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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,<center><h1>Eldritch Detective:
The Case of the Startled Salon</h1><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Eldritch_Detective-cover.jpg" width="500" />
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/00a-Chapter+00a+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>
<a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/00a-Chapter+00a+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a></center>
<h3>Hi there!</h3>
Eldritch Detective is a multimedia fanwork of a book that is arguably itself a fanwork. <i>The Affair of the Mysterious Letter</i> by Alexis Hall is a pastiche novel that features characters in the style of Sherlock Holmes and a setting in the style of <i>Call of Cthulhu</i>—subverting both canons with a gleeful profusion of body types, sexual proclivities, and skin colors. It's gaslamp fantasy meets mystery dinner theatre, where you’re as likely to catch the eye of an ancient god as you are to find a clue in a set of footprints. For what we hope are obvious reasons, this book very much tickled our fancy, so we decided to take the madness a few steps further: We created a choose-your-own-adventure audiodrama fanwork of <i>The Affair of the Mysterious Letter</i> in the style of <i>Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective</i>.
<h3>How Do I Play, Part One: What’s Consulting Detective?</h3>
If you're passably familiar with the Sherlock Holmes mythos, this will probably make sense to you. <i>Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective</i> is a script-based tabletop game where you pick a casebook and your group is given a scene to read with Sherlock and Watson that sets up a mystery. Then you all, cast as the Baker Street Irregulars, are given a directory of London to use to pursue clues as you see fit! Each entry in the directory leads to a new scene to read, but that scene may or may not give you a clue to the mystery. In fact, you may stumble onto another mystery all together!
The goal of the game is to solve Holmes’ mystery by successfully answering a set of questions (Q1: Who did the murder? Q2: Why? Q3: Where is the missing Macguffin? etc). Once you think you’ve solved it, you read the solution scene, where you’re back at 221B presenting your findings to Holmes. He has always already solved the case and used the fewest possible stops to do it (the show-off). Some players like to try to beat Holmes, and there’s a points system built around it, but the true fun of the game is exploring London and unlocking all the mysteries that are written into each unique casebook.
<h3>How Do I Play, Part Two: What’s <i>The Affair of the Mysterious Letter</i>?</h3>
We recommend you read the book, but if you haven’t, you can still enjoy our story if you have a passing knowledge of detective mystery and/or Lovecraftian fantasy tropes. We still have Sherlock Holmes, but she’s Shaharazad Haas—a pansexual, opium-addicted sorceress! We still have Watson, but he’s John Wyndham—a trans veteran of the Unending Wars against the Empress of Nothing. There are malevolent gods, time-y wime-y shenanigans, and the bustling eldritch metropolis of Khelathra-Ven at your feet. If you haven’t read the book, or you read it a while ago and would like a refresher, we’ve written a short intro to set you up for the world of Eldritch Detective at the start of the case. (BTW, there are no plot spoilers there or anywhere within the game for <i>The Affair of the Mysterious Letter</i>).
<h3>How Do I Play, Part Three: No Really, How Do I Play?</h3>
<h4>I'd Like to Play Audio Only</h4>
<a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon_audio-only" rel="nofollow">Here</a> is the full zip of Eldritch Detective: Audio Edition! To play, we recommend you still use one (just one!!) piece of text, and that is the List of Informants & Directory (JPG & PDF formats), which shows you which track number to play to visit which scenes. It’s read aloud in track 86, but it’s quicker to just refer to the written directory and skip around as your whimsy takes you. To start, play tracks 0-2 back to back, as these are our introductory scenes. Then consult the List of Informants & Directory, and pick a place to start your investigation!
When you think you’ve solved the case, take a listen to the Questions track (track 87—careful there’s spoilers!). To check your answers, listen to Questions & Answers (track 88) and then head on over to the Solutions scene (track 78)—spoilers GALORE here, obviously.
Please know, if you ever get stuck but don’t want to spoil yourself, we have two hint scenes—one with Haas at 221B (track 55) and one with an imprisoned Lord of Ven named Walking Upwards Unmaking (you can speak with our world’s most approachable terrifyingly-all-knowing immortal at track 34).
<h4>I'd Like to Play on AO3</h4>
We’ve made each scene’s text and audio available for reading/streaming as the individual chapters of one AO3 work <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366429/chapters/61506214">here</a>. If you’re most comfortable with AO3, this version of our game is fully playable and allows for clean reading and easy note-taking. If streaming is not your bag, but you’d still like to listen to the scenes as you read them, head back up to the Audio Only heading and download our .zip! If audio is not your bag at all, you can ignore the audio players on each scene, BUT we hope to change your mind as we put a lot of work into fully casting and soundscaping this work!
If you’re getting ready to play, we recommend switching over to Chapter By Chapter viewing NOW (right now!!!) to avoid spoilers and confusion down the line. Each chapter contains a direct link or links to the appropriate next place to go (mostly by linking you back to the Directory, which links to most everything else). So ignore AO3’s navigation and let our game’s logic be your guide through this twisty tale. :)
<h4>I'd Like to Play Here!</h4>
We have also hosted an HTML version of this fanwork here, which was created using Twine. It functions (and looks) a lot like the AO3 version, with each scene featuring an embedded audio player for streaming and the text of the scene. Here though, everything is independent from the AO3 archive, so no View Entire Work issues or extraneous AO3 navigation menus here. It also has more sophisticated links between scenes and some BONUS CONTENT like an inventory that keeps track of all the clues you’ve found so far. However, please note that every version, including this one, retains the format of its parent game, <i>Consulting Detective</i>. The scenes don't change no matter how many times you visit them, and some scenes may refer to things that "already happened" in other scenes, even if you haven't actually followed those leads yet. These are the quirks of playing a print-and-paper game, and we've decided to keep them intact (if only for our own sanities).
If you enjoy playing text-based discovery games, this version will probably make the most sense for you, and we hope it adds an extra level of delight to your experience as you explore everything that our monster of a fanwork has to offer.
[[Okay, great! I'm ready to start the case.|Intro]]<center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/85-Chapter+85+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/85-Chapter+85+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center><article><center><h1>THE ESOTERIC REVIEW</h1></center>
<p class="subtitle fancy"><span><i>23rd day, 8th month, 4th year, 21st council</i></span></p>
<div class="copy"><center><b>COLOSSUS MISSING</b></center>
The massive stone structure that was once the most notable landmark in Ven, which remained a prominent feature after the city sank into the ocean to become the underwater district, has vanished. Experts are unclear as to whether the Colossus, which has been studied for generations by historians and archaeologists, has been removed by forces unknown, displaced in time and/or space, or unmade entirely from existence. The Council of Interested Parties has proposed a motion to convene a hearing to form a committee to create a task force to open an investigation.
<b><center>DIRIGIBLE RACE</center></b>
One year after Davina Wright’s successful solo flight across the Dread Wastes of Bai, the best aviators in Khelathra-Ven prepare for a race over that very same terrain. Alongside Davina Wright, Nikolaj Fortescue-Blake and Jacques Pun stand ready to make the attempt. The race has attracted the attention of dirigible enthusiasts and sponsors alike, with several major entities vying for their chosen captains. The aviators are all in good health and have each made practice runs over portions of the course, with Davina Wright the current favourite to win.
<b><center>CRIME SYNDICATES IN CONFLICT</center></b>
First Augur Mehdiyeva of the Myrmidons has made a statement in response to concerns regarding the underworld feud between the Throat-Slitters’ Consortium and the Unquenchable Flame, two of the notorious criminal organizations which operate out of the Sunken City of Ven. "This is an internal matter. Right now, they’re only targeting each other," stated Mehdiyeva. "Until they start bothering other people, we’re happy to leave them to it." First Augur Mehdiyeva has recently received criticism for failing to protect residents of Khelathra-Ven, as nearly a dozen Carcosan immigrants have been found dead around the city over the past day at the time of print. Mehdiyeva has claimed that there is no evidence or motive connecting these incidents, and an investigation is in progress.
<center><b>PRICE WAR OVER SQUID INK</b></center>
A sharp rise in the popularity of Mollusca Indigo ink has led to speculation over whether costs might similarly escalate, as the source of the ink, the viscerate cosmic squid, is relatively rare and disinclined to commercial enterprise. The Ubiquitous Companies of Dyers and Printers & Typesetters have each expressed strong interest in obtaining the stock currently on the open market, leading some experts to predict that scarcity will drive up both prices and demand. This follows closely on the Winter Palace’s inflation adjustment to the Seravic Chant of Commerce, which sets the new conversion rate of 3 lines of Chant at an equivalent worth to 8 Athran florins, 11 Khelish rials, 54 Eyan shillings, and approximately one-half of a Marvosi trade dagger.
<center><b>FINE DINING COMPLAINT</b></center>
A complaint has been filed against the well-known Vennish restaurant, Squamous Fine Dining, after a customer reported the discovery of a human finger inside her entree. The restaurant is famous for maintaining its own ‘free-range’ fishery, where guests enjoy the novelty of catching their own meals, and eating them in a thriving aquatic environment. The question of what the fish themselves are fed is now being discussed by celebrity chefs and experts on Vennish cuisine. Squamous Fine Dining has not made an official statement.
<center><b>ALCHEMICAL EVIDENCE ACCEPTED
IN TEMPLE-COURT</b></center>
After long debate, the Council of Interested Parties has ruled that spiritual residues are admissible as evidence in temple-court. This practice has long been held in contention, as any number of sorceries, identity transformations, intense meditations, and other such activities might cause the results of alchemical testing to be misleading. Spiritual residues are defined as ‘transubstantially detectable traces that all sentient beings leave on everything they touch, interact with, or, in extreme cases, think too much about’. The new legislation opens the door for certified alchemists to give testimony on their findings before a hierophant-judge, and has been met with an equal measure of support and opposition.
<center><b>MUSIC CONTROVERSY</b></center>
Popular torch singer and trade-guild representative Perdita, of the Ubiquitous Company of Dyers, has received public criticism for the title and theme of her latest radio release, ‘The Secret Names of the Star-Demons of Vz’att’. While the song contains no actual words of power or revelations regarding the titular entities, sorcerous practitioners who have long sought these secret names consider it a blasphemy in poor taste. This is not the first time artists have come under attack for a similar theme—in the 3rd month of the 4th year of the 21st council, the <i>Ladies’ Aspirational Repository</i> featured an art gallery show entitled ‘The 9 Lies and 5 Truths That Bind the Dreaming God in the Cyst of Unyielding Recollection’.
<center><b>‘WHO’S WHO’ LITERARY GUIDE</b></center>
Noted literary critic Percy Lutrell has released his annual review, which highlights Khelathra-Ven’s most prominent novel-writers, playwrights, and poets. Lutrell is considered the leading expert on figures in the literary community, and his reviews of this year’s highly-anticipated new releases are not to be missed. This guide highlights the brightest stars and biggest scandals of the writing world, as well as offering a detailed look at the season’s best in literature and live performance.
