An Unfortunate Affair was a novelette written by Chad Moore as a foundational text introducing the core magick/technology conflict driving the world of Arcanum.
Transcript[]
Chapter 1[]
The rune-wrought and windowless tower of Simeon Tor rose severely from the heart of Tulla, City of Mages, a black pillar etched harshly into the twilight sky, and it was within this tower that the young mage Perriman Smythe found himself, nervously awaiting his appointment.
Prepared for a journey, he was dressed in a well-worn greatcoat signifying his rank and college of study, a pair of sturdy wool pants and a thick shirt. A small, wooden-handled bag, packed with items he deemed necessary, rested at his feet. Because he'd never been beyond the walls of Tulla and had been unsure as to just what exactly was necessary, he'd brought most of what he owned, and, being a newly raised mage, that was very little. Beyond a few books and his favorite mug for morning tea, the bag was empty.
He was seated on a padded wooden bench, in a thickly-carpeted waiting room of sorts, under the painted and sculpted gazes of the master mages of ages past. The room was diffused in soft light, and all was silent save for the quiet murmuring beyond the great wooden doors framed in the opposite wall.
A bell rang, low and tonal. His presence was required.
The doors opened before him, and he found himself within a domed chamber, circled with small, dimly lit alcoves harboring leatherbound tomes and rune-laden scrolls. And between these, what he at first mistook for intricately painted murals, large windows, each looking onto what appeared to be different landscapes at varying times of day. At the center of the room, bathed in a bluish pool of light, was a large desk strewn with papers and texts, and behind that desk, both ancient and ageless, sat Simeon Tor, the most powerful mage in all of Arcanum.
It was enough to unnerve even the most properly mannered of men, and the young mage found himself staring and unable to move.
"Come, come, young Perriman," said Tor, standing, his voice deep and resonant. He was dressed in a simple, black robe, striped on both sleeves with a single ribbon of red; the college of Summoners. His hair and short-cropped beard were completely white, set upon and around craggy features. His eyes shone blue crystal and severe, with a small touch of what might pass for paternal amusement in the wrinkles around them. He was, by some counts, more than three hundred years old, although none truly knew when he had worn the apprentice's robe.
Perriman cleared his throat, walking briskly towards the old mage, footfalls echoing hollowly on the marble floor. "Master Simeon, please forgive my oafishness. Its just that I was taken back by the sight of windows here in your study. None are visible from without."
"A boyish pleasure I indulge only here," he said, smiling.
"Are all of these windows portals to different places? Is that the Isle of Despair? And there, castle Caladon?"
"Right on both counts, Perriman. Have you been to either one?"
"Oh, no, master. I've actually never been outside the walls of Tulla, not that I can remember, in any case. I was brought here very young. But the last year of my studies was spent with Master Oakwood, the map-maker. It would seem his renditions come very close to the real thing." "Yes, quite. Very good then. Take a seat, Perriman. I've brought you here for an important reason. A mission, of sorts. I realize you've been recently raised to mage within the college of Phantasm. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sir," said Perriman, taking a seat in front of the desk. "I'm ready to do whatever is necessary for the greater good. All my life I've waited for the opportunity to serve you, and I'd just like you to know that…"
"Sometimes," interrupted Tor, smiling, "what is necessary is to do nothing and listen."
"Of course," said Perriman, abashed. "Please continue, Master Simeon."
The old mage came around the desk, walking slowly, hovering near the edge of the light. "We mages are an old people, and our practices older. I myself have seen more turns of the moon than I can remember, and yet all those years are but a moment in our great history. And during those many years, we have acquired a particular responsibility relating to things outside our walls. Maintaining the balance, helping…no, guiding…those not blessed with our special wisdom and insight."
Perriman nodded, saying nothing.
"Much of our time is spent living up to that responsibility. Being a mage often means doing just that." The old man came in from the shadows, standing over Perriman, piercing him with those eyes of blue. "Do you understand?"
"I think so, sir. I know, at least, that I'm ready to begin learning."
"Right. Good, then." Tor turned again, hands clasped behind his back. "It's to Tarant that I mean to send you, Perriman. Do you know of it?"
"Only what I've read, sir. I know it is an important center for trade and commerce, and that it's a relatively new city in comparison with those Dwarven and of course Qintarra. Large human population, if I remember correctly."
"Yes, well done. It has become a very important city in the last few years. Much of what is done elsewhere finds its cause in Tarant. Such a place might need special attention."
"I've also heard other things, master," said Perriman, almost under his breath.
"Yes? Out with it, then."
"Some of the older mages speak of it, but very rarely and not at all when they think I am listening." The young mage shifted in his seat, eyes averted. "It sounds to me an ugly thing, and I wouldn't mention it except that it seems invariably paired with the city of Tarant." "Well?" said Tor, sitting again behind his desk.
"Technology," he whispered, almost fearfully.
The old mage leaned forward, spreading thick hands on the polished wood of the desktop. Perriman wouldn't have thought it possible, but his eyes became even more intense, suppressing a flash of anger. Slow words, and deliberate. "Be careful to what you give a name, mageling. To name a thing is to give it power and substance, a purpose. Some things are better left unspoken."
"I'm sorry, master." The chair would allow him to sink no further.
"Conversely, only a blind man suffers nothing when his eyes are closed." His features softened, if only a little. "And I mean for you to keep open a watchful eye when you are in Tarant. You leave at first light."
"And my mission, sir?"
"Very simple. There is a certain individual with whom you are to meet, under the pretenses of diplomacy and good will. You will be given some documents with which to familiarize yourself. But you are to observe what comes from this meeting, and report all that you find."
"And who is this man, sir?"
"A gnome actually. He represents a large interest in quite a number of Tarantian undertakings."
"A gnome? Surely he must be a servant, then. Is he an agent of one of the noble families? Or perhaps even the King?"
The old man smiled wanly. "There are Kings and there are rulers. In these days, they usually are not the same. Be wise, young Perriman. The world, when you're in it, will be much different than one of Oakwood's maps." A gesture of closing, his hand passing lazily in the bluish light. "Enough talking. Let us think on things. College of Phantasm. Clear your mind. There. Rune of Light. See the form, light flows, born of shadow, do you see…?"
Later, when Perriman had left, Simeon Tor sat alone, deep in thought. After a time, he became aware of another presence outside the great doors, and opened them. Jorian the Diviner entered soundlessly, face cast in shadow beneath his hood.
"I watched as you commanded, Simeon. The boy seems capable enough, although perhaps a bit naïve. You didn't tell him much."
"What's to tell, Jorian? What would you have said? Even I, of more than three centuries, have neither answer nor explanation. This boy is to be our eyes and ears. There will be much to learn from what he reports."
"Still, you might have better prepared him for what he'll see." The Diviner turned to go, the doors already closing.
"Experience teaches best. He portals into the Forests of Morbihan tomorrow morning." A low rumble as the doors slid into place. "He learns his first lesson there."
Perriman sat blinking in the harsh morning sun. Portalling was a new experience for him, and, as expected, he was a bit muddled. As instructed, he checked his person for his belongings, and the immediate surroundings for signs of danger. All seemed in order, yet something just wasn't quite right. But, as it was, he was glad to be out of Tulla and onto his new mission. Many were the young mage who longed for adventure, but few who actually saw it. He would make the most of this opportunity. After checking the sun for position and direction, he trudged off in the direction of Tarant.
After a while he put his finger on what was wrong, and stopped a passing farmer to ask about it.
"Say there, my good man. This is Morbihan, not far from Tarant. Is that correct?"
"Yessir," said the farmer, long in years with a back bent from hard labor. "Yessir, it is."
"Right. Well, I say then, it seems a little empty for a forest, don't you think?"
"Eh?"
"I'd say I've been walking for more than an hour, and all I've seen are these bloody rolling hills. Where is the Forest proper? I mean, where are all the trees?"
The only response he received was a cackle so loud, long and guttural that he was sure he still heard it long after the old man was well out of sight.
