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

         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.

Continue the adventure . . .