<center><b>PARAKEETS DECLARED AN INVASIVE SPECIES</b></center>
The importation of Ulveshi Shapeshifting Parakeets, long considered favourite pets by students at the Honoured University of Khel, is raising concerns over their status as an invasive species. "Students don’t mean to let them get away, but they still escape," the Exclusive Society of Naturalists reported in a statement earlier this week. "Or they’re left behind when the students graduate, and make their way into the wild. It’s an unsustainable practice." Since the parakeets can present themselves, however briefly, into any niche in an ecosystem in the form of their choice, estimates of the damage wrought by their release in Khelathra-Ven greatly vary, but experts are convinced there is a serious concern.
</div></article>
<p class="subtitle fancy"><span>VALENTINO'S GOOD ROUGH SHAG</span></p>
<center><i>If you want a good rough shag,
The choice is Valentino’s!
Oh-so-good when it gets hot,
Give our good rough shag a shot!</i></center>
When you need a pick-me-up during a quiet moment alone, to fill the time or to dispel a creeping feeling of existential dread, why not try Valentino’s Good Rough Shag? Made of the highest quality tobacco, take Valentino’s with you wherever you go.
Meeting your sweetheart for a romantic stroll around the Lake of Stars in Little Carcosa? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Chartering a wyvern or flying horse and carriage at the Hippocrene for an aerial journey across the Hundred Kingdoms? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Making your ascent via mechanical platform to Fata Morgana, Khelathra-Ven’s famous flying library? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Purchasing a worm at the Docks at Shattered Point, in preparation for a visit to the city’s underwater district, the Sunken City of Ven? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Wherever you are in life, be prepared with Valentino’s Good Rough Shag. There’s nothing else like it.
<center><i>If you want a good rough shag
The choice is Valentino’s!
Oh-so-good when it gets hot
Give our good rough shag a shot!</i>
<code>(This message brought to you by Valentino’s Good Rough Shag
and the Unified Tourism Board of Khelathra-Ven.)</code></center>
<<if visited("News") is 1>><<set $cbodies to 1>><</if>><<if visited("Case Intro")>>
[[Consult amongst ourselves.|Us]]
[[Review the case introduction.|Case Intro]]
<<else>>[[Onward.|Case Intro]]<</if>><center><h1>Eldritch Detective:
The Case of the Startled Salon</h1>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/02-Chapter+2+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>
<a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/02-Chapter+2+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a></center>
This particular morning at 221b Martyrs Walk is a quiet one, which is unusual, given that the lady of the house is the noted sorceress Shaharazad Haas. We find ourselves in the parlor, which never bears comfortable examination but appears to be free of fresh bloodstains and arcane workings, studying under the learned eye of our tutor, Captain John Wyndham, who has taken an interest in our education and integration into the cosmopolitan city of Khelathra-Ven.
There are some aspects of local culture to which we are still adjusting, one such being the indelicate advertisement playing over the wireless radio in the corner of the room. Our discomfort is abruptly cut short as Ms. Haas, who is currently enjoying that same brand of tobacco recently mentioned by <i>The Esoteric Review</i> broadcast, says a number of words we pretend politely not to hear—both for their sorcerous as well as uncensored content—and the broadcast squawks into silence.
Our tutor raises his eyebrows, as if to inquire whether that was really necessary.
"I’ll have that horrible song stuck in my head for the rest of the day now," replies Ms. Haas. "And anyway, we’re about to have a visit from the Myrmidons."
As an aside, it should be noted that Ms. Haas does not use the word ‘horrible’ in describing the advertisement, but here we take our cue from our learned mentor in applying certain artistic licenses to our narrative, for the preservation of our hostess’ modesty and reputation.
Captain Wyndham sits upright, though his excellent posture makes this a minor adjustment. "Myrmidons? How could you know? And why should they come here?"
"Really, Captain," answers Ms. Haas. "You’ve heard the news broadcasts. It was only a matter of time."
We are about to make an inquiry of our own when someone calls at the door, and we hear the landlady, Mrs. Hive, pass down the hallway to answer. Her steps, shuffling in the somewhat worse-for-wear corpse she has worn for the past three weeks in a state of slow decay, are unmistakable, as is the buzzing drone of the hive of wasps that makes up her collective consciousness. We cannot hear particulars of their conversation at the door, but after a brief interval, Ms. Haas is proven correct, as none other than Second Augur Lawson appears in the entryway to the parlor.
"Augur Lawson," says Ms. Haas. "It seems you’re experiencing a cadaverous windfall."
Second Augur Lawson—who I shall not describe here, as his appearance has been skillfully and poetically rendered in the latest installment of Captain Wyndham’s serialized adventures with the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, published monthly in <i>The Strait</i>—reacts to this perplexing statement with a small grimace. "I’m not surprised you’d hear about that. However, that’s not the reason I’m here."
Ms. Haas seems equally unsurprised by this revelation, but gives no sign of pursuing the conversational lead. It is Captain Wyndham who speaks next, gesturing in invitation to the unoccupied side of the loveseat. "Perhaps you’d take a seat while you enlighten us. Would you care for a cup of tea?"
Mrs. Hive buzzes loudly at this suggestion, but shuffles off nevertheless in the direction of the kitchen. The right leg of her current residence has become partially disconnected at the hip joint, and drags disconcertingly behind her as she exits.
Second Augur Lawson seems tempted by the offer of hospitality, but shakes his head to decline Captain Wyndham’s invitation. "Thank you, but I have to get back to work. Haas is right; we’re up to our ears in dead Carcosans, with no idea who they are or who’s killing them."
We exclaim in alarm over this news, at which point Second Augur Lawson appears to notice us for the first time. He frowns, but before he can speak, Captain Wyndham steps in to make introductions.
"Second Augur Lawson, may I introduce my fellow countrypersons from Ey, recently arrived in Khelathra-Ven to study at the Honoured University of Khel. I’ve been helping to get them settled here, and Ms. Haas has been kind enough to involve them in some of our investigations."
Second Augur Lawson looks horrified at this information, and addresses his next comment to Ms. Haas. "You’re not dragging all of them into your usual messes, too."
"If Captain Wyndham insists on collecting a brood of ducklings to trail quacking in his wake, then I don’t see why they shouldn’t make themselves useful. Why don’t you tell us about your case?"
Second Augur Lawson opens his mouth to speak, but visibly changes his mind and relents. No doubt he is concerned about the work he’s left behind with the Myrmidons, who are responsible for maintaining order in the city.
"There’s been an incident at a writers’ salon in Ecet’s Cove," Second Augur Lawson informs us. "You’ll be familiar with the address—it’s the home of Yasmine and Jamal Benamara, where I believe I once had the ill luck to arrest you."
At this, Captain Wyndham colors in embarrassment, and we turn slightly to afford him some privacy as Second Augur Lawson continues.
"We don’t know much about the device that was employed, but everyone at the scene reported a sense of fear and existential horror, enough to cause them all to flee blindly from the house, chased by ‘unnamable terror’. We’re lucky none of them ended up in the water and we could round them all back up again; the only way out of the village is by barge from the docks, so they didn’t get far."
At this juncture, Second Augur Lawson produces an artifact of a type we have never encountered before, although we notice that Captain Wyndham frowns upon seeing it. "Mrs. Benamara was hosting the salon; her husband’s a lawyer-priest of Estra, so I don’t have to tell you this needs to be handled with care. I’d take on the case personally, but the way things are, my plate is full. I’m asking you to look into this because it needs to be solved quickly. And <i>discreetly</i>," he adds, with a warning look at Ms. Haas.
"I’m rather busy myself at the moment," replies Ms. Haas, which is something of a surprise to us, as she had earlier been complaining of boredom. It also appears new to Captain Wyndham, by his expression, although he doesn’t contradict her. Ms. Haas turns to consider us with a gleam in her eyes. "However, I believe I know just the people for the job."
Second Augur Lawson looks skeptical, but is polite enough not to voice any doubts. "Captain Wyndham," he says, clearing his throat, "I wondered if you might analyze the device for us. As I mentioned, my department is spread thin, and I have confidence in your work and integrity."
At this, Captain Wyndham gains anew some of the color in his cheeks that had faded just a moment ago. "Of course. Will you need any assistance with your other case? I’m just off to work, but if I can be of any help...?"
Second Augur Lawson declines both further aid and the tea brought in by Mrs. Hive, who has overheard enough of the conversation—and whose host is in a state of considerable decomposition—to inquire after the possibility of obtaining one of the mysterious and unidentified Carcosan corpses as a new residence.
We are eager to begin our investigations, and are dismissed by Ms. Haas with a limp-wristed flick of her hand. "Off you go, ducklings," she tells us. "I think you’re up to handling this one on your own."
[[Consult amongst ourselves|Us]]We made sure to take a list of helpful contacts along with our trusty directory of Khelathra-Ven.
<center><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Directory-Khelathra-Ven-1.jpg" width="400" /> <img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Directory-Khelathra-Ven-2.jpg" width="400" />
<a href="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Directory-Khelathra-Ven.pdf" rel="nofollow">[PDF at Archive.org]</a>
<a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/86a-Chapter+86a+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/86a-Chapter+86a+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
<h3>INFORMANT LIST</h3>
<b>[[Captain John Wyndham at Little Sisters of Thotek the Devourer Hospital|18]]</b>
<i>For medical observations and alchemical analysis of evidence</i> (Scene 18)
<b>[[Second Augur Gabriel Lawson at New Arcadia Yard|24]]</b>
<i>For official Myrmidon investigations</i> (Scene 24)
<b>[[Augur Extraordinary Joy-in-Sorrow Standfast at the Sorcerous Crimes Unit|25]]</b>
<i>For sorcery and magical artifacts</i> (Scene 25)
<b>[[Fata Morgana, the flying library|22]]</b>
<i>For sources of records and reference materials</i> (Scene 22)
<b>[[Cora Beck at her home|48]]</b>
<i>Information about guilds, trade, and the markets</i> (Scene 48)
<b>[[Jeremiah Donne at the Ossuary Bank|4]]</b>
<i>For information on matters financial and necromantical</i> (Scene 4)
<b>[[Enoch Reef at his hideout|67]]</b>
<i>For criminal underworld contacts</i> (Scene 67)
<b>[[Saltpetre at the Docks at Shattered Point|6]]</b>
<i>For movements between Khelathra and the Underwater Sunken City of Ven</i> (Scene 6)
<b>[[Blessing Ngoie at the Hippocrene|3]]</b>
<i>For foreign aerial travel in and out of Khelathra-Ven</i> (Scene 3)
<b>[[Shaharazad Haas at 221b Martyrs Walk|55]]</b>
<i>For a hint to get you back on track</i> (Scene 55)
<b>[[Walking Upwards Unmaking at her eternal prison in the Coral Towers|34]]</b>
<i>For help for those in desperate need of further assistance</i> (Scene 34)
Note: If you're stuck and want to finish the game, this location will provide spoiler answers for the case.