Perriman entered Tarant via the Kensington Broadway, a wide, evenly-paved street lined on both sides with trees and shrubbery. To say it was an attack on the senses was a vast understatement. Hawkers espoused the integrity of their wares through brass megaphones, their brightly colored wagons dressed in hand painted signs and placards. A throng of people gathered around two brawling, shirtless street toughs, and Perriman thought he might have to bring his powers to bear, when he realized that money was changing hands on the outcome. Gangs of street urchins ran unchecked through passing pedestrians and carriages, engaged in acts of mischief and tomfoolery while their older (although, unfortunately, not wiser) counterparts stalked the edge of the crowd, seeking the wide-eyed tourist or fat-pocketed foreigner. Men were smartly dressed in coat and hat, with a stiffly starched collar for every perfectly knotted tie, while the women on their arms wore conservative, flowing gowns in the colors of summer.
The Kensington ended in a large, gated archway, constructed of granite and trimmed in intricate metalwork. It stood atop a large hill, and he stopped there, among many others, to gaze down into the valley and upon the city of Tarant.
It was like nothing Perriman had ever seen.
Tarant sprawled below him, like a great beast slumbering in the shallows of the gulf of Morbihan. The River Hadrian, emptying into the gulf on the far side of the city, was stitched with iron bridges, its waters murky and choked with merchant ships piled high with the items of their captain's trade. Tarant was battle-scarred, its roads and boulevards a haphazard mesh interspersed with ramshackle houses and monolithic buildings of stone. Everywhere there was motion, from the people shuffling shoulder-to-shoulder on streets of commerce, to the shipyards where crates from the furthest corners of Arcanum came to rest in wagons and warehouses. Nearer its western edge, great billowing clouds of black smoke, belching forth from towers of plated metal, thinned into an ochre haze that blanketed the city. And strangest of all, floating lazily in the air above, a monstrous, ovular ribbed structure, a vehicle it seemed, whose variety and purpose Perriman could hardly venture a guess. His very lungs constricted at the first taste of Tarant's breath, eyes watering in the blunt sunlight of early afternoon.
"Unbelievable," said Perriman.
"Yes, quite a wonder, isn't it?" observed someone to his right. Perriman turned, and was taken aback-it was an elf! Dressed in a red velvet coat, with immaculate lace collar and matching handkerchief, he was the very image of Tarantian high-society. Truly, few outside of Tulla or Qintarra would even recognize the differences; as his thick, black hair covered his ears, the only things betraying his heritage were an unnatural fairness of skin, and a slight narrowing of the eyes that many might mistake for urban shrewdness. Perriman stood there, mouth agape and wordless.
"Welcome to Tarant, old chap," said the elf, winking. He began walking away, a young human woman at his side, and then stopped, not turning. "Its going to be warm today. I'd recommend you find more suitable attire than your greatcoat. Good day."
Not being especially warm, Perriman decided against the elf's advice and fell in with the crowd snaking its way down the hill and into the chaos of Tarant.
The young mage wandered aimlessly for an hour or so, following the whims of the bustling masses, passing in front of windowed shops and pillared buildings hung with flags and banners. The life of the city was palpable; young boys strapped with glue buckets and rollers posted signs advertising all manner of performance and invention on walls thick with peeling versions of the same, while on every corner newspaper merchants called the days events with worn voices, ink-stained hands filled with rolls of newly printed page. Carriages-for-hire searched for clientele, the crowd parting and closing in their wake. Everyone seemed at once to be at ease and on edge, unaware of each other beyond the occasional avoidance of crossed paths. After a while, Perriman found himself physically and mentally spent. A small, well-groomed park offered wooden benches for the general public, and he slumped into one, content to pass the remaining hours in quiet contemplation of all he had seen.
A hunched figure across the street caught his attention. His thick, short neck supported a smallish head crowned with a shock of unruly coarse hair, while dark eyes darted to and fro from beneath a pronounced brow. His arms were long and heavily muscled, and in each callused hand he carried a burlap sack of unknown content. Perriman couldn't believe his eyes, and frantically grabbed the sleeve of a passerby.
"I say! There, across the street! Do you see? Call the authorities! What manner of intrigue is this?"
The man, a simple laborer and dressed as such in a plain shirt and breeches, looked to where Perriman had indicated. "Yes, dreadful bunch, aren't they? Nothing to worry about, though,…"
"Nothing to worry about? That's an ORC!"
"Bloody half-breed, more like it. But they've been put in their place here in Tarant, that's for certain. The council put a stop to all that union drivel, and they've been right cooperative ever since."
"Union drivel…what are you talking about? Someone needs to do something!"
The man looked at Perriman, a bit crookedly, and then seemed to make an assertion. He placed a hand firmly upon Perriman's shoulder. "Its already been done, lad. The council gave them an ultimatum, and they agreed. Orcs may be slow, but I don't know a one that would rather starve than work an extra hour for a decent wage. Listen, you might give a thought to stopping by the hospital down the street. Give you a room for free, and the doctor's there…"
But Perriman was already hurrying through the crowd towards where he had seen the orc. Unions? Wages? Had these people gone mad? By the time he made his way to the opposite side of the street, the orc was gone. There was a door ajar in an alleyway to his left, and he entered it, only half-believing what was behind it.
The door opened onto a large room, which was full of orcs just like the one he had seen. Almost in unison they looked up, eyes wary and reproachful. But it wasn't this that Perriman marveled at.
One corner of the room was piled high in what looked to be cotton; an orc, which he assumed to be the one he had observed outside, was unloading more of it from the two burlap bags. The rest of the opposite wall was taken up by something to which he could give no name, a thing full of wheels and pulleys, shaking with a life of its own and making the most awful racket. One end of the monstrosity was being fed great armfuls of cotton, and the other end spewed forth what looked to be tightly rolled bolts of cloth in a myriad of pattern and color.
Perriman stood dumfounded. These things were beyond his limited scope of experience. And so, like any mage of sound judgement and good-standing, he called to mind the Lesser Rune of Knowing, to divine this strange thing and the magicks involved in its operation, so he could best decide on the correct course of action to take.
Almost immediately there was the crack of splitting wood, and the air was filled with smoke and small flying objects. With all the commotion, Perriman's mind lost the Rune, and when the smoke had cleared he was asked to leave the premises by the shop's proprietor.
Vermillion Station was situated in the very center of Tarant, and it was there that Perriman was to meet his gnomish client.
The Station was the crossroads for all manner of travel both in and out of the city limits. The building itself was a massive structure built of engraved stone blocks and woodwork, with thick metal buttresses supporting both. An expansive walled courtyard housed an array of fountains, as well as various pieces of sculpture and other curiosities of Tarantian art. Beyond the walls were great caravans of many-horsed freight wagons that had been fitted with the benches of passenger carriages, and from these poured outlanders with business in the city. Above the station hung the strange vehicle that Perriman had seen before, tethered with cables as thick as man's arm. These were anchored at the far end of the station building, near a raised platform upon which small groups of travelers milled impatiently. The platform overlooked two sets of parallel metal rods, mounted low to the ground and disappearing behind the station.
Somewhere in the distance there was an unnatural sound, not unlike the roaring of a great beast. Perriman shivered, despite his greatcoat. He had never felt more alone than in this very moment.
He was to meet the gnome at the toll of the fifth hour next to the Harriman Fountains; Perriman guessed they were the ones within the enclosed courtyard. He was unsure as to the time, and, in fact, hadn't once heard bells sounding the hour while in Tarant. After what seemed an appropriate wait, he approached a knowledgeable-looking gentlemen in uniform near the raised platform, who was engrossed in a sheaf of loosely bound and printed paper.
"Excuse me sir. Are you an employee of the Station? I only ask because of your rather official-seeming dress and obvious air of confidence…" The man turned his head slightly, not looking up. "Yes, can I help you?"
"I was just wondering if perhaps you'd know the hour. I've just recently arrived from Tulla, and I'm to meet an acquaintance here at fifth toll."
