Chapter 1    -   Chapter 2   (page 2 of 6)    -   Chapter 3

         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.

Continue the adventure . . .