<center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/86b-Chapter+86b+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/86b-Chapter+86b+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
<h3>DIRECTORY</h3>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td><b>BUSINESS TYPES</b></td>
<td><b>COMMERCIAL LISTINGS</b></td>
<td rowspan="41" style="border:white;color:white;background-color:white"></td>
<td><b>PRIVATE ADDRESSES</b></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Aerial Hub</td>
<td>[[3 - Hippocrene|3]]</td>
<td>[[43 - Bahrami, Lord|43]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Bank</td>
<td>[[4 - Ossuary Bank|4]]</td>
<td>[[48 - Beck, Cora|48]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="2">Docks</td>
<td>[[5 - Docks at Ecet's Cove|5]]</td>
<td>[[44 - Benamara, Jamal|44]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[6 - Docks at Shattered Point|6]]</td>
<td>[[44 - Benamara, Yasmine|44]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="7">Embassies</td>
<td>[[7 - Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey|7]]</td>
<td>[[45 - de la Martynière, Katrina|45]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[8 - Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh|8]]</td>
<td>[[46 - de Luca, Ambrosia|46]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[9 - Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms|9]]</td>
<td>[[47 - de Silver, Evadne|47]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[10 - Embassy of Marvos|10]]</td>
<td>[[48 - Delhali, Eirene Viola|48]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[11 - Embassy of Mircalla|11]]</td>
<td>[[46 - Domitia|46]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="softmerge"><div class="softmerge-inner">[[12 - Embassy of the People's Republic of Carcosa|12]]</div></td>
<td>[[49 - Donahue-Kishen, J.R.|49]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[13 - Embassy of the Uthmani Sultanate|13]]</td>
<td>[[50 - Donne, Jeremiah|50]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="4">Guilds</td>
<td>[[14 - Ubiquitous Company of Dyers|14]]</td>
<td>[[51 - du Maurier, Charles|51]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[15 - Ubiquitous Company of Fishers|15]]</td>
<td>[[52 - Farah|52]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="softmerge"><div class="softmerge-inner">[[16 - Ubiquitous Company of Printers & Typesetters|16]]</div></td>
<td>[[53 - Fortescue-Blake, Nikolaj|53]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[17 - Ubiquitous Company of Skinners|17]]</td>
<td>[[54 - Garibaldi|54]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Hospital</td>
<td>[[18 - Little Sisters of Thotek the Devourer|18]]</td>
<td>[[55 - Haas, Shaharazad|55]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Industrial</td>
<td>[[19 - Pearl Farms|19]]</td>
<td>[[55 - Hive|55]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="2">Legal Firms</td>
<td>[[20 - Lawyer-priests of Estra|20]]</td>
<td>[[56 - Khan, Ptolemy|56]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[21 - Shah, Shah, and Puppinghorn|21]]</td>
<td>[[57 - Kovac, Vasile|57]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Library</td>
<td>[[22 - Fata Morgana|22]]</td>
<td>[[58 - Lawson, Gabriel|58]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="5">Municipal</td>
<td>[[23 - Council of Interested Parties|23]]</td>
<td>[[59 - Lutrell, Percy|59]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[24 - New Arcadia Yard|24]]</td>
<td>[[60 - Mehdiyeva|60]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[25 - Sorcerous Crimes Unit|25]]</td>
<td>[[61 - Ngoie, Blessing|61]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[26 - Temple-court|26]]</td>
<td>[[62 - Pennyfeather, Samuel|62]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[27 - Winter Palace|27]]</td>
<td>[[63 - Perdita|63]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="4">Periodical Offices</td>
<td>[[28 - Ladies' Aspirational Repository|28]]</td>
<td>[[64 - Pun, Jacques|64]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[29 - The Esoteric Review|29]]</td>
<td>[[65 - Puppinghorn, Gwendolyn|65]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[30 - The Strait|30]]</td>
<td>[[66 - Reef, Asenath|66]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[31 - Zheng's Travel Guides|31]]</td>
<td>[[67 - Reef, Enoch|67]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="2">Public Parks</td>
<td>[[32 - Lake of Stars|32]]</td>
<td>[[68 - Roberts|68]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[33 - Unremembered Gardens|33]]</td>
<td>[[69 - Saltpetre|69]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Residence</td>
<td>[[34 - Coral Towers|34]]</td>
<td>[[70 - Standfast, Joy-in-Sorrow|70]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="3">Restaurants</td>
<td>[[35 - Cordwangle's Superior Pie Emporium|35]]</td>
<td>[[71 - Thrumpmusket, Lady Quinella|71]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[36 - Sea-god's Nipple|36]]</td>
<td>[[72 - Toksvig, Mia|72]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[37 - Squamous Fine Dining|37]]</td>
<td>[[73 - Van der Berg, Iacomo|73]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Theatre</td>
<td>[[38 - Mise En Abyme|38]]</td>
<td>[[74 - Vandegrift-Osbourne, Francesca|74]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td rowspan="2">Tobacconists</td>
<td>[[39 - Professor Lipquist's Filterless Cigarillos|39]]</td>
<td>[[75 - Wilde|75]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>[[40 - Valentino's Good Rough Shag|40]]</td>
<td>[[76 - Wright, Davina|76]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Train Station</td>
<td>[[41 - Austral Express|41]]</td>
<td>[[55 - Wyndham, John|55]]</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>University</td>
<td>[[42 - Honoured University of Khel|42]]</td>
<td>[[77 - Zheng|77]]</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
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Captain John Wyndham greets us with the warmth and familiarity to which we’ve grown accustomed these past several months. He briskly washes his hands, and then settles down on his laboratory stool with a thoughtful expression, the device placed on the table next to him.
"I’m glad you caught me when you did—Ms. Patience Eze, my university friend, is in town, and we’re headed to lunch at... er.... At that one place. You know. The... the Sea place."
He gestures in a way that’s vaguely euphemistic, although we have little idea as to what exactly he’s referring, and flushes bright red.
"My friend! She’s quite an accomplished interdimensional metallurgist, you know. Took me in when I returned to Khelathra-Ven."
He reaches for the device on the table, and hands it to us.
"To the matter at hand, then. I’ve been able to thoroughly examine the device used at the salon. It’s been deactivated, so it is quite safe to handle. It’s an unusual piece of machinery—I recognize it due to my and Ms. Haas’ occasional encounters with the criminal underworld. In the interest of solving crimes, of course!
"It looks as though it’s been intentionally modified to be less potent—some versions of this particular device can open rifts into the void and drive a soul to madness, or worse, I’m sorry to say. It requires manual activation, and cannot be detonated remotely or using a timer—which can be quite a double-edged sword, as whoever activates it suffers the same ill effects as those they’re intending to target. The individual who used this device could have intended merely to frighten those attending the salon, or was not aware that the device had been altered, and was thwarted from causing greater harm."
He settles back against the counter, giving us a considering look.
"I can recognize that gleam in your eyes. Do me a favor, and take care, will you? And above all else... be sure to enjoy yourselves along the way. A bit of adventure does a body good. I can see why Second Augur Lawson requires assistance, what with the Carcosan mess. Do you know, one of the bodies showed up at our hospital just this morning to be donated for research. Just appeared on our doorstep with an unsigned note pinned on the lapel. Most irregular."
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When we find Second Augur Lawson directing the Myrmidons at New Arcadia Yard, he stands in the center of a storm. Augurs rush between desks and offices, and we must step carefully to evade them. In doing so, we find ourselves also evading a large puddle of an oozing, gelatinous liquid of a pale celadon color, which we are unable to identify and everyone else is giving a wide berth, and which we therefore treat with respect and care.
"Your pardon, Siram." The Vennish pronoun seems the most considerate when addressing such a being. The puddle oozes forward, creeping slowly toward our shoes, and we hasten our progress away from it. We look up to find Second Augur Lawson staring at us with a hard expression, one that shifts in recognition with a brief flash of disappointment.
"Oh, it’s you. Has Haas solved the case, or can I help you with something?" He turns back to one of the Myrmidons hovering nearby and points with his metal hand, the small gemstones on its surface winking in the light. "Get back to the crime scene, I want that body brought back here and identified. And someone find Garibaldi!"
He raises his voice to pronounce this last, which results in a new flurry of activity. Keeping the gelatinous puddle in our periphery, we move out of the way and inquire about the state of affairs at New Arcadia Yard. Second Augur Lawson’s rich ochre complexion has gone gray with fatigue, although his bearing and manner give no sign of it.
"Lady Thrumpmusket had a body turn up in her back garden. She called for the Myrmidons, but by the time we’d turned up, it was nowhere to be seen. And before you ask, it was another Carcosan. There’s too many of these bodies that have gone missing for it to be a coincidence. They didn’t just get up and walk away—someone wants this kept quiet. We didn’t have a chance to search the body, but I’d wager there was no identification on it, the same as all the others."
We politely decline the offer of a wager, explaining that such practices are frowned upon in Ey. Second Augur Lawson stares blankly at us for a moment, then sighs.
"Haas is going to eat you alive. I hope John knows what he’s doing." For a moment, his expression flickers again, and then he shakes his head. "We don’t know where these Carcosans are coming from. They have to be finding some way into the city, before they meet such a sorry end. It’s not the welcome I’d have wanted for them. Whoever it is smuggling them in—by rail, or flight, or sorcery, or some other, illegal means—they’re doing a poor job of keeping their charges alive. And to top it all off, with no end of work to do, one of my augurs hasn’t shown up today."
We inquire as to whether there might be any connection between the deaths and Lady Thrumpmusket. Second Augur Lawson frowns. "None that I’m aware of. You don’t recognize the name? She did the woodcarvings for <i>Treasure Peak, or, The Mutiny of the Admiral Newton.</i> Children’s book, written by Vandegrift-Osbourne. I’d have a hard time of it finding a motive."
We excuse ourselves to continue our investigations, nearly losing our balance when we turn to find that the celadon liquid has oozed to within inches of our heels. Second Augur Lawson shakes his head at our apologies to the puddle.
"It’s not a transubstantial Lord of Ven; someone’s just spilled alchemical fluid." He wishes us good luck on our investigations with a dubious note in his voice, and we hastily make our way out.
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Augur Extraordinary Joy-in Sorrow Standfast has the fair-haired colouring of our homeland, and piercing blue eyes we find chilling even without taking into account her unusual garb, which is modeled after the Faithful Society of Witch Hunters of Ey. She is disinclined to assist us, and no warmer in her manner after we explain that we are here at the request of Second Augur Lawson to investigate a crime.
Her attention sharpens in an unsettling fashion when we produce the device used to cause such distress among those attending the writers’ salon, and the nature of our conversation takes a turn in the direction of inquisition.
"You confess to being in possession of a sorcerous artifact? You are aware that possession of such a device could lead to a charge of witchcraft?"