"Just a moment," he reached within his jacket, pulling out a small, round object attached to a chain. "That was the Brackenton Line sounding not long ago, and it arrives at fifth toll. I'll just check…" He was studying the thing at the end of the chain, shaking it.-it appeared to be giving him some sort of trouble. Looking up, he seemed to notice Perriman for the first time, giving his greatcoat a good, long look, and then holding the object up to it. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. "Say, where did you say you were from?"
"Tulla, City of Mages, and I'm in need…"
"I'm afraid you're going to have to leave immediately."
"Excuse me?"
Again, the unknown roaring, this time much closer.
"What on earth is that…?"
"Right now, sir. It's imperative you exit the station grounds this instant. Didn't you read the sign posted?"
Perriman turned to where the man was gesturing. A framed wooden sign, painted in large block letters, read:
NO MAGES BEYOND THIS POINT!
Perriman turned slowly back to the man, his anger rising. Ignorance was one thing, and insolence completely another. No mages beyond this point? Of all he had seen on this strange day, the simple sign in front of him was the most unendurable. There were certain traditions and social decorum that one just did not trod upon. Letters would be written and apologies made, of that Perriman was certain. When a follower of the old ways couldn't walk the city streets unmolested, there were obviously those in dire need of a swift lesson in etiquette.
"Now you look, here. I will not be…"
"I'm sorry sir, but I warned you…"
The man turned, whistling to a pair of large men seated near the Station doors. They rose, both carrying stout cudgels, and walked quickly towards where Perriman was standing. Was he to be beaten as well? He turned to them, setting up his hood. It seemed that there would be more than one lesson learned this evening.
"Excuse me, good mage. I think I may be of some assistance." The voice, low and nasal, came from somewhere behind him. Perriman turned to see nothing, and then, looking down, found a well-dressed gnome in coat and tails. Further behind the small gentleman was a massive creature, dressed similarly, and keeping a close watch on the gnome and his movements. Perriman immediately recognized this creature as an ogre; although its teeth and claws were less pronounced than in etchings he'd seen in particular Tullan texts, there was no mistaking its lineage. Only a day before, the mere thought of one so close would have set his hairs on end. Today, after all he had seen and heard in Tarant, the sight of an ogre in evening clothes merely evoked a cursory nod in its direction. The two armed men were still advancing.
"Look here, Station Master," the gnome called to the man in uniform. "It seems we have a misunderstanding. There's no need to resort to extremes."
The Station Master turned, red-faced. "I'm afraid you don't understand…" Upon turning, he saw the ogre, and then noticed the gnomish gentleman. His face fell. "Mr. Willoughsby! So sorry, sir. I didn't realize it was you, sir. Its just that this man here is a mage, and…"
"A mage and an acquaintance of mine, Station Master. Pray, call your men off, or I may be forced to call upon my own." At this, the ogre took a step forward, and the two men stopped dead. "I understand the situation, and will resolve in a timely and mannered way. Good day, Station Master."
"Good day, sir. So sorry, again, sir." And with that, all three men ran back towards the building proper, the Station Master berating his cronies about rash behavior and respect until they were out of earshot.
The gnome turned to Perriman, all smiles and gesticulations. "Mr. Smythe, I presume? Yes? Well met! I'm Edward Willoughsby." A small, damp hand. "So sorry about the ugliness, here. It's just that there are particular concerns, safety measures and all that. Was your trip an enjoyable one?" "Yes, Mr. Willoughsby, although very short given the means of travel. Thank you very much for your assistance."
"Not at all, Smythe. I have a considerable investment in the Station here, so people tend to listen to what I say. You'll not be bothered again. I can assume this is your first time in Tarant?"
Perriman saw no need to lie. "Yes, and its been quite an experience. Perhaps you could explain to me…"
"Of course, of course, all in good time. We have many things to discuss, but perhaps here, so close to the Station is not the best of places. If you would be so good as to step this way? We can retire to my carriage, and then perhaps enjoy a quiet meal. I own a small restaurant in the east quarter, and there we can…"
From out of the evening crowd burst five men on horseback, scarves tied around their faces, and brandishing various kinds of weaponry. Two of the riders approached Perriman and the gnome, lowering sword points uncomfortably close to their necks, while the remaining three surrounded the ogre, who, cut off from his master, gave an ear-splitting roar. He seemed ready to attack all three of them, when the gnome gestured to him and he settled into a low growl.
"See now, what's this all about?" Willoughsby was maintaining an air of composure, although a slight shake in his voice told otherwise.
"Just good, old-fashioned robbery, Willoughsby old boy," said the man in front of the gnome. "We're not greedy, just whatever you, your bloody pet and this chap here are carrying, and we'll be on our way."
"I'm not quite sure that's such a good idea," said Perriman, the runes already forming in his head. Politics weren't always his strong point, but Perriman knew when to be direct. Disarming these hooligans would be short work.
"No, Smythe. No need to make a scene." Willougshby was reaching for his purse. "We'll just pay these men, and be on our way…"
Perriman was already moving. A word and a nod towards the man perched in front of him sent his horse rearing, the blinding flash of the Lesser Rune of Light having its desired effect on the animal. The man fell, hitting his head on the ground, his sword clattering on the paved stones. "Smythe! No magick! It's almost here…!"
The sound again, so close it shook the very ground.
Perriman turned to the men surrounding the ogre, and spoke softly the Rune of Shadow. All three men suddenly began yelling and waving their arms in front of them, tearing the scarves from their faces. The ogre, seeing an opportunity, grabbed the nearest one, and the screams began as Perriman turned to the last man. He was leveling a strange device at the mage's chest, a short staff, it seemed, of wood and metal; two holes at the end facing him showed it to be hollow. Perriman had never seen anything of its like, but could guess at its nature. He called to mind the Rune of Illusion, an ancient and powerful magick, the shape fierce and familiar in his mind.
As in situations similar to this one, things began to happen very quickly.
Perriman spoke, disappearing, and the bandit swore, swinging the end of his weapon back and forth, searching for him.
The young mage was moving behind the horse, in order to better position himself for a quick dispatch of the criminal.
The source of the strange noise came into view, and all turned to see its approach.
It was a beast, but like none Perriman had ever seen. It traveled atop the iron rails that he had seen before, with great wheels for feet that screeched and groaned upon the metal surface. The beast itself was stout and squat, with innards of bolts and pistons and pulleys, and a thick grill of teeth protruding out from beneath its one, brightly glowing eye. A single horn on its head poured forth black and fetid breath, and behind it followed a segmented tail of large wooden crates, mounted on wheels as well, which continued out of sight behind Vermillion Station. The very presence of the thing seemed to affect the spell he had cast. The Rune, so bright in his head, became muddled and unclear. The bandit turned, seeing Perriman a flickering field of color appearing behind him. The staff swung round once again. The mage sprung left, clearing his head, and called to mind the most powerful spell he knew.
In the space between the mage and the bandit there appeared a Greater Demon, one of the most fearsome creatures from the dark reaches of the Void. It raised its horned head to the sky, and let out a terrible howl.
And promptly disappeared.
The bandit, upon seeing the creature, used his weapon, which issued a dull boom and exploded in his face.
Behind Perriman, who, strangely, found himself seated on the ground, there was another noise, a loud crack from the direction of the metal beast. People began to scream. The Station Master came running in their direction, hands held high.
"Look out! The brakes! The brakes are out! Get clear of the train!"
And the train, as it seemed to be called, flew off the end of the metal rails and past the platform, its iron wheels screaming and spewing great fountains of spark and smoke, tearing up large chunks of the courtyard floor in its wake. Behind it trailed three or four of the wheeled crates, the last of them tipped over on its side. The train itself stopped not five metres from Perriman, the light in its eye fading and finally going out.
Willoughsby appeared, breathless and angry. "Damn you, Smythe! I told you not to use magick here. Now look what you've…oh, no…"
Perriman, feeling rather light-headed, stood up and looked to see what the gnome was so concerned about. Willoughsby seemed to be focused on Perriman's left shoulder, and so he looked down to see the cause of his distress.
