The lady sitting in the back of the room wears robes in various toned-down shades of irrigo - but even toned down, they made the other people in the room forget she was there for a while. So everyone’s quite startled when she suddenly speaks up:
"Delightful. Absolutely delightful." She tucks away a pencil and a small notebook. "I, too, have a story to tell."
The room is absolutely quiet. Midnighters are known to collect secrets like magpies collect shiny things, but - just as magpies - they’re also notoriously unwilling to share their treasures.
"This is no orphanage, but aren’t we all orphans down here, in some sense? I’m taking a more liberal approach to St Joshua’s traditions, anyway. Screw tradition, that’s my motto." She smiles, her violet eyes blazing.
"I was one of those tankards of rum, only recently," she says, nodding in Drake’s direction, "another governor of Port Carnelian. Like you, I undertook an expedition into the interior of the Elder Continent. You see, an old storyteller in Apis Meet once told me of a fallen statue in the wilderness - somewhere far east, between the Mountain and Varchas. The description of that statue has found its way to my dreams, haunting my waking hours also, and I’d always hoped to find it mentioned somewhere. So, during my governorship all ships anchoring in the port could bypass the heaviest taxes if they gave complete accounts of their travels - everyone on board, from the Captain to the lowest zailor was questioned. I had the Percipient Secretary forward these accounts to me daily.
"One particularly hot day, when I was sitting in my office almost bored out of my mind, every tale I read more insane than the last one, I finally found what I was looking for: a rusty tramp steamer’s gunnery officer was once part of a runaway band of pirates from Khan’s Shadow who were fed up with zee-life and had actually tried to build a permanent settlement at Point Livingston. It hadn’t gone well for them, let’s keep it at that - the gunnery officer was the only survivor. But she had seen a fallen statue just like the one I was looking for, not very far from the coast. I immediately bought her out of her contract with the steamer’s captain and made her a government agent. Then I put together an expedition including Clay Man labourers and an official representative of the Mithridate Office - I’d told them just enough for them to become interested. I also invited some mycologists and cryptozoologists from Benthic College, who happened to be there at the time, to come along. I left the Percipient Secretary in charge - I think if anyone can really be said to rule that place, it’s her anyway.
"Since the expedition was funded by two governments - London and the Presbyterate - money wasn’t a problem and we soon left port on a good ship and made our way east, to Apis Meet and further. We anchored at Point Livingston and soon found the sad remains of the pirates’ attempt at a settlement. We then followed the gunnery officer’s lead inland - she’s an old London street urchin, by the way, from the Knotted Sock. We became fast friends, of course." She smiles. Phryne Amarantyne’s close ties to the city’s urchins are well known to everyone. "After three days without major incidents, we reached the place we were looking for. The statue was still there, and it looked exactly like she’d described it. It was almost 12 foot tall; but four Clay Men had no problems in putting it upright again. Upright, for the first time since who knows how long." She pauses, not smiling any more.
"It was draconian in shape, painted in what I would describe as a pale tortured blue. Its wings were etched with Correspondence sigils. I had no doubt that it was a statue of Storm. The blue paint was coming off in flakes, and I quickly deduced that it had not been painted like that by its original sculptors. Indeed, the style of the statue reminded me of the Third City’s feathered sky-serpents, while the blue hinted at the temples of the Fourth City’s descendants.
"I am not one of the Neath’s foremost scholars of the Correspondence, but I think even they would have been stumped by many of those sigils on the dragon’s wings. Still, what I could make out told me enough: there was ‘the hunger that visits knife-bearers’, ‘the slow bleeding of stones’, ‘a glint of light in a dark place, perceived by a creature that hates light’, ‘the span of time in which a judgement’s egg hatches’, ‘the bitterness of a god fallen from memory’ and ‘the false castle of rotten hope’.
"At this point, our Mithridate friend became very uncooperative. He forbid me - yes, outright forbid me - to go any further. Of course, I didn’t listen. To prevent a diplomatic crisis, I had him trussed up… well, to prevent the crisis from occurring at that time, anyway. We proceeded due south, the Mithridate slung over one of our helpful Clay Man’s shoulders. We now came into Skite territory, but as you may know, these poor cursed people are no threat to anyone. We hardly saw a trace of them. The mycologists were in paradise for the whole trip, by the way. You should expect many publications from that corner in the coming months.
"The land was steadily rising, and one day we discovered that we were actually travelling up a stair - completely overgrown, we hadn’t noticed it at first. Now it was my turn to become excited! We struck camp, and I left the mycologists and zoologists to their field studies - what lay ahead was of no concern to them. I had intentionally not included any archaeologists on this expedition - what I hoped lay ahead I wanted for me alone. The ex-urchin and I took a few small rations for ourselves and proceeded "upstairs" with only three Clay Men for company. We needed another four hours, during which my Clay friends competently shielded us from any attacks by giant lizards and mobile fungae. In the end, we reached what I had hoped for since that old man in Apis Meet told me his story: the Lost Temple of Storm! Maybe it was built by the God-Eaters themselves, I don’t know. It was at least four times the size of anything I’ve seen in books about the Third City’s people when they still dwelt on the Surface. And it was completely covered in that same pale tortured blue. The d–n Mongols had found the place and tried to reconsecrate it for their own gods!
"The doors were open, and we cautiously proceeded inside. It was just one huge room, with a raised altar at the far end. The walls were covered in murals - and the ceiling had been, too! I say ‘had been’ because nothing was left - it had been thoroughly and expertly scratched and was now also painted blue. I threw a spitting frenzy right then and there, I’m afraid. Rather undignified, but the loss was just too great. I am absolutely convinced that the ceiling once held a complete map of the Roof - with a mark at the point where Storm is sleeping, to this day. To come so close and then be foiled!
"Well, there was still the altar. There was only one thing on it: a huge black egg, just ever so slightly pulsing. There was an inscription beneath it, in the knotted script of the Third City:
Release me back into the womb
That stellar ethereal tomb
Consciousness sleeps inside the stars
They will remember what they forgot
"I brought the Egg back to London as my only souvenir from that trip. I don’t know precisely what it is but I know what it means: the murals on the walls told the whole story. How Storm came through the Gate - the very same one you’ve been to, Barselaar - his parlay with the Bazaar, his gift: time. When the egg hatches, Storm will wake up and demand an answer from the Bazaar. And if he doesn’t like the answer, he’ll tear open the Roof and expose us all to the Judgements." The lady shakes her head. "I would like to find him before that happens. I think I might be able to talk to him. I have some experience with dragons, you know. But that’s another story.
"I’ve brought my new once-urchin friend back to London, too. She’s tired of the Zee and far lands. I’ll let her publish the story of the Temple’s discovery; it’ll make her the new star of the academic world. She won’t mention the Egg, of course. Ah, and the Mithridate representative immediately intervened with London to have me replaced as soon as I set him free, naturally. I didn’t mind, I’d found what I had been looking for - partly, at least.
"I apologize for the length of my story but I hope you’ll think it was worth listening to."
Credits for the correspondence sigils: Amélie Vaincoeur, Blackleaf, Deadcrystal, Lucan Ashfield, Snowskeeper, Zakamutt. Also, the idea for this story originally came to me while listening to the wonderful Gothic Metal band Draconian’s song "Pale Tortured Blue".
edited by phryne on 9/6/2016