We had not known, and admit our ignorance, making the clarification that this particular artifact was given into our care by Second Augur Lawson himself. When we explain that our tutor, Captain John Wyndham, had been asked for an alchemical analysis, Augur Extraordinary Standfast’s demeanor becomes acrimonious to a degree we find alarming.
"You also confess to John Wyndham’s possession of sorcerous devices? You name him as an accessory to criminal activities involving witchcraft?"
Augur Extraordinary Standfast is not placated by our defense of Captain Wyndham’s character, and indeed seems incensed by our praise of his moral virtue.
"You will be held for questioning related to charges of witchcraft and sorcery," says the Augur Extraordinary. She completes her examination of the device and sets it well out of our reach. "And of trafficking with underworld criminals as well. This weapon may have been disabled to prevent fatalities, but it is still dangerous, and impossible to obtain through legal means. You bring shame on your parents and your nation."
We again attempt to explain the circumstances which led to our possession of the evidence from the salon, but this leads only to additional charges, which the Augur Extraordinary seems to relish pronouncing.
"Possession of evidence from a crime scene, and an accessory to an attack on citizens through sorcerous means. You’re as responsible as the person who pressed this button."
From this we manage to infer that the artifact in our possession is sorcerous in origin, and that the person responsible must have been present at the crime scene. If we hoped this would clear us of Augur Extraordinary Standfast’s litany of charges, however, we are disappointed.
Our copy of the unintelligible recording cylinder also in our possession is likewise confiscated, and examined outside of the room and our hearing. After its return, we are forced to plead guilty on charges of breaking and entering and intellectual property theft, to our considerable chagrin. Augur Extraordinary Standfast sweeps out of the room in triumph to arrange a formal interview on record, and we are left gazing at the conference room door, which we are guiltily aware is unlocked.
With a silent plea for forgiveness at our dishonest methods, which we hope will be excused by circumstance and noble intentions, we collect our crime scene evidence and leave the conference room, taking the first opportunity that presents itself to crawl out of an open window and escape to the street below.
As we dangle from the window sill, contemplating the distance to the ground, we overhear Augur Extraordinary Joy-in-Sorrow Standfast giving sharp orders to others we presume are members of the Sorcerous Crimes Unit.
"The message refers to an amnesia spell, cast by sorcerous means. Prepare a force to enter Ven; we know exactly where they’ll be. Meet me at the Unremembered Gardens."
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We stop in at the Fata Morgana, where a very helpful librarian sits us down with the Company of Strangers' <i>Record of Days</i> for the period in question.
<blockquote>This is the current official account as of the time of publication, which may be revised in the future, or rather an alternate timeline of the present, due to the intervention of mad gods and/or time and interdimensional travel.</blockquote>
Skip ahead to the good bits...Ah.
<blockquote>When the line broke, they began to fear that all was lost. If the Empress of Nothing took Byrnum Pike, the whole of the Undulant Valley would fall to her as well. Hope came at last in the form of a small company of reinforcements.
Having been diverted on their way to another front, Havoc Company found a small ravine through which they could pass undetected. They emerged at the back of the Empress' horde and fell upon their unsuspecting flank. Very shortly, the tide of the battle turned</blockquote>
We express some curiosity about the nature of the war; Captain Wyndham's face always gets that pinched look whenever somebody questions him too closely about it. The helpful librarian soon returns with more materials, and our eyes are caught by a word we've heard before.
<blockquote>An extratemporal jezail is a fiendish weapon devised by those who serve the Empress of Nothing. Its bullets appear and disappear, unanchored in time. It does not merely do injury once, but many times: the injury, though it first healed years ago, may reappear fresh, and not always in the same place where it was initially incurred. In this way many careers in the Company of Strangers have been ended.</blockquote>
In a thoughtful mood, we return to the light and bustle of daytime in Khelathra-Ven.
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We announce ourselves at the door of the comfortable town house kept by Mrs. Eirene Viola Delhali and Mrs. Cora Beck in Athra, and are shortly greeted by one of the ladies of the house, whose attention we have brought down on ourselves by mentioning the name of the consulting sorceress, Shaharazad Haas.
"What has she done now?" demands Mrs. Viola, her hands on her hips and a dangerous glint in her pale brown eyes. "No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. What are you doing here?"
Hastening to explain, we assure Mrs. Viola that it was not Ms. Haas who sent us, but our own investigations. At this, Mrs. Viola’s countenance unbends somewhat, although she doesn’t seem any more pleased to see us on her doorstep. When we mention the Carcosans lately in the news, she looses a string of language unbecoming a lady of her standing, although it is perhaps understandable, given the circumstances.
Mrs. Viola turns on her heel and stalks away into the house, leaving the door open and us at a loss. After a moment, in which the lady does not reappear, we cautiously follow after her, closing the front door behind us.
We find Mrs. Viola in the parlor, knocking back a measure of green-gold liquor and immediately pouring a second.
"It figures she’d be involved in this mess," Mrs. Viola says, while we hover uncertainly across the room, it being poor manners to sit without invitation, and while a lady stands. "My people are dying all over the city, and she’s found herself an interesting mystery."
We reassure Mrs. Viola that Ms. Haas is only acting at the request of Second Augur Lawson, and she snorts. "Not likely. If she’s looking into it, it’s for some reason of her own. Dying refugees aren’t one of her concerns."
At this, Mrs. Viola sits abruptly, and we become aware that the facade she has presented to us hides a deep-seated fear, which we now glimpse in her expression.
"My friend Ambrosia is the daughter of Citizen de Luca, a Repairer of Reputations," she tells us, almost conversationally but for the tremble of her hand upon the glass tumbler. "I haven’t decided yet whether that might save us, or doom us to the same fate as those others."
We are joined in the parlor by Mrs. Beck, who has a fairer Athran complexion than her Carcosan wife, a pale blush in her cheeks and a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
"I won’t let anything happen to you," says Mrs. Beck, and Mrs. Viola turns her face up to her beloved with a wan, but genuine, smile. Mrs. Beck sets her hand on Mrs. Viola’s shoulder, and Mrs. Viola’s own hand comes up to cover it, the two of them posed together as though they were sitting for a portrait.
When Mrs. Viola seems to have calmed, Mrs. Beck turns her attention to us. "You’ve come from Shaharazad Haas? Are you here about the body at the skinners’ guild?"
This is news to us, and we explain that we are not, but would be grateful for the information. Mrs. Beck shakes her head.
"It’s the most bizarre thing. Someone tried to donate a body this morning to the Ubiquitous Company of Skinners. They refused it, of course, since there was no identification and the donor definitely wasn’t next-of-kin—she was Vennish. The whole thing was fishy enough already, but then a few hours later, a Carcosan woman turns up asking to reclaim the body—which the guild didn’t have, as they’d turned it away."
Mrs. Viola clears her throat. "Evadne de Silver," she tells us. "That’s the name she gave, and the description matches, but I don’t understand why she’d be involved. She’s an anthropologist—I know her from..." Here Mrs. Viola hesitates, before finishing, "former social circles."
Mrs. Beck snorts. "You don’t have to dance around it for me. I guessed you were intimately acquainted from your reaction when I first told you her name."
"It was a long time ago," replies Mrs. Viola, embarrassed, and clears her throat. "I’m afraid she might be wrapped up with the Repairers of Reputations, although that’s not like her at all. I can’t imagine why else she would try to claim a Carcosan exile..."
At this reminder of her worries, Mrs. Viola falls silent, and Mrs. Beck leans down to put both arms around her. We leave quietly, offering our apologies for the intrusion, and see ourselves out.
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We make our way to the Isle of the Dead by way of a convenient ferry. The Ossuary Bank is perched on a great cliff, flanked by rather imposing effigies of Anu and Amn, their arms raised as if standing guard.
The sight makes us shiver.
We sign in at the front desk at the entrance, which is opulently decorated with white marble columns and a grand staircase, various undead servants shuffling about busily carrying stacks of papers, their eyes and mouths sewn shut with copper wire, their livery neatly pressed.
We do our best to not pay too much mind to the servants—who are disconcerting to say the least—and request an audience with a Mr. Jeremiah Donne. We recall Captain John Wyndham mentioning his being an acquaintance of sorts, if one can ever be truly acquainted with a necromancer.
Mr. Donne appears a few minutes later, his green eyes blinking curiously through his thick glasses, his waist-length white hair neatly braided into a plait that swings behind him as he walks towards us.
"I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. You’re Eyan, aren’t you?" he remarks, before looking hopeful. "I realise I’m being terribly presumptuous—so do pardon me—but I don’t suppose you are acquainted at all with Mr. John Wyndham, by chance?"
When we remark that we are, and would humbly consider him more of a mentor than a mere acquaintance, he brightens considerably.
"Any friend of Mr. Wyndham’s is a friend of mine. Or, rather, I should hope that would be the case. Come, let’s go to my offices, shall we?"
We politely decline his offer of refreshments, as eating food offered by a necromancer could have unintended dangers, and settle into our chairs to explain our presence.
He grimaces a little after we finish.
"Ah, I wish... our client list is rather private, you see. But... seeing as you are friends of Mr. Wyndham..."
He leans forward conspiratorially.
"One of our clients has been rather busy of late—both looking to obtain the sole rights to an opera, and financially backing another venture that’s in competition with it. It’s most curious. He’s put considerable resources into pressuring the theater, Mise en Abyme, into booking the other venture—a Song Cycle, I believe. Furthermore, I have it on good authority that he’s signed an affidavit certifying that both these pursuits are to be continued at all costs until successful, and insisted we show the document to him should he question why he’s spent such an enormous sum in future."
He lowers his voice to a whisper.
"I cannot give you his name, but he does occasionally limp, if that would help at all."
He winks, and leans back in his chair.
"As to the rest of your inquiries, we did receive a rather unusual donation of a Carcosan revenant to the Ossuary Bank—usually, our clients sign over their bodies for future use, we rarely accept outside donations, so it’s quite irregular. As I’ve said, our policies are strict—I cannot give you the name of the donor either—but the lady had webbed hands, and large silver eyes."
He steeples his hands together and looks at us expectantly through his thick glasses.
"I... don’t suppose Mr. Wyndham has changed his stance on necromancy, has he?" he asks.
We politely inform him that while we are unaware of Captain Wyndham’s private and personal thoughts on every subject, that we are not aware of his having undergone a substantial shift regarding such heresies as of yet.
Mr. Donne deflates in disappointment. "I see. You will tell him I send him my best regards, will you?"
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We make our way to the offices of Enoch Reef, notorious ne’er-do-well, with a mixture of excitement and nerves. While we have assisted Ms. Haas and Captain Wyndham on a few of their cases before, we have never gone quite this far into the underbelly of Ven on our own, and it sends a thrilling pulse through our veins.
Mr. Reef is rail-thin and loose-limbed, with webbed feet and hands and bulbous eyes, and he bumps against us in the alleyway on the way to his offices. He is dressed for travel.
We realize he is, indeed, the gentleman we are in search of when we inquire the best way to reach Mr. Reef, and he tells us he is floating right before us, as it so happens.