Shield A dark stain was spreading quickly on his greatcoat, and when Perriman tried to lift his arm to find the source of the problem, he found he was unable. He pulled his shirt back with his right arm, and found a large, roundish wound, bleeding profusely. His vision was blurring, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. The night was unnaturally dark, and he had the distinct feeling that he was falling.
"How utterly uncivilized," he thought.
Chapter 2[]
Shadows were long in the Boil hours before Sebastian arrived, and the day's stifling heat, absorbed earlier into the soot-blackened tangle of its streets, leaked slowly upward in thick, tepid waves. Plumbing and wire hung between the crowded shops like cobwebs, the light of flickering lanterns revealing corroded metal signs and warped wooden siding. Everything was covered in an unnatural and oily film, dripping, as if the city itself were feverish. It served as the labored heart of Tarantian commerce, but to see it, especially here at night, the Boil took on the swollen and festering characteristics of its bodily namesake. It was a place that Sebastian knew well, but familiarity, in cases such as these, breeds a heightened sense of care; he proceeded with measured step and scrutiny.
Sebastian was a tall man, long of limb, and dressed in well-tooled leather armor. Over this he wore a trenchcoat, and strapped to his shoulders was a canvas pack. He moved within the shadows when possible, taking a roundabout way to his destination. The gentlemen who had earlier supplied him with the information had been less than talkative at first, but later had been quite forthcoming. Sebastian had found that most negotiations were a success once you'd properly defined the terms and conditions of the contract-three broken fingers had done this satisfactorily, and Sebastian had been on his way within the hour.
It wasn't long before he arrived at the address given him. Above the front entrance were letters carved in simple block script, and from which stained rivulets fell groundward, like tears. THE BENTLEY. The building was squat and made of brick; on the first floor there were two windows, unadorned aside from the thick bars mounted across them, and the front door, which he guessed was both stout and locked. Being what he was, the lock worried him very little, but, the situation being what it was, who or what was waiting behind it unquestionably worried him much more. Direct solutions were reserved for those with clarity of vision and purpose, and Sebastian, currently lacking both, decided to find a more indirect course of action. After lowering an eyepiece over his spectacles, he removed a threaded cylinder from his belt and screwed it onto the end of his revolver. Stealth would be necessary for the night's excursion. Holstering his gun, Sebastian quietly slipped into the shadows of an alleyway adjacent to the building, leaving no trace of his passing but the slightest smell of oiled metal and sulfur, which the reek of the Boil quickly claimed as its own.
Perriman awoke to the flickering of candlelight, his eyes adjusting slowly and making out the muted shapes in the surrounding room. He lay within the confines of an enormous bed, covered in quilted blankets of the finest material, his head buried deep in a pillow of the softest down. He felt very weak, and there emitted a slow, dull throbbing from his right shoulder, the cause of which he was only now beginning to remember. Pulling the cover back from it with his left hand, he saw that his wound had been cleanly bandaged, and that his right arm was in a sling. He tried to rise, found he was lacking the strength, and settled for turning his head to see if he could find the means to call his host, who, from the obvious quality and elegance of his current surroundings, he assumed was Edward Willoughsby.
What he did find upon turning his head was neither Willoughsby, nor the means to call him, but a rather well-dressed ogre seated in a high-backed chair, looking down upon him with dark and unblinking eyes. It looked to be the same ogre from the incident at Vermillion Station, although he had traded his coat and tails for a dark tweed dinner jacket, complete with a well-knotted tie and handkerchief. Although Perriman could find nothing wrong with his choice of attire, he felt that, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, his bedside manner left something to be desired.
"Uh, hullo there. I say, good ogre, do you speak?"
The ogre responded in slow, deliberate words, perfectly articulated except for those syllables obstructed by his overgrown teeth.
"Yes, Mr. Smythe. I speak quite well. I've been asked by Mr. Willoughsby to look over you until you were feeling better."
"Uh…yes, of course, and my thanks to you! Have you a name, good ogre? "
"I am called Lorham, Mr. Smythe. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"And you. And may I assume this is Mr. Willoughsby's home?"
"Yes, it is."
"I see. Well, I daresay I'm a little at a loss from the afternoon's events, Lorham. Is there any way I might see Mr. Willoughsby this evening?" "He told me to call him as soon as you felt able to speak. Might I say that this is the case, good mage?"
"Yes, I would very much enjoy that."
"Then I shall bring him here immediately. A good night to you, Mr. Smythe"
Lorham arose, exiting through a door just in the wall behind him. So strange, Perriman remarked, to himself. One finds the trappings of gentility and good-breeding in the most unexpected places.
Sebastian moved quickly and silently through the alley, stepping over piles of paper and rubbish as he made his way to the rear of the Bentley. The buildings to his right rose above him, tilting impossibly inward, the product of the indeterminate construction of the Boil's architecture. Rusted pipes and valves hung across the building's side like ivy, dripping with condensation that collected in turbid pools on the alleyway's floor. Here and there were shattered windows, their panes gaping with teeth of broken glass. And behind these, pale lights reflected from the walls deeper within, or the grinding sounds of engines and industry. But nowhere were the sounds or movements of life, as if the Boil had swallowed all of it, and yet continued to operate, self-perpetuating like some great and mad machine.
Nearing the rear corner of the Bentley, he stopped; a low growl and an unmistakable scent alerted him of the fact that perhaps there was life here after all. Retreating a few steps and then kneeling quietly, from his pack he pulled a roundish device, about the size of his head. The base of this object, which he set softly upon the ground, was bolted to a thick spring, and protruding from the mechanism proper was an oiled metal turn-key, which Sebastian began quietly to rotate. After a few twists, he turned his attentions from the object to a small vial that he produced from his belt. Pulling a stopper from the top of the vial, he held it up to his nose. The smell was organically thick and pungent, and he splashed a few drops on top of the mechanism just before he depressed a small lever at the base of the spring.
The effect was predictable and instantaneous. The mechanism literally sprang to life, hopping forward in three metre leaps down the length of the alleyway and disappearing into the shadows beyond. The watchdog, to which Sebastian had surmised the growl belonged to, yelped and gave immediate chase to the clockwork decoy, which convincingly smelled like the most delectable species of Caladonian hare. Smiling to himself, Sebastian stoppered the vial and replaced it. This would inevitably be the least challenging of his activities this evening, but one mustn't forget to stop and appreciate one's successes, regardless of how trivial.
Edward Willoughsby entered the room quietly, shutting the door behind him and taking a seat next to Perriman's bed. The older gnome had changed into a crushed velvet smoking jacket, trailing the odors of bourbon and aged pipe tobacco. There was a genuine look of concern etched into his features, and he laid a wrinkled hand upon the young mage's arm.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Smythe? Lorham told me you were feeling a little better."
"Yes, although I'm still very weak. What has been done to me? Might I assume that you're responsible for the medical care I've received here? Yes? I thank you."
"It was the very least I could do, good mage. And I apologize for my senseless outburst at the train station. I was upset about the damage done, and spoke without thinking. There's never an excuse for bad manners."
"Think nothing of it, Mr. Willoughsby. Many are the times that etiquette is the victim of surprise."
"Mr. Smythe, I hate to be so direct, but if you're feeling up to it, perhaps we might begin discussions about your business here? I'm very anxious to bring you up to date on the current situation here in Tarant."
"I'd be happy to begin discussions, Mr. Willoughsby. But before we do, perhaps you might answer just a few questions?"
"Of course, Mr. Smythe."
"This wound of mine. What exactly caused it?"
"One of the bandits shot you with a rifle. The bullet passed right through your shoulder."
"A…what did you say…rifle? Is that some sort of weapon?"
The gnome seemed a little surprised at the question. "Yes, it is."
"I see. And that great metal beast…what was it?"
"You mean the train?" Perriman nodded. "It's used for moving things. And people."
"Moving them where?"
"Wherever tracks are laid for it."
"Tracks?"
