestras are playing symphonies no human mind could endure. Slowly, she becomes aware of her surroundings again, and finally focuses her golden eyes on Drake.

&quotOh, Mr Dynamo! Yes, we… met earlier, didn’t we? No need to answer, I know we did. I’m sorry if I seemed… unapproachable.&quot She laughs; the nervous laugh of a debutante suspecting her jokes aren’t really funny. &quotI have… rather a lot on my mind, you might say. Yes, you might. Or I might. Or not. But I did say it already, so there you go.&quot She giggles like a little girl and waves away the Cider. &quotThank you terribly much, but I think I shall pass on that. You see, I’m quite beyond any state where it could help me, and I rather fear it might do me no end of no good instead.&quot She leans closer and whispers confidentially, &quotYou must understand, I’m in rather… unusual… circumstances right now. Yes, very unusual. Medically, psychologically, philosophically, and theologically. Especially the latter.&quot She giggles again. &quotWhat I mean to say is: I’m not really here. But don’t worry! That doesn’t mean you’re crazy. No, no, it’s me who’s crazy. Utterly.&quot She leans back, smiling her creepy all-is-well-and-all-manner-of-thing-shall-be-well-smile again. Apparently, she’s very satisfied with her soliloquy.

Drake, however, whose face has taken on a mien of increasing befuddledness, looks over to his sister in a silent cry of desperation. What have we gotten into now?

He jerks when Phryne speaks again, unexpectedly. &quotSay… that woman over there. Yes, the one you’re looking at. Why does she hide an Element of Dawn in her boot-heel?&quot

Now, now, little Phryne, don’t be greedy…
edited by phryne on 4/2/2017

139

Edward is woken from his dreams of large monsters and Egyptian mythology when he feels something leap onto his chest. He looks up and sees a cat sitting there, &quotHello there! How are you today?&quot he asks cheerily. The cat glares at him and tells him &quotI’m supposed to escort you to the rest of the group, follow me&quot. Edward get up and follows the cat, trying to teach it about manners along the way.

When they get to the room, Edward looks around the room and notices that the zailor is back, and a small girl, possibly an urchin, is walking to an empty seat. Edward goes to the coffee machine gets a cup full of whatever is coming out, it doesn’t exactly taste like coffee or tea. Then seeing that there are no more chairs left, he produces a small cushion out of his rat-skin coat, places it on the ground, and sits down on it. He then waits for something to happen.

140

Noah follows the others through a door, and as the steps spread out and chairs creak, Noah hangs back and leans against the wall next to their entrance. The small squabble would hardly get any better from him swinging around with his cane looking for a chair, and remaining close to the exit is always a comfortable position for him. He leans with his lower back against the wall and his hands against the cane, and listens.

The sounds are of the kind of general babble one expects in a meeting: chairs moved, quiet remarks, the whirr of a machine followed by the sergeant chastising the young girl who brought their new armament. There is talking, walking, breathing, rustling of clothes, clinking of coffee cups, someone sitting on something soft on the ground. Noah has a pretty good idea of where everyone is and what the room’s like. He frowns as Drake offers someone Cider in a talking voice. No one’s sitting with him yet, are they?
&quotOh, Mr Dynamo!&quot
Oh. Someone was already in the room when they entered, it seems. He can’t quite place her voice, maybe a friend of Gideon’s or
They brought it here.

His heart skips a beat. It looks like a human now so they brought it here and Drake’s having a CONVERSATION WITH IT. His knuckles whiten on the cane.
Noah struggles to keep his breathing regular. Well, he’s far from it right now, there’s people in between. If it wanted to kill them, it would have done so at night when they were oh my god we SLEPT around that sleeping, so a panic now would probably do no good. He pricks his ears, and listens. Its talking makes no sense for now, which makes sense. Listen. Learn. Stay close to the door.