"I’m not in the business for rumors today," he tells us, not unkindly. "Look, guppies, I’ve just gotten back from a rather long trip, come back tomorrow and I’ll see if it’s worth my time and effort."
We insist on the timeliness of our queries, and mention Ms. Haas and Captain Wyndham, to see if that will open any doors.
It does.
"I have no idea what’s been going on in my neck of the woods recently," Reef tells us, "I’ve been off-planet for a week, and my sister’s been handling my affairs. But I do know that right before I left, a fancy gent calling himself Admiral Bohr was sniffing around my neighborhood asking about illegal memory modification, and looking to source a weapon of some kind."
He leans forward, his long, webbed fingers steepling.
"Now, guppies," he adds, his smile wide, alluring, and slightly sharp at the edges, "what do you have for me in return?"
We stammer about not being prepared for monetary payment.
"Oh, I’m not looking for money. As I’ve said, I deal in rumors. So. Spill."
We tell him what we know thus far of current events, adding snatches of gossip from the Honoured University of Khel for good measure, as we don’t have any notion of what Mr. Reef is looking for. He, in turn, shows little expression on his long, lean face.
"Interesting," he replies, "very interesting. That’ll do for now. Shoo, guppies," he waves us away. "It looks like I’ve got some catching up to do."
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Saltpetre is checking his submersible for leaks when we arrive at Shattered Point.
He leaps down onto the dock and surveys us, wiping the grease from his hands and heavily tattooed arms with an old rag, his goggles shoved up onto his forehead, squinting as the light hits the water.
When we make introductions, he grins.
"Friends of Shaz, are you?" he asks. "What can I do you for?"
We are rather shocked at the degree of familiarity he shows the famed sorceress, but it is only logical to assume that such intimacy is either thoroughly earned, or will be extraordinarily short-lived, and in either case, it is not our place to judge. We inquire as to recent goings-on in Ven, and he shakes his head. "Ven’s always going through one mess or another, and today’s no exception. Something’s up with Reef, though—been moving a lot of unusual cargo."
When we show him Dr. Bhume’s Thaumatropic Ambulatory Music Box, and play him the unintelligible gurgle it emits, he laughs.
"One of them Bhume boxes, I see. Sounds Vennish—you’ll have to listen while under the water to hear that one properly," he says. "Let’s get you some Surfeiting Worms. Just remember—these things have a time limit—you swallow one for too long and it starts getting ideas about taking over."
We assure the gentleman that we are aware of the worm’s properties, as we’ve studied it due to our acquaintance with Captain Wyndham, and even though we’ve never experienced it personally, we are certain we can take appropriate precautions.
The worms slide down our throats in a most uncomfortable manner and stay there. We feel a slight presence in our minds that does not belong to us that is somewhat perturbing.
We dunk our heads under the chilly waves, device in hand, which, to our relief, appears to be able to play under the water without issue.
A melodic voice says,
<div align="center"><i>"I shall meet you in a forgotten place, to forget again. What was done can be undone, and you will find your peace."</i></div>
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Captain Blessing Ngoie looks up from where he stands beside his ship, <i>The Clouded Skipper</i>, which is dwarfed by the larger dirigibles, zeppelin balloons, and ill-tempered wyverns docked or perched at their various aerial platforms. His work in the sun has tanned his skin to a rich umber, and he folds impressive arms over his chest to scowl at our approach.
"No," says Captain Ngoie, before we can introduce ourselves. "Tell Shaharazad that she can find another helper. I have business."
We express our astonishment at his knowledge of us, and he shakes his head. "You have her look all over you. What do you want? Not that I’m agreeing to help you." He narrows his eyes. "You’re not here for the Myrmidons, are you? About the augur and singer who eloped a few hours past?"
We make a note to bring this information to Second Augur Lawson, and inquire about affairs at the Hippocrene. Captain Ngoie snorts.
"If you’re looking for a tip on the race, you won’t get one from me. Those three...I’d be surprised if they didn’t finish together. Rumor is, they already do."
He looks significantly at us, and we gaze back, blankly, before dutifully copying down the information. We inquire whether this would be the aviators competing to cross the Dread Wastes of Bai, just to be sure.
Captain Ngoie nods. When we ask about any incoming Carcosans, he shakes his head again. "One or two, maybe, but no one’s been smuggling in that many of them. You should try your luck elsewhere." He gives us a pointed look. "And leave me to my business."
We take the hint, and make a swift departure.
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We return to 221b Martyrs Walk as Mrs. Hive is preparing tea. We insist she not go to the trouble of making an extra pot for us—only partly because we have experienced the unfortunate circumstance of finding her larvae in one of our cups—but she tells us that as Captain Wyndham is at work, only Ms. Haas is about, so there is plenty for all.
Ms. Haas is in her laboratory, along with—we try not to stare—what appears at a glance to be a partially-decayed corpse, propped up in the corner and gazing vacantly at us where we stand in the doorway. The corpse’s expression is almost accusatory, as though we are in some part responsible for its plight. Ms. Haas, for her part, ignores the body, apart from tossing her hat onto its head as though it were a coat tree.
We have missed, in our initial alarm over the corpse, the enormous potted plant beside the door, and only take note of it when a surprisingly-animate vine reaches out to stroke the back of one of our hands.
Ms. Haas appears to become aware of us at the sound of our startled exclamations, and gives each of us a look over. She is wearing a black-and-white skirt patterned in geometric fashion, with the unsettling optical illusion, whenever we gaze at it, of drawing us into the depths of a nameless, fathomless void. We are in the process of extracting ourselves from its magnetism when she asks us how the case is progressing.
We confess, humbly, that we find ourselves at a loss, and Ms. Haas gives us only a cursory glance before returning to the book in front of her, which appears to be the study of some obscure sorcerous cult from another world.
We do not look terribly closely at the book; it, too, gives the appearance of wishing to draw us into the void.
"When you discover two versions of the same story, it’s important to remember that they might not be as much in conflict as they appear. History is written from a biased perspective. All stories are," she adds, noting: "Look at Captain Wyndham."
Ms. Haas traces one of the glyphs in her text, and her fingertip begins to glow with uncanny light. We go to take a step back, and find that the plant’s vines have curled themselves not uncomfortably around our wrists and collars. One slender tendril strokes a lock of hair.
"Were I you, I should start by finding the official record of events, and then determining why it has become such, and who might benefit from an alternate account...or by its suppression. I wouldn’t stand there too much longer," Ms. Haas recommends, assessing our level of entanglement. "Unless you wish to shudder in the ecstatic rapture of Ilar. Which I do recommend, as an experience, although perhaps not while you’re investigating a case."
We extract ourselves from the friendly coil of vines and stammer our excuses. Ms. Haas has returned to her glyphs, and seems to take no notice. At least, not until we’ve backed from the room, at which point her voice floats after us, "If you can’t understand the message, it might be that you’re not in the correct environment to hear it. Wax cylinders are remarkable substitutions when you can’t use paper and ink. Head for the water, ducklings. And remember, you’ll need a worm."
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We stand on a platform of red coral, gazing into an armillary sphere whose constellations we do not recognize, centered around a distant and unknown sun. In its slowly-rotating rings we see the wink of stars flaring and dying, their light vanishing in this expanse of eternal night.
We ourselves stand within a void, suspended in the glitter of galaxies, the gaseous lights of whose nebulae illuminate the nothingness of our surroundings with their unfathomable, twisting shapes and colours. We climb a staircase with no visible end, a slow, spiralling ascent over steps slippery with kelp and made uneven by barnacles, with no railing to reach out for, should we lose our footing.
The being that awaits us sits immobile on a throne of tarnished silver and shattered jade, although ‘sit’ suggests a body, corporeality, and the entity before us is altogether more vast and incomprehensible than any mortal being. We stand before Walking Upwards Unmaking, Eternal Lord of Ven, and only our faith in the Creator prevents us from falling to our knees before her.
<i>You have come here before.</i>
Her voice does not echo in the emptiness; rather, we feel that we have heard her without hearing, as though the words are in our memory without ever being spoken. Walking Upwards Unmaking gazes into nothing with eyes that are themselves a void, having been taken by the Ruler of All That Is Not across the endless span of time and space in which the Eternal Lords of Ven exist.
We do not remember having ever set foot in this tower, this prison created for an infinite consciousness, but we are loath to disagree with so impossible a being. Our mouth is dry, our tongue cracked and lips numb as we ask for her aid.
<i>What will you give me in exchange for this knowledge?</i>
We can think of nothing that a timeless entity should want, apart from her freedom, which is not in our meager power to grant. We humbly ask what she might accept in exchange, and wonder at the wisdom of letting a Vennish Lord set the terms of our bargain. We hear her again in our minds, ancient and newborn, laughing with a child’s delight and cracked with elderly frailty.
<i>Time. You will return here again, though you will not remember. This bargain has already been made.</i>
Now we nearly do go to our knees, although not in awe, but rather the weakness in our legs which challenges us to remain standing upright.
We agree to the bargain. It seems we already have.
<i>There is a portal to another world in the heart of Ven. One less welcoming than this. Another bargain has been made for the forgetting of that which must not be remembered, and it will be made again. The answer you search for is in a letter that should not have been sent, and a song that must not be sung. You will find the one you seek in a place long forgotten, and another with answers whose name is written in my throne. Go now. You will soon return.</i>
We try to wet our lips enough to humbly apologize for not knowing how to leave this place, in which there are no doors, no windows to the outside world, only the endless expanse of stars. Before we can speak, we find ourselves awakening in a rush, sitting bolt upright in our own beds. When we close our eyes, we can see the choreographed movements of singers upon a stage, and we taste saltwater on our parched lips.
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The concierge in the foyer of the upscale Khelish building which houses Lord Bahrami’s apartments informs us that the gentleman is out, and has been all day. He has a crest of feathers framing his heart-shaped face, which we cannot determine to be either purely ornamental or anatomical. He asks our business with Lord Bahrami, and when we state that we are pursuing an investigation, he asks—with seeming relief—if we’ve come from the Myrmidons.
Honesty compels us to declare ourselves amateur detectives, although we were given the assignment by Second Augur Lawson. We then amend our statement to clarify that it was not ourselves directly who were requested, but that we are associates of the consulting sorceress, Shaharazad Haas.
The concierge’s eyes widen, and his crest-feathers rise slightly, akin to colorful plumed eyebrows. "Are ya really? Friends o’ hers? Are ya..." His voice goes dramatically hushed. "Is one o’ ya...th’ great and noble Cap’n John Wyndham?"
We are forced to confess that we are not, but that we are pupils under his tutelage, and we can vouch warmly for the nobility of Captain Wyndham’s character. The concierge gives an impressed trill and asks us a series of detailed questions, from which we deduce that he is a loyal follower of Captain Wyndham’s serialized adventures, published in <i>The Strait</i>.