"The metal rails that were bolted into the ground. It rolls upon them."
"And what does it feed upon?"
"Wood, or sometimes coal."
"And where does one find such a beast?"
Edward Willoughsby looked down on Perriman, a slight smile forming in the corners of his mouth. He looked away for a moment, seeming to think about the best way to form his answer. After a moment, he moved from the bed to a nearby chest-of-drawers, and pulled an object from atop of it. He offered it for Perriman's inspection. It looked to be an object similar to that owned by Vermillion's Station Master, small and round and hanging from a golden chain. One face of it was covered in crystal, and behind this a white surface painted with the most delicate numbers and symbols.
"Mr. Smythe, do you know what this is?"
"No, Mr. Willoughsby. I've no idea."
Willoughsby smiled in earnest, slipping the object into his pocket. "Perhaps my story will be longer than I'd originally thought. No matter. It seems we've nothing but the hours to while away…"
The rear door of the Bentley, usually under the protection of the now absent watchdog, offered little resistance in the way of locks, and Sebastian entered the dark building soundlessly, latching the door behind him. He was in a small room, the floor tiled in ceramic, the walls covered in water-stained plaster and exposed piping. Above the door was a single window, coated in grime, through which fell a pale and jaundiced moonlight. A cracked porcelain sink was anchored to the far wall, its rusty faucet dripping a staccato and even tempo in the half-filled basin; above this, the remnants of an old mirror, warped and tarnished with time. Servant's quarters. The wall to his left housed the small opening and pulleyed cord of a dumb-waiter, and an open doorframe, beyond which a passage stretched further into the building.
He stood motionless, listening intently for any sign of activity within. There seemed to be a slight murmuring coming from below…a wine cellar or basement perhaps. He made his way to the doorframe, and into the darker hallway.
He moved quietly down its length, eyes adjusting slowly to the sparse light. Even through the treated crystal of his mounted eyepiece, he could see almost nothing. A short carpet on the floor helped to disguise his steps, but scattered piles of glass and rubble were obstacles to be avoided, and his progress was slow. There were various doors leading off of the hallway, all of which were locked and lacked any sign of recent use. The hallway ended in a larger room; on the opposite wall stood two windows and a door…undoubtedly those he had seen at the front of the building. He had yet to find a stairway leading to the basement. Sebastian took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. And only then did he see the slightest movement of the sentry, the almost imperceptible sound of shifted stance, and he froze.
It seemed he had not been detected, but the sentry's position adjacent to the brighter squares of the curtained windows made it difficult to see. After two minutes, he was fairly certain the other's back was to him, and, therefore, unaware of his presence. Inching a hand into his jacket and unholstering the pistol, he gently removed the ammunition chamber, and replaced it with another retrieved from the inner folds of his armor. The process was painstakingly slow, and he was sweating profusely. There was no margin for error; Sebastian knew he'd have only one chance. The pistol's stock felt slick in his hand as he brought it up in one fluid motion and fired.
The muffler silenced the report, the dart found its mark, and the man's knees buckled almost instantly. Sebastian caught him before he hit the ground, and hefted the man over his shoulder. Laudanum and Camphor-he'd be asleep for hours. To his right was a closed doorway; a dim light shone from underneath its bottom edge and the floor. The murmuring louder here, almost directly below. Unquestionably, this door led to the basement. He carried the man to the rear chamber, setting him underneath the sink, and then returned to the door that led below.
Opening his pack, he pulled out a small metal device, a small ringed cylinder mounted with a metered gauge; from the top of this object sprouted two loosely coiled and rigid wires. He passed it back and forth across the door.
The Flow Specktrometer read negative. Perhaps his quarry had left for the evening.
Regardless, the remaining gents would undoubtedly be a wellspring of information, given the right sort of encouragement. Sebastian smiled to himself as he walked back to the servant's quarters, a plan already turning in his mind. He was rarely one to expound on the strengths of his own character, but sometimes he was just so dreadfully clever.
…and so, from the development of the Bates Steam Engine, a myriad of technological disciplines have come to the fore. I, myself, am a Fellow in the School of Engineering. Willoughsby cleared his throat. "Honorary, of course."
Perriman sat dumbly, contemplating all he had heard. Technology! The half-heard whispers and rumors about the nature of this thing were correct on some counts, wildly inaccurate on others. These colleges…no, these sciences…took advantage of the forces in the natural world, worked with them to gain a desired result. And magick, its older and manipulative cousin, twisted nature to its will, subverting the solidity of physical law. It was no wonder that magick and technology reacted so violently to one another; they were working toward opposite ends.
He was quiet for a while longer, and then turned to the old gnome. "Please forgive my silence, Mr. Willoughsby. Your dissertation was clear and well-received. You must understand…these things are very new to me…"
Willoughsby smiled, gently. "Strange. The letter I received from Tulla said I should expect 'an emissary of high degree and broad experience.' Tell me, Mr. Smythe, had you ever spent a day outside Tullan walls before yesterday?"
Perriman looked into the gnome's eyes, weighing the sentiment he saw there. Master Simeon had briefed him on contingencies for this very circumstance, emphasizing the need for discernment and discretion. His role here was to be an observer, unbiased. But the responsibilities of being a mage also encompassed intuition, creativity and wisdom. A mage must know when and how to choose his allies.
"You are quite correct, sir. My 'broad experience' in these matters is comprised only of the hours I spent in Tarant before meeting you at the Station, and the time I have spent as an invalid in your bed." Perriman felt immediately foolish. "But I have recently been raised to full mage, and I'm well-versed in diplomacy and social policy, and you can be assured that…"
The gnome laid a hand upon the mage's chest. "Easy, young Perriman. Your skills and credentials are not in question, here. I believe in the wisdom of the Tullan elders…they would not have sent you unless they felt you eminently qualified."
Perriman smiled, thankfully. "I value your confidence, Mr. Willoughsby. Perhaps now is the time to speak of our business. You had requested the audience of a Tullan representative, and such a request from an individual of your standing does not go unnoticed. I am here. How can I be of service?"
Willoughsby arose from his chair, and walked to the foot of the bed. "I'll be as direct and forthcoming as possible. A man such as myself is privy to all sorts of information, and you don't rise to a position such as mine without being able to sift through it, to decide what is irrelevant and what is important. It is my fervent belief that success in industry is based solely upon the refinement of this ability."
Perriman smiled. The physical differences between Master Simeon and Edward Willougshby couldn't be more apparent, but their words seemed cut from the same stone. He wasn't sure, but he assumed there was a direct correlation between one's age and one's ability to make polite conversation sound like a classroom lecture. Willoughsby continued on.
"…the exact nature of my current business operations is hard to define, Mr. Smythe. The key to continued financial profitability is diversity. I have significant investments in multiple business operations, both in Tarant and abroad. This was not always the case. I cut my teeth, so to speak, as a dealer in arms and ammunition, with smaller manufacturing facilities for various types of armor."
"A very lucrative business, I'm sure," said Perriman.
"I made a quick fortune, and turned my attentions elsewhere. Not that my business was failing, mind you, it's just that the industry tends to attract…well, a most undesirable element."
"I'm sure."
"In any case, once you've been in a particular business, you make friends, solidify certain lines of communication. Regardless of my inactivity within those circles, or perhaps because of it, I still know most everything that goes on. Do you understand?"
"Clearly."
Willoughsby returned to his seat. "You see, Mr. Smythe, it came to my attention not long ago that a certain unknown party had made a considerable arms purchase. Considerable enough to alarm those both within and outside of the business. The volume of this particular order was of the magnitude usually reserved for small wars, so you can see why there were concerned parties on both sides…"
The basement of the Bentley was low-ceilinged and damp, with thick support pillars and beams of raw timber. Having once served as the building's store room, there were various items of stock and surplus strewn about; a moldy pile of grain bags, grape-stained and empty caskets of wine. An old wooden staircase climbed one of the walls. There were lanterns hung in various corners, and their sputterings and flickerings cast deep and weird shadows on the stern faces of the five men who sat around a rough-hewn table of wood in the middle of the room.
"And what guarantees do we have that you actually know where it is?" said one of the men.
"None," said another of the men, his curt reply betraying an irritation with the other's tone. "But what gain is there for me, if I do not?" The first said nothing.
"And the weapons," said another, "are you sure they're going to be effective when we get there?"
"Of course," said the man who seemed to be answering the questions. "As I've explained to you, the technological complexity of one of the guns, by itself, would have almost no chance of overcoming the strength of the flows there. But, the combined weight of all the weapons, as well as the armor, should be more than enough to disturb the fields, and return them to a state of normality. Which means that our weapons will function properly, and, most importantly, fatally…" The man was cut off by a sound from the rear of the basement, the sliding of metal on metal, the creaking of rusty wheels. All eyes turned to the source of the noise. A dark recess in the wall, a trembling length of rope. The dumb-waiter. One of the men walked slowly to the wall, bending to retrieve what he found in the rusted tin tray. Something small, something round. He turned back to the group, holding the small object to the light.
"Whot the bloody 'ell is Angus doin' up there? Playin' practical jokes?"
The man answering the questions looked hard at the object, his eyes widening. He was already moving. "Throw it away! Get rid of it, for the love of…!"
The object exploded in his hand, a bright chemical flash, and the men in the circle cried out, blinded and screaming in the severe white light. The door at the top of the stairs flew open, a shadow following in its wake and diving down the stairs. Another metal sphere appeared, rolling across the top of the table and billowing thick, greenish smoke. The lanterns started popping like carnival balloons, the flashing reports of dual pistols casting sharp shadows on the cowering forms of men and on the face of Sebastian, who was having a brilliant time.
And then he was thrown against the wall, the pistol in his left hand lost, his shoulder spun by a blunt force that cracked the wall behind him. He rolled forward, deeper into the smoke, emptying the chamber in the general direction of the attack. His left shoulder hung limply, out of socket and useless. Dropping the pistol, he dug deep within his jacket, pulling the coiled cylinder of the Tesla Rod from its confines.
One of the men lunged out of the smoke, screaming obscenities and firing his revolver blindly. Sebastian steadied himself against the wall, depressing the switch on the end of the Tesla Rod as he brought it up level with the man's chest. A jagged bolt of electricity jumped from the copper coils to the man, passing through his body and to the floor. He fell heavily, the air thick with the smell of singed flesh. And Sebastian was moving again, his left arm pulsing in white hot pain as he brought up the Tesla Rod, but within its casing he heard the popping of tubes and pistons, and it started to shake uncontrollably in his hand.
And then, as if in answer to his own attack, a yellowish, crackling whip of lightning flew from underneath the stairs, hitting him full in the chest. The Tesla Rod skittered across the floor, coming to rest under the table. Sebastian tried to rise, but his limbs were like stone, and he could do nothing. Moments later, three men were upon him.
Lorham had returned to the bedroom a while before, leaving a tray of tea and coffee bitters for the two men. Their conversation had continued until well after midnight, and the candles were getting low as they sipped their beverages in delicate cups of hand-painted porcelain. A good spot of tea had always made for a better evening, and Perriman felt as if he was gaining back a little of his lost vigour. He understood most of Willoughby's tale, but there were still a few points that needed clarification.
"So it had come to your attention that the individual purchasing the arms plans to use them against Tulla? Tulla? What fool would set himself against the power of the mages? And, more importantly, how would he ever find it? The only people who know its location…are…" Perriman trailed off, beginning to understand.
"Now do you see why I was so cautious in contacting you, Mr. Smythe?" The gnome's words were shrewd, but his eyes were fearful. "Only someone from Tulla would know how to find the city, and use such weapons against her."
"You didn't know in whom you could trust."
"Precisely."
"And you've no idea who this individual is?"
"No, not yet."
"Good god. Tulla-betrayed by one of her own! Its unthinkable!"
"Yes, quite. And it wouldn't surprise me if this afternoon's robbery wasn't a staged attack." The gnome smiled warmly. "Had you not been there, Lorham and myself might have been killed. Again, my thanks to you."
"Of course. But an attack would imply that the perpetrator knows that you're on to him. And now he knows that I have arrived as well. Perhaps you're not safe even here, Mr. Willoughsby."
"I think we're safe, for now. I don't think this criminal would attack so soon after the botched attempt this afternoon. Besides, I've guards patrolling the grounds, and Lorham is a formidable foe when agitated."
"Yes, I'm sure." Perriman was quiet for a moment, mulling over the facts in his mind. "I've a question for you, good sir. And please don't take this the wrong way…"
"Yes?"
"What is your interest here, Mr. Willoughsby? You've put yourself into grave danger over something that really isn't your affair. " Edward Willoughsby was silent for a moment, looking gravely at the young mage. "Have we gnomes changed so much that you are surprised when we lend a benevolent hand? We are creatures of magick as well, the oldest magick." His eyes softened then, and he leaned in, whispering. "I've also a brother among the elders of Tulla. A certain master Oakwood, the cartographer. A stubborn and disagreeable sort, but my blood just the same."
Perriman smiled, amazed at the way of things, the magick of coincidence, the smallness of his world. They were silent for a while, each with their own thoughts. After a time, Perriman spoke.
"Mr. Willoughsby, you never told me how it was you came to know about the plot against Tulla. Where did you come across that information?" "Ah, yes. I've a man in my employ that does things for me when they need to be done. A man of many talents, and quite resourceful. It was he who ferreted out the information about the attack on Tulla, and he's currently looking into the identity of the responsible party." "I see. And who is this man?" "Sebastian. His name is Sebastian. And I've the utmost confidence that he has the situation well in hand."
Sebastian awoke to the slap of cold water on his face, shirtless, his arms tied behind his back and his left shoulder alarmingly numb. The cords around his wrists dug deeply into his flesh; he could feel blood dripping from the cuts to the floor. Some of his ribs seemed to be floating freely in the bruised flesh of his abdomen. The left side of his face was an indistinct and swollen mass. He spit two of his teeth to the floor, and looked up to see what awaited him.
A man stood in front of him, tallish, with a finely-tailored wool suit and soft leather shoes. His face was chiseled, the uneven light of a single lantern casting angular shadows upon it, his eyes lost in the darkness of a thick brow. Two men stood behind him; another knelt on the floor, attempting, unsuccessfully, to revive the victim of the Tesla Rod. Sebastian chuckled.
"You find this amusing? " The tall man looked down on him, his voice deep, and his speech as precise and proper as a nobleman's. "You truly are a hard man if you can laugh in the face of your own death."
Sebastian looked up at the man, saying nothing, but smiling crookedly. Try as he might, he was having trouble finding the lighter side of the situation.
Chapter 3[]
"Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes, Lorham, I won't be needing anything else this evening."
"Very good, sir. I believe I'll take one more look around the grounds before retiring, sir."
"There's no need, Lorham. Please, go to bed."
"I'll sleep much better knowing everything is in order, sir. It won't take me long."
"Yes…yes, of course, Lorham. Good night, then. And thank you."
"A good night to you, sir."
Edward Willoughsby sat quietly in his den, the lights turned low, and the only sounds were that of the crackling fire and the quiet rumblings of the house engines two floors below. Young Perriman, drowsy from the medicinals, had drifted off to sleep an hour before, but Willoughsby needed some time alone to think on what had been said and to formulate a plan of action. Life itself was a business, and good business relied on preparation and forethought.
Sebastian would answer many questions. Contingencies must be prepared for, of course, but Sebastian's report would undoubtedly show him which step was the best to take. After turning a few scenarios over in his mind, he began to sink deeper into his chair, drifting in blurry dreams of boyhood and the day's events at Vermillion Station. Before long, he was fast asleep.
Sebastian looked into the eyes of the men surrounding him, and decided that there was no question as to the nature of their intent. The man who had suffered the hostilities of the Tesla Rod lay still on the floor despite their most determined attempts to revive him. Some gents had all the luck.