We answer as best we can, with equal enthusiasm, as we ourselves are great admirers of the publication, and before long our conversation is quite congenial, and even slightly familiar. After discussing the chronicles of Captain Wyndham’s adventures to date, our conference returns to the matter of Lord Bahrami and the attack at the writers’ salon, at which point we confide that we are somewhat concerned for Lord Bahrami’s safety.
The concierge hesitates, visibly conflicted, and then opens a lockbox hanging on the wall behind the desk. "Well, if ya’re friends o’ Cap’n Wyndham," he says, and hands us the key to Lord Bahrami’s apartments. "I’ve been worried over ’im as well. ’E hasn’t been well, th’se past few days. Tha’s why I wondered if ya’d come from th’ Myrmidons."
We assure him that we will treat Lord Bahrami’s privacy with the utmost respect, and—after exchanging personal addresses and the promise of future correspondence with the concierge—we climb the stairs to the apartments we seek.
No one answers our knocks, as the concierge had warned us, and we let ourselves in using the ornate brass key. The furnishings are opulent, but somewhat shabby and outmoded. Several blank spaces on the walls suggest the removal of artworks which might have hung there recently. We suspect that Lord Bahrami affects greater wealth than his true means. We find nothing at a glance in the main room, and decline to enter a gentleman’s bedroom without his knowledge, but at the writing desk beside the tall, rose-tinted window we find several items of interest.
The corner of a ticket stub for a workshop performance of Vasile Kovac’s new opera is caught beneath a curious paperweight. We assume it at first to be a piece of hollow glass, but just as we glance away from it, a flicker catches our attention and we see, to our astonishment, the flower-blossom form of a fired bullet appear within, seemingly from thin air. We realize that the glass is no mere paperweight, but a display case for the bullet, which appears in the light to be of a blackened copper hue.
Beside this strange display case we see a set of stationary, giving Lord Bahrami’s name and address in a stylish blue script, and assorted personal letters. We are loath to trespass further, but the name <i>Jamal Benamara</i> catches our eye. In addition to this letter from Mrs. Benamara’s husband, from his office with the lawyer-priests of Estra, we see several missives from the Ossuary Bank detailing the fine points of a contract, and correspondence with a Mr. Iacomo Van der Berg. Curiously, all of these are addressed to an Admiral Bohr, although the envelopes show delivery to the residence where we ourselves currently stand.
As we turn from the desk, we are astonished to see the bullet fade away from view, though it had been plainly visible a moment before. We pick up the case, believing the disappearance to be a trick of the light or an illusion to fool our eye, but a good shake proves us incorrect. The bullet is not simply invisible; it has become immaterial.
Were it not for our close inspection of the display case, we should likely have missed the wax cylinder behind it, which we recognize as one of the cunning recording tubes employed by Dr. Bhume’s Thaumatropic Ambulatory Music Box. That marvelous invention sits nearby on a credenza, but when we attempt to play the recording, we are baffled by an unintelligible stream of burbling gurgles.
It reminds our (admittedly inexperienced) ears of Vennish speech, as it sounds before one has acquired a Surfeiting Worm to aid in underwater translation and respiration—which should always be purchased from a licensed wormerer, lest that marvelous creature creep into one’s thoughts and gain control over one’s faculties.
Feeling immensely guilty, but concerned more than ever for Lord Bahrami’s safety, we copy over the markings on the wax cylinder with care, with the intention of purchasing a music box of our own as soon as we depart the building. We leave everything just as we found it, retracing our steps to the foyer to return our borrowed key. Far from finding answers, we seem to have stumbled on further mysteries.
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The Vennish bargee ferrying passengers to and from the village of Ecet’s Cove is only too happy to answer our questions, as it means a break from the monotonous labor of barge-poling.
"Siram, could you tell us about your fares today?"
"Not much to tell; it’s been a quiet day—or was, until all the fuss with the Myrmidons. The usual morning commuters traveling to the city; Mr. Benamara, he’s always an early one, out on the first ferry. Mrs. Benamara had one of her salons, and I recognized a few of the guests as repeat customers, though I couldn’t tell you their names. The sickly one with the foreign accent, he always comes...and the one always wearing academic robes...and the pair of ladies, the Carcosan and the Marvosi. Not the one that smells of tobacco, this time around.... All in all, I couldn’t say anything out of the ordinary. Quite a few of them were out of sorts. Oh, and the Khelish gentleman had some trouble boarding, on account of his leg, but it was fine by the time we arrived. No one else came over, not until the Myrmidons were called in, nor left either. I went for the augurs myself."
"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, when the device was set off?"
"Not to speak of—couldn’t feel it, myself, this far out, but I could see the house when the commotion started, and they all ran out of it together. No one skulking about or diving in for a swim, if that’s what you’re asking. No dirigible traffic, either. The only way in and out of this village today was through me. Oh—I’ve the passenger manifest, if that would help?"
We peruse the list up to the time of the disruption at the morning salon, and note all passengers traveling to the fishing village of Ecet’s Cove.
<center><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Ch5-PassengerManifest.jpg" width="400" /></center>
<blockquote><i>Ambrosia de Luca
Domitia
Farah
Lord Bahrami
Vasile Kovac</i></blockquote>
"Thank you, siram, you’ve been very helpful."
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Yasmine Benamara meets us at the door to her residence at Ecet’s Cove, her abaya fluttering in the seaside breeze, her movements graceful despite the dark circles under her eyes.
"Yes, please do come in," she says, after introductions are made, and shows us to the colorful interior. The Benamara residence is designed for social gatherings—every corner has an artful collection of floor pillows or an inviting cluster of divans, and the walls are filled with abstract art.
We admire the decor, and Mrs. Benamara inclines her head gracefully.
"We have tried to build a space here that is welcoming, that is made for community, even if..."
Her voice falters.
"Even if that comes with a certain degree of risk from time to time."
We decline an offer of mint tea, and she settles into a divan with a sigh as she recounts what happened at the salon.
"This particular salon happened to be an intimate gathering—myself, of course, Farah, Lord Bahrami, Vasile Kovac, Ambrosia de Luca, and Domitia, Ambrosia’s lover. My husband, Jamal, was stuck at work—he’s a lawyer-priest of Estra, and he’s working on a case involving Carcosan law, which is no end of complicated. The guests all arrived by way of the Docks, I believe they rode over together. We’d been socialising for, oh, about twenty minutes, and then...
"There was a loud tearing sound, as if reality itself were ripping, and I felt... terrified. In fear of my life. We all did. We ran for the door—I was so frightened, I didn’t even think to see if everyone got safely out. I think if the neighborhood weren’t surrounded by water, we would’ve all just... kept running. As it was, it took a while to re-gather our wits, and one of the neighbors took us in and notified New Arcadia Yard. Oh, it was terrible."
We ask her for any impressions she had regarding the various guests at the salon.
"Let me see... Farah has an acid tongue, and was making full use of it before the device went off. Vasile was out of sorts, and in a foul mood. Ambrosia was distracted, as was Bahrami—his leg was being a bother today—and Domitia was angry, but that’s hardly unusual for her. I don’t see what that has to do with the device, unless... you don’t think it was someone at the salon? One of my friends? It couldn’t be. I’ve known them for years."
She leans against the divan, frowning.
"I do hope you get to the bottom of this."
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The Eyan embassy is oddly comforting in its familiarity, like an old pair of trousers with worn-through knees. Several of our first days in the city were spent here, sorting out a mixup with some of our papers. This chair will do nicely to rest our legs for a moment.
There’s a clink, and we realize the secretary has brought tea. He tuts gently and settles down with his own cup. The scent is a wake-me-up, blended with citrus-scented herbs, like we used to drink at breakfast.
"You look like you could use the brightening," the secretary says knowledgeably. "Doing a lot of running about, are you?"
We close our eyes at the first sip. The clues and connections tangled in our heads clamor a little less for attention.
"Sit here and get your breath back a moment."
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The landlady of the boarding house where Katrina de la Martynière resides informs us that the lady is not at home. We explain our concerns regarding her disappearance, and are grudgingly allowed entrance under the landlady’s strict supervision.
Miss de la Martynière’s room is sparsely furnished, with an antique celeste near the single window, and several play scripts and songbooks left open on a nearby wooden music stand. There are few items of clothing in the wardrobe—we request the landlady’s assistance in ascertaining this, as we cannot look through a lady’s more personal garments—and several vacant spaces on the shelf above which might have once held luggage.
Swept nearly out of sight beneath the wardrobe, we find a receipt for the purchase of two dirigible fares, dated this morning, and scheduled to depart this very day. The ink is badly smudged over the aviator’s signature, and we cannot make it out.
After completing our inspection, we thank the landlady for her time, and leave to continue our investigation.
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We are greeted heartily upon entering the Embassy of Pesh, and offered some traditional sweet cakes by the enthusiastic man behind the desk.
We note a rather extraordinary series of portraits hanging on a wall in a sort of display, along with various framed playbills and a glass case of books. The portraits look familiar—they are all of the same individual, pale, with pink cheeks, who is lovingly rendered using a variety of mediums—one of them is a mosaic made from what appears to be different colored grains and beans, another is made of scraps of fabric—and when we ask about it, the gentleman offering us the sweet cakes beams broadly.
"Ah," he says, "Vasile Kovac, our exiled son. What an artist," he sighs, "what a <i>soul</i>. He is beloved by many in Pesh, they send their tributes, and we display them with the hope he shall one day be able to return to us for good."
We tell him that we are familiar with the gentleman, upon which he clutches his heart. "He wrote the most marvelous poem once," he continues a little mistily, "about wanting to be buried on the banks of the Divine River, located in the heart of Pesh, ah, it makes me weep to think of it. He is writing a new opera, you know," he adds, with a return to his earlier enthusiasm. "I am certain it will be brilliant. Beyond brilliant. You come back in a few weeks, I will get you tickets."
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We are met at the door by a growling Marvosi towering above us, green-skinned, muscular, and fierce, her sword clearly visible at her side, her violet eyes flashing.
When we mention we are investigating the incident at the Salon, the Marvosi appears slightly less inclined to murder us where we stand, and introduces herself as Domitia. Before letting us inside, she insists on checking us for weapons—and, oddly, insists on running her fingers along our jawlines.
"Can’t be too careful."
She calls down the hall as we walk towards the study, and as we approach the door, a young lady hurriedly finishes tying the ribbons of her mask before turning to face us.
By the yellow-brown shade of her eyes and olive complexion, she appears to be Carcosan, and introduces herself to us with a graceful hand.
"Ambrosia de Luca," she murmurs.
Domitia sits next to her on the couch, scowling at us, and we launch into our inquiries.
"Ah, yes, the salon. It was most disconcerting."
"I wasn’t frightened at all."
"Of course you weren’t, dear."
"I was checking to make sure there weren’t any threats outside."
"Naturally."
Domitia growls again, and Ambrosia laughs a little, placing her hand on her lover’s muscular thigh.
"Oh, my dear, I always feel safe when I’m with you. Yes, I’ll admit, I was distracted at the salon. Citizens of Carcosa showing up dead, all over the city, what else am I supposed to think about?"
She sighs, and Domitia takes her hand.
"You have no notion how hard it was to escape that hellscape. I had to buy tickets to half-a-dozen worlds on the black market using two false identities, then sneak out on a garbage scow just to cover my tracks, and even though I’ve been here for years now, I still look over my shoulder from time to time. You never fully escape, you see. That fear, it never completely goes away."
Domitia hands her a handkerchief, which she uses to dab at her eyes.
"The recent news has been enough of a scare. I thought to go to the salon for a bit of an escape, silly me. I’m so thankful I haven’t recognized any friends listed among the dead—not yet at least. We Carcosans stick together, you know. No-one else fully understands what it was like there. My good friend Eirene Viola is a fellow refugee, and has been a wonderful support through all this, and Domitia too, of course."
"I do my best."
"You do significantly more than that, love."
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The woman at the entrance to the Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms greets us warmly, and offers us a selection of biscuits. She gives us a pamphlet highlighting the Austral Express’s tour of the most romantic cities of the Hundred Kingdoms, including stops in Vedunia and Loightberg. She points proudly to quotes from a recent article written by Zheng’s Travel Guides that lists the tour in the ‘Top 10 Things to Do with Your Romantic Partner or Partners of Choice.’
When we politely indicate that we are all quite good friends, nothing more, she whips out another pamphlet that lists the same tour in the ‘Top 10 Things to Do with Your Platonic Polycule.’
We take a copy of the pamphlet, and continue on our way.
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Miss Evadne de Silver greets us at the door in a belted linen suit that appears entirely practical for her work in the field as an anthropologist—and also, we imagine, for urgent travel around Khelathra-Ven, as Miss de Silver appears to have been busy. The smell greets us shortly after our hostess does, and by our reaction, she knows the truth has been discovered.
"You’d better come in," she says when we identify ourselves, her shoulders slumping.
She leads us past a coat tree in the hall, on which we note a full-skirted aubergine swing coat and a duck canvas hat, decorated by a single pheasant feather. The hat looks as though it would fit comfortably over the intricate knot of hair tied at the nape of Miss de Silver’s neck.
In the parlor, we find the source of the smell, and of Second Augur Lawson’s mystification—the room is filled with bodies, laid out on every chaise longue, settee, and table available. In some places, they are stacked on top of one another to make room for the sheer number of corpses.
"I’d offer you a seat..." Miss de Silver begins, and gestures around the room to illustrate her difficulty in doing so. There is an armchair in one corner with the fish-eaten remains of a body notably missing a finger, and after considering our options, we perch gingerly on the arm so as not to offend the lady’s hospitality.
"It’s all gone wrong," says Miss de Silver, pacing before us on the rug and only narrowly missing the outflung hand of a corpse that has been stored out of the way beneath a coffee table. "I’ve spent the entire day tracking them all down, but it’s in the news now, and the Myrmidons know, and you’re here. I suppose you’ve worked it all out."
We murmur polite reassurances, which Miss de Silver appears not to hear. She sits abruptly, almost in the lap of one of the bodies listing sideways across the chaise. "There’s no harm in telling you anyway, not now." She squares her shoulders and adjusts her silver-rimmed spectacles to gaze directly at us. "Some months ago, I discovered a way of smuggling refugees from my homeland to Khelathra-Ven, where they could seek asylum.
"The People’s Republic of Carcosa would never let anyone simply <i>leave</i>, but once you’re dead, it’s another matter. Arrangements can be made to transport physical remains off-world, and once they’re here, I’m able to reanimate them. It’s expensive, but my book, <i>Life Among the Bone-Cults of Lei</i> has been profitable in sales as well as experience."
We inquire whether Lei is where she learned the secrets of reanimating the dead, and she nods wearily.
"I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How, if properly prepared in advance, a life might be restored, even after the passage of time...but it’s never ended up like this!" She flings her arm wide to encompass the current residents of her parlor. "Normally, I meet with Enoch Reef to exchange payment for cargo, and reanimate everyone once they’re safely at my home. They don’t have papers, of course, but I have a contact here in the city who starts the process of applying for citizenship. There are loopholes, you see. Once you’re legally dead, are you still a citizen of Carcosa? Or can you begin a new life?"
We ask Miss de Silver what went wrong this time around, and she blanches again.
"I don’t know. I went to meet Reef, but he wasn’t there, and the shipment was missing. I thought there might have been some delay, but then in the news today...and they seemed to be everywhere, all over the city. I knew they must be mine. Apart from that one." She points to an elderly man with a contented, peaceful expression that seems entirely at odds with the gaping cavern of his open rib cage. "I have no idea who he is, but I took him anyway. I didn’t have time to be choosy."
She sighs and slumps against the woman behind her, then seems to remember where she is and stands up again. "I suppose you want to take me in," she says, sounding resigned.
We explain that we are not the Myrmidons, and technically aren’t even investigating this particular case for them. She shakes herself and stands.
"In that case, I hope you'll excuse me. As you can see, I have quite a lot of reanimating to do."
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When we enter the Embassy of Marvos, the green-skinned Marvosi sitting behind the desk is holding a mirror before her face, making a variety of awful-looking expressions.
"Here, now," she says as we approach, "does this look like a proper smile to you?"
She shows an impressive selection of teeth.
We stammer that it looks like a good attempt, and she deflates.
"You people with your odd facial expressions. We show our teeth when we’re afraid, and it’s utterly incomprehensible that you lot do so when happy. It’s barbaric, really."
She sounds so disheartened that we attempt to give her some tips, and by the time we leave, her attempt at a smile has shifted from a terrifying rictus to a slightly disgusted grimace, which we view as a distinct improvement.
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A fetchingly pale gentleman looks up from his novel as we open the doors to the Embassy of Mircalla.
The lights inside are dim and the heavy curtains are drawn, providing an atmosphere of intrigue that contrasts with the bright afternoon sun.
He identifies that we are from Ey due to our conservative dress, and gains a slightly more predatory look—complete with pointed incisors—as he asks us whether we happen to be acquainted with a certain Captain John Wyndham, by chance.
We err on the side of caution, and decline to answer the gentleman as we make our hurried excuses and quickly take our leave.
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We approach the Embassy of the People’s Republic of Carcosa, a building of modern Carcosan design. Our educations might have prepared us to appreciate a delicate structure embellished with spires made of organic-looking stone—the hallmark of classical Carcosan architecture—but what stands instead is a perfectly square building with slits for windows, an imposing edifice of concrete which seems fashioned to let in as little outside light as possible.
We experience a moment of foreboding and are forcibly reminded of the several, universally unkind rumors that we have heard about the current (and former, for that matter) government of Carcosa.
"It’s possible...," we say to our companions, "It is just possible that we might be better served making our inquiries... literally anywhere else."
[[Consult amongst ourselves.|Us]]
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As we walk up the steps to Professor J. R. Donahue-Kishen’s home, we notice a gentleman listing stiffly on a park bench further down the road, his head lolling at what looks to be a most uncomfortable angle.
Making a mental note to check and see if the gentleman is in need of assistance once we’ve finished making our inquiries, we knock on the door.
We are told by the older woman who answers the door that Professor Donahue-Kishen is at zir offices at the Honoured University of Khel, and is not expected back until evening.
We see a flash of purple out of the corner of our eye.
We give our apologies for disturbing the household, and take our leave. When we turn to make our way down the street, we see that the gentleman appears to have been well enough to have gotten up and left, as the bench is empty before us.
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The person working behind the front desk at the Embassy of the Uthmani Sultanate is beautifully dressed in a traditional outfit with jewel-bright colors, long, trailing sleeves, and voluminous trousers that show their ankles to good effect.
Our own greyish brown clothing is quite sober in comparison.
The Uthmani Sultanate is known for its trade, and there is a small booth set up with various wares one might purchase. We take our time examining the offerings, and upon taking our leave, several of us have purchased a selection of brilliantly-colored handkerchiefs, and one of us has additionally bought a rather daringly-patterned pair of socks.
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Jeremiah Donne’s cottage is attractively appointed, with a beautiful garden bed in front and a rather charming trellis of roses. The scene is rendered somewhat less bucolic by the presence of two shambling revenants trimming the hedges, and another one listlessly watering the lawn, the late afternoon sun glinting off of the copper threads at their eyes and mouths.
They do not acknowledge us when we attempt to politely inquire after the gentleman’s whereabouts, and we do not wish to linger.
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The Ubiquitous Company of Dyers has an impressive display of their guild’s finest samples of batik, kente, bagh, and indigo cloth hung in wooden frames, the names of the master dyers on small plaques beneath each work.
We are accosted by an enthusiastic representative, who wishes to proselytize regarding the Company’s many uses of Mollusca Indigo ink, the beautiful fabric that can be made using it, and the fact that cloth is clearly a superior medium to paper when it comes to durability, utility, and variety of applications.
We are offered sample swatches of fabric to take with us, and a complimentary wax cylinder of Perdita’s latest radio release, ‘The Secret Names of the Star-Demons of Vz’att,’ along with hearty assurances that playing it is perfectly safe, and will not lead to our being cursed, possessed, or smote.
We manage to extricate ourselves after several minutes.
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Charles du Maurier’s apartment door swings open when we knock on it, and we find ourselves standing incongruously in the middle of a classroom from our childhood in Ey.
Our instructor raps the side of her desk severely with the ruler and glares at us.
"You must learn your proverbs properly," she snaps smartly, "now repeat them again, and I want every word to be correct. Start from the top with ‘In Praise of Thomas Latimer, Protector Of Us All.’"
We recall Ms. Haas once telling us in passing that du Maurier plies his theatrical craft in the service of the Princes of the Mocking Realm, who are thought-devouring ungods that delight in twisting reality. We are careful not to look at any surface with a reflection as we slowly back out of the room.
"YOU MUST LEARN YOUR PROVERBS," our instructor shouts after us as we exit the classroom, and, gratefully, find ourselves back in the hallway of Mr. du Maurier’s apartment building.
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The representative at the Ubiquitous Company of Fishers wearily tells us that fish have a wide variety of diets, and that those diets can include bugs, other fish, algae, and other sources of protein, and that they cannot guarantee that their fishes have a person-free diet. However, they assure us that this is most likely a rare occurrence, given the vastness of the sea and the sheer quantity of other available foodstuffs, and that, really, it’s all a part of the circle of life, which is a beautiful thing.
As we leave, we see the following quote hastily chalked on the board next to the current price of haddock.
<blockquote><i>"A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm."</i></blockquote>
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We find Farah in their apartments close to the Honoured University of Khel. Their rooms are covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves overstuffed with every kind of book one could possibly imagine—enough to make any book lover deeply, profoundly envious.
We do our best not to lose ourselves in the spines of this glorious collection, and instead, question the gentleperson at hand.