The man directly in front of him smelled of magicker from head to foot. The angle of his posture, the way in which he held his hands, the permanent disdain reflected in his eyes, all spoke of one who knew the runes. And a powerful magicker at that; the Tesla Rod had been a complex piece of machinery. The others skulked around his periphery, faces twisted in rage. It was his presence alone that stopped them from avenging their fallen comrade. He spoke, straightening the cuffs of his shirt.
"I take it you've surmised the desperate nature of your predicament. You seem a man not unfamiliar with situations such as these."
"I could venture an educated guess as to the outcome."
"Yes, and undoubtedly you'd be correct. I do applaud your efforts here, though. Were it not for my intervention, more than just one of these men's lives would have been forfeit."
Glares from behind him. They knew he was right.
"You're Willoughsby's man, are you not? That gnome has been very troublesome, despite my most rigorous efforts. Did you know he's brought in a mage from Tulla? Indeed, a most unfortunate affair."
Sebastian was silent.
"I'll assume you know what's happening here, so forgive me if I don't fill you in on the details before I go. I hate to be rude, but I've a pressing appointment this evening with your employer."
"Just a moment, if you please. Could you answer two questions for me?"
The mage seemed a bit annoyed. "Perhaps. What is it you'd like to know?"
"I've recently created a device…its purpose is to detect men such as yourself. My actions here tonight would have been vastly different had I known of your presence. I'm at a loss as to why it malfunctioned."
"You mean this?" The mage pulled the Flow Specktrometer from his jacket. "A crude piece of instrumentation. From what I gather, it only detects changes caused by magickal flows in the fields around it. Because I was not casting until your attack, your device showed nothing."
Sebastian nodded absently. "I see. Very perceptive of you. I shall make the necessary improvements in its design."
The irony of Sebastian's statement was not lost on the mage. He smiled thinly. "Was there anything else?"
"Only one thing. Perhaps it's the expected question, so forgive me for being predictable."
"Yes?"
"I just wanted to know why."
The mage was silent for a moment. "There are many apparent reasons, avarice being the most obvious choice. Tulla is a city of unbelievable wealth." He turned to go, but stopped. "Avarice, and absolution. I leave you to my associates."
Sebastian smiled as the man turned away.
Lorham had been walking the grounds for the better part of an hour, and all seemed in order. He'd received regular reports from the three patrols, as well as the men at the estate's front gate, and he'd made two circuits himself around the house proper. Everything was quiet and appropriate, and he was hard pressed to find even the smallest thing out of place.
Very good, he thought.
To Lorham, Mr. Willoughsby was the only family he had ever known. His first memories were of bright mornings spent stocking the estate's grand kitchens, of running through the damp and shadowed maple groves in search of trapped partridge and mushrooms. Long, sunlit afternoons spent with tutors in Grammar and History and Mathematics, and cool evenings in the stables among the hunting stallions and mares. And always Mr. Willoughsby, with a kind word when deserved, and a stern look when necessary. In all those years, never once had he raised a hand to Lorham, had always treated him fairly and expected nothing more than his best effort in everything.
The half-ogre took a moment to reflect on the day's events, and then about the young mage from Tulla, and finally about Mr. Willoughsby and Sebastian. The situation was convoluted at best, but Lorham found that most things were simpler taken one step at a time. He knew he wasn't the quickest thinker, but, given time, he could solve most any problem. It was all just a matter of breaking things down, playing with the pieces, making connections. Mr. Willoughsby had taught him many things in the years of his employment, but the most important was to use the power of one's mind.
After a while, Lorham found himself looking at the electric lanterns swinging lazily from their iron mountings on the mansion's façade, and he focused for a moment on the nature of their workings as the beginnings of an idea crept into his mind. He stood there, motionless, thinking about the house and what he knew of science, the minutiae of the criminal mind. For Lorham, these were large thoughts, but the complex is constructed of plainer parts; in a few minutes, he was loping off towards the service stairway that led to the manor's lower basements.
The screams had started not long after the mage had left the Bentley, and the Boil listened indifferently as they increased in volume and intensity. The wet slap of metal on flesh, the crack of breaking bone, the whimpering cries of the helpless. And then laughter, twisted and jovial, followed again by the screams, even louder than before.
A broken figure was thrown through the front window, tearing the mounted bars from the outside wall, and falling upon them in a bloodied heap on the ground. Sebastian spat upon the man as he ran by, a sling already upon his shoulder. Willoughsby's estate was on the other side of Tarant, across Garrillon Bridge and well into the east quarter. The mage had at least a quarter of an hour on him, and Sebastian still had a stop to make along the way.
The Automaton was still untested, but no matter-he had something else just for the occasion.
Edward Willoughsby awoke with a start, the embers in the fireplace glowing brightly but without flame, and the light of the moon falling dimly through the curtained windows of the den. The house was completely silent beyond the slight rustle of the elm trees against the great glass panes of the manor's façade windows. He shook the sleep from his head, the last remnants of his dreams fading as he looked to the mantle clock for the hour. He couldn't see in the low light, and pulled out the pocket-watch he'd shown Perriman hours before.
The watch read half past two, but had stopped. Willoughsby chided himself for his neglect in winding it-there was never an excuse for oversight or soft-mindedness. He rose to check the time against the mantle clock, noticing for the first time that the house was unnaturally cold. He'd have Lorham check the boilers in the morning.
The mantle clock read half past two.
It was then Willoughsby understood the gravity of his situation; what was meant by the house being both silent and dark, why two clocks stopping at precisely the same moment was so much more than rare coincidence. And so, when he heard footsteps directly behind him, he was not surprised to turn and find a man lowering himself into the chair that he had been occupying only moments before.
"Greetings, Mr. Willoughsby." The man settled into the chair, crossing his legs and pulling a handkerchief from his vest pocket. Even in the dim light, Willoughsby could make out a nasty wound on the man's face, a deep gash that ran from his left earlobe to the tip of his chin. He dabbed at it with the handkerchief, his eyes never leaving those of the gnome. "You'll forgive my uninvited visit at this late hour, but we've business to attend to, and I'm afraid it just can't wait."
"Of course, of course. Please, make yourself comfortable." Willoughsby moved slowly, gesturing to an empty chair opposite the man. "Would you mind if I sat down?"
"Not at all."
Willoughsby walked to the chair, and took a seat.
"Can I offer you something to drink? Or perhaps a dressing for your wound? Frightful looking thing..."
"No, thank you. Both are quite unnecessary. I don't think I'll be here long enough to enjoy your hospitality."
"I see." The implications of the statement were apparent to Willoughsby. "Well, it seems that you're aware of my identity, sir, as well as my address, but I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Might I ask who you are?"
"My name, really, is unimportant. But you may call me Worthing. Mr. Worthing."
At a lazy gesture from the mage the embers in the fireplace cracked and exploded into a roaring fire, sending forth a rush of heat and burning ash. The flames burned brightly and many-colored, twisting and undulating, creating maniacal patterns. For a moment it was almost unbearable, but then, with another gesture, the flames settled to an acceptable level, conducive to both comfort and conversation. Willoughsby ventured a look toward the stairs.
"Yes, the young mage." Worthing looked up in the general direction of his room, squinting slightly. "Sedatives, I think? Seems he's rather drained from the day's events."
The mage continued. "I ran into another friend of yours earlier this evening. Quite an unpleasant fellow, if you don't mind me saying so. Killed a man in the most dreadful way." He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, giving Willoughsby a direct look. "I'm afraid the men I left him with were none too happy."
Willoughsby calculated. "Yes, Sebastian can be quite…persuasive when need be. Might that be where you received your wound, good sir?"
The mage smiled, seeing through the attempt. "No. I'm afraid I encountered your half-ogre servant earlier, waiting for me down near the house engines. A fierce individual, that one. You can rest assured he fought right until the very end."
Willoughsby was silent, but his pain was evident. He leaned slowly back into his chair, his shoulders sagging.