Farah recounts the effects of the device with a dry twist of their mouth. "I’d really rather avoid becoming that intimate with my own ever-present existential dread in future. Do you have any leads?"
We tell them we’re still tracking down several different leads at the moment without going into too many particulars, so as not to shape the witness’s expectations overly much—a valuable skill taught to us by Ms. Haas—and request they tell us more about the salon attendants.
"I know Vasile Kovac and Lord Bahrami were having a row," they reply. "It’s about Kovac’s opera. I attended the workshop with Bahrami—there was an historian sitting next to me, Professor Donahue-Kishen from the University, and they both seemed to think Kovac was full of it. I’m not surprised," they add with a shrug, "he is deeply overrated, and quite full of himself. I believe the term I’m looking for is ‘narcissistic hack.’"
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There is a brief, confusing conversation at Nikolaj Fortescue-Blake’s door, as neither we nor that gentleman seem to be able to coherently explain our purpose. He is clearly not expecting our company, as he is wearing only a long silk dressing gown, which he draws close at the collar on seeing us.
"Oh, but you're not...I’m sorry..."
"No, no, our apologies, we only..."
"...I thought you were...ah..."
"...we realize we should have written ahead..."
"...I don’t get many visitors, except..."
"...it's poor manners, it’s only that we’re here on..."
"...could I...offer you some tea?"
"...oh, we couldn’t, not...a gentleman’s private rooms..."
"...of course, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to imply..."
"...no, of course not, we didn’t either, it’s just, propriety..."
"...yes, I should have thought...habit of hospitality, I suppose..."
We exchange smiles, sheepish acknowledgements of the misunderstanding. Mr. Fortescue-Blake is so slight that he looks as though he could be blown from his cockpit in a stiff enough wind, and the way he clings to the open door only reinforces the impression. Wide brown eyes blink at us behind his bottle-thick glasses, and his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.
We explain belatedly that we are associates of the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, and Mr. Fortescue-Blake’s expression clears in understanding.
"Oh, of course, yes. A few of us owe her...personal favours. You’re here to collect?" He pauses then, and his gaze drifts between us, eyes growing progressively wider. "<i>All</i> of you?"
We hastily reassure him that we are here on an investigation, and any favours owed to Ms. Haas are still to be collected by her, personally. Strangely, this does not seem to reassure him.
Hoping to make amends, we bid him a good day, and good luck in his upcoming race. He smiles sweetly at this, and thanks us for the well-wishes. Behind him, before the door closes, we see two narrow vases of long-stemmed flowers, blooming yellow and red. The accompanying cards read only ‘J.’ and ‘D.’
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The guild member who speaks for the Ubiquitous Company of Skinners informs us that they are not accepting Carcosans or any other sentient beings for use as palimpsests at this time. In the event that this policy changes in the future, they recommend arranging the donation of our skins for a specific purpose as a legacy gift, and offer us a tasteful pamphlet featuring the many products to which we might dedicate ourselves after death.
We feel decidedly strange at the notion of a posthumous existence as a hand-stretched drum head or tooled medical bag, but pause at the suggestion that we might become a leatherbound book of devotionals. We tuck the pamphlet away for later perusal.
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Myrmidon Garibaldi’s housekeeper shakes their head when they hear that the Myrmidon hasn’t shown up for work today.
"I hope all is well," they tell us, "Garibaldi is a good tenant. Always pays rent on time."
We are let into Garibaldi’s rooms, where we see a recently emptied closet, and the following telegram left on the desk—it is a lengthy missive, and must’ve cost the sender a shiny shilling or two:
<center><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Telegram-Ch54.jpg" width="500" /></center>
<blockquote><code>Love, I know the Carcosan business is a worry [stop]. As I’ve said, I need no assistance [stop]. Know I love you, and that I appreciate all you do [stop]. Every day [stop]. Of course, I wish you were working fewer hours [stop]. Forgive me for that vanity [stop]. Still, I suppose that’s what comes of loving a Myrmidon [stop]. Truly, I can hardly hold it against you, knowing the mad hours I keep [stop]. At least we’ll always have an occasional holiday to revel in [stop]. Remember Vedunia? [stop] Sfantvar too—that brunch we had still ranks among my favorites [stop]. Please tell me when next you’re free [stop]. Ask for a weekend off soon? [stop] Call me sentimental, but I miss you [stop]. Kindly tell your supervisor I said so [stop]. At the very least, that may sway him [stop]. Beg, if you must [stop]. A little begging never hurt anyone [stop]. Gracious, the time has quite got away from me, I must sign off for now [stop].
- Kisses [stop].</code></blockquote>
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Pearl Farms is a most picturesque area of Ven—the live oysters are clustered on rock formations, gently opening and closing, nestled among slowly-waving strands of kelp and frills of coral.
A tall, thin gentleman dressed in an unusually shaped plaid hat and a sweeping coat floating about him is perusing the oysters, a shorter gentleman with a mustache floating at his side.
"Don’t mind us," the shorter gentleman says with a friendly smile. "We’re just visiting.
"It really is a shame we must keep this place to ourselves," he says in an aside to the tall gentleman, who snorts acerbically.
"Should you wish to avoid the madhouse, it is the preferable route," he replies.
"It is marvelous, though," the shorter man adds.
"He had the opportunity to accost a shark earlier," the tall man informs us drily. "It has been, without a doubt, the highlight of his week."
He pauses, looking at us with a discerning eye.
"University students do have the same look about them wherever one goes, don’t they? Given you’re university students, however, you are rather conservatively dressed—a uniform, perhaps? Or a religious order that promotes modesty?"
"We’re here on holiday, you know," the shorter man says, elbowing the taller one.
The tall gentleman gives us one more keen look. "They’re up to something interesting," he murmurs.
"Let’s leave them to it, then," the shorter man replies, "and go for a nice lunch. Best of luck to you!"
As we leave Pearl Farms, we can hear the tall, thin gentleman start to launch into a lengthy musing regarding what we might possibly be getting up to—and some of his theories are amusingly far-fetched, to say the least.
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On our way in to see Jamal Benamara, we bump shoulders briefly with a woman in an aubergine coat wearing a hat with a pheasant feather sticking jauntily out of it.
We apologise to the lady, who waves us off with a distracted air.
Jamal Benamara is likewise distracted, as he’s in the process of packing up his briefcase.
"Ah, you must be here about the goings-on at the salon. I’m afraid I can’t help you there, I only heard about it second-hand."
We inquire politely about his current Carcosan legal challenges, and he sighs.
"Yes, it’s quite a tangle. Let’s just say that I’m exploring some unconventional loopholes for asylum seekers, and Carcosan case law is a complicated mess, to say the least. They keep re-writing the whole lot every few months. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer to answer more questions, I’m due at the temple-courts—one of my clients is looking to acquire the sole rights to an opera, and I must file the request within the hour."
We ask about what this could mean for the opera, and he shrugs.
"All I know is that my client wishes to purchase the rights—what my client chooses to do once he has is entirely up to him."
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While on the Isle of the Dead, we visit Ptolemy Khan of the Ossuary Bank, in the Department of Inadvisable Loans. He lives, quite literally, in his office, which is ruthlessly organized and filled with ostentatious (but still impressive) certificates, awards, and multi-volume editions of leather-bound books on economics and law.
He explains that his office is confined within a shifting bubble of reality, and that when the bank closes, the room will twist between realities to become a comfortable single-bedroom home.
"It keeps me from working late," he jokes, pouring sulphurous water into glasses from a warded crystal pitcher. "There’s no point, if the case files can’t be accessed until the morning. It’s the least taxing job I’ve ever had as a banker. Now, how can I help you?"
While we sip our water and politely ignore the smell, we explain that we’re investigating a case on behalf of the consulting sorceress, Shaharazad Haas. Mr. Khan’s demeanour changes entirely at our mention of that name, becoming at once more animated and serious.
"Shaharazad Haas is one of my best—and most frequent—clients. Any friend of hers is welcome to my services. Are you looking for a long-term loan, or something you can pay off more quickly, with a lower interest rate?"
We attempt to explain that we are merely here on an investigation, but our curiosity is piqued by the oversized black leather folio which Mr. Khan removes from his desk drawer and sets in front of us. The page edges are dyed with a rust-coloured ink which reminds us of dried blood, and the calligraphy within is painted in a crimson so dark it is nearly black. Although the script doesn’t smudge on the page, it glistens in the light as though still wet.
"There are a variety of payment plans available, depending on the size of the loan and your available funds. How is your health? One of our most popular options is the use of your body for a foreign inhabitant, over a single or multiple periods of time. There are a number of deities, ghosts, collective consciousnesses, and disembodied spirits which apply regularly for loans of this nature; it wouldn’t be difficult to find a suitable match."
We are reminded of Mrs. Hive, and while we manage to repress any small betraying shudders, we also respectfully decline.
Mr. Khan takes this in stride. "If you change your mind, we can discuss whether you’d want to be present in your own mind during the period of possession, or can be displaced into a formless, yawning void for the duration. It’s entirely personal preference."
He considers our appearance and dress, then remarks, "I would normally suggest fanatic devotion to the worship of a divine monarch, either through cult membership or temporary zealothood, but am I correct in assuming that is not an option in your case?"
We assure him that, however lapsed we may have become in communal worship of the Creator since departing our homeland, it is not.
"Status as a posthumous revenant for the Ossuary Bank and other related necromantic corporate entities isn’t usually considered as a loan repayment option, although if you’d like to revise your will, I can recommend one of my colleagues." Mr. Khan indicates the animated corpses who stand by the doors, their mouths and eyes sewn shut with copper wire.
Again, and with more vehemence this time, we insist that we must decline. Mr. Khan looks thoughtful.
"Orgiastic ecstasy has fallen out of favor over the past decade, but if you’re interested in becoming a blood donor, I could arrange some very reasonable interest rates. Arranging to become a vampiric thrall would allow you to pay off the debt in installments, measured in pints of blood and carnal euphoria, as you are transported in passionate ardor while providing a healthy, sustainable source of nutrients...."
We hastily stand and excuse ourselves, explaining that we really must return to our inquiry. Mr. Khan is entirely understanding, and offers us his card before we depart.
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After announcing our presence to the clerk at the front desk, we only have to wait for a minute or two before we are invited back to see Captain Wyndham’s personal solicitor, Ms. Gwendolyn Puppinghorn.
"You’re those university students John keeps talking about, aren’t you?"
She gives us a look before she nods, and sends the clerk to fetch a tea tray despite our protestations that it’s no bother at all, really.
She settles back into her chair, waving off our attempts at formality.
"None of that. Call me Gwen. How can I help you?"
We proceed to tell Ms. Puppinghorn about our current escapades over a very generous plate of biscuits and a rather pleasant pot of oolong.
"I don’t know anything about the opera, or the business with the Carcosans, although I can’t say I’m surprised, seeing how much they all love to stir the pot. Chock full of drama