"Come now, old boy. Such feeling for a half-breed? You and I both know there's more where he came from." A conspiring wink. "The miracles of science never cease to amaze me."
The old gnome sat up stiffly, his features hardening. "Forgive the breach in etiquette, sir, but I'd entreat you to shut your bloody mouth."
With another flick of the mage's hand, Willoughsby's head was snapped back violently, the force of the blow sending his body over the arm of the chair. He landed on his back, his head striking the stones of the hearth. His vision blurred as a wave of nausea swept over him. Breathing deeply, he rose slowly to face the mage once again.
"No reason for unpleasantries. It seems your bad manners are a familial trait-you're as obstinate and stupid as your brother, Willoughsby."
Willoughsby was taken aback, his hand finding the arm of the chair. "How…?"
"Oh, I know Master Oakwood quite well. You might say he's part of the reason for all of this. Him, and the rest of the Tullan elders."
"What do you mean? What have you against the mages of Tulla? Obviously you were trained there…"
Worthing was on his feet in an instant, looming dangerously over the gnome. "Never speak of my associations with that place, or the short-sighted, rigid old fools who live there. I've grown far beyond their feeble teachings, and their antiquated ethics."
Willoughsby, at last, understood. His words came slowly, laced in malevolence. "Tulla leaves a bitter taste only for the very few, Worthing. You hadn't the capacity to finish their curriculums." The gnome spat on the ground. "You were a failure."
Lightning arced from Worthing's hand, twisting around Willoughsby's body and down his legs, searing exposed flesh. A cry escaped his lips, and he was thrown backwards, his body upsetting a pile of stacked logs. Broken a nd bleeding among the cordwood, Willoughsby attempted, weakly, to rise again. The mage approached, his hands writhing in white fire, his eyes burning an old and seething hatred.
"Old fool. I tire of this game." The fire burned bright, dancing up his arms as he raised them. " I'll pass condolences on to your brother." Willoughsby covered his eyes, power flaring like the noonday sun…
Behind the mage a façade window shattered inward, and something landed heavily among the glass and splintered wood, moonlight reflecting off burnished metal. The mage had turned, throwing his fire, but the thing was already moving, leaping in a blur of steam and whirring motors to land on the far side of the room. Worthing crouched low behind one the chairs, waiting. And again it leapt, firelight glinting off the bottom of its metal carapace, eight legs splayed in attack. It landed behind the chair, its front legs sweeping it aside and exposing the mage.
Willoughsby stared in disbelief at the creature before him, a metal arachnid as big as a man, its legs a tangle of thick wire and counterweight, its body an armored engine. Two long antennae seemed focused on Worthing as the machine heaved up and down, pistons and joints hissing steam, shifting its weight in response to his every move. It's two front legs, mounted with thick blades, swung viciously, feinting and slashing as it sought an opening. Worthing cast again, twisting to target the spider's legs, but he overextended and missed, and the creature brought a blade down across his midsection, finding its mark. The mage screamed, swearing in pain and fury, clutching his belly and stumbling further back into the room.
The spider jumped, but Worthing anticipated the move, rolling beneath it and spraying its underside with flame. It shuddered with the impact, unbalanced, landing topheavy and shattering an antique wooden table as it fell to the ground. Righting itself almost immediately, it dodged another searing attack, but two of its legs were damaged and it wobbled unsteadily as smoke poured from its innards. It a pproached the mage again, attacking in blind machine instinct, blades slashing, seeking flesh and bone. Worthing backed away, just in front of the hearth, crackling energy arcing between his hands as he crouched for another attack.
Sebastian stepped into the firelight behind the spider, his head bandaged and his left arm hung in a ragged sling, brandishing a small, gleaming pistol in his free hand. The mantle clock shattered behind Worthing as Sebastian fired, and then the mage was down, the lightning subsiding as he gripped his left leg, blood pouring forth from between his fingers. And still Sebastian was firing, chunks of masonry exploding behind the mage as he barely avoided the spider's blades.
It began as a change in the surrounding air, like a storm, a tightening pressure on the inner ear. Worthing was on his feet, hands raised to the sky, and Sebastian was having trouble with his pistol. The spider was strangely immobile, and then began shaking as a thick, bluish glow formed in the air around it. It was falling apart, gauges and screws flying from its body, joints creaking and bending in response to some unseen force. Worthing was screaming, jagged bolts of energy passing between the spider and he. There was a loud crack, and suddenly the spider was gone, only smoke where it had been standing just moments before.
Sebastian dropped the gun, unsheathing a knife from his belt. Worthing was laughing, turning to him, his eyes wide and demented.
And then, between them, another flash. A greater demon, roaring, its mouth a snarl of ragged, blood-stained teeth. The creature was huge, its limbs hung thickly with muscle and covered in scale and spiked bone. It turned to Worthing, and the floor shook with its movement. The mage cowered before it, cringing as it raised a clawed hand to strike.
And then Worthing was on the ground, unconscious, and the demon disappeared. Edward Willoughsby stood over the mage, a knotted log in his hands.
Movement at the top of the stairs, and both men turned to look. A pale figure there, doused in sweat and leaning heavily to the banister, a nightgown hanging loosely from his spare frame.
Perriman Smythe.
Worthing was taken away by the local authorities, a powerful mage among them to maintain his magickal bonds. He'd said nothing as they led him away from the estate, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Lorham was found in the basement, injured but alive, and was immediately attended to by Willoughsby's private surgeon. The prognosis was positive; aside from a few burns and bruises, his injuries were mainly superficial. He would be on his feet within a few days. The same could not be said of the men at the Bentley; not one of them left the building of their own power. Further questioning of the men led to the discovery of a large cache of weapons and ammunition-all of it was confiscated by the Tarantian police.
Sebastian allowed a cursory inspection by the surgeon, and a quick dressing of his wounds. He was gone within hours of the incident.
A few days later, Perriman and Willoughsby sat together on the patio, drinking morning tea and enjoying one another's company. Perriman's wound was healing nicely, and he'd traded his sling for a comfortable cotton suit in the nicest shade of brown, compliments of Edward Willoughsby. His bag was packed and awaiting him in the front entrance.
The sun was just coming out through a break in the clouds, and there was a hint of rain in the air. Everything was still, and, except for the slightest whisper of the wind in the maple groves, there was no sound at all. They spoke quietly, in deference to the serenity of the moment, leaning slightly towards one another in the soft morning light.
"In the end, it was all so petty. An angry man, slighted, lashing out at those he felt were responsible." Perriman shook his head, sadly. "His plan was monstrous, but I can understand why he felt as he did."
"One thing I've learned in my years, Mr. Smythe, is that evil finds its purchase in the places that make us men. Worthing was a dark and tormented soul, but we've all suffered similar misery."
"Well said, Mr. Willoughsby." Perriman finished his tea, setting his cup down on the service. "I must again thank you for your courage and candor in all of this. If not for your warnings, all might have been lost."
"And I must thank you, Mr. Smythe. It's twice I owe my life to you. You're always welcome in my home."
Perriman nodded, and stood to leave. The gnome rose, offering a hand to the young mage, which Perriman took in both of his own.
"Where to, Mr. Smythe? Directly back to Tulla? I suppose the elders there are expecting a full report..."
"Actually, I've been in contact with Master Simeon, and he's been briefed on all that has transpired here. I've been given the option of...spending a little more time abroad. There's much to be learned in Tulla, but there are more than a few lessons one can only learn outside her walls."
The gnome smiled. "I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Smythe. And where will it be? Caladon? Or perhaps Arland?"
"I haven't yet decided. There are many roads out of Tarant-perhaps I'll just pick one of them and see where it takes me."
Willoughsby led him to the door. "Please, allow me to take you back into the city. I've business there this afternoon, and the ride through the east quarter is very pleasant."
"I'd be in your debt, good sir. And when we're back in the city proper, perhaps you could drop me at the train station? I've heard it's the most enjoyable way to travel."
Willoughsby looked askance at Perriman, who was holding back a smile. And then the two burst into laughter as they passed through the front entrance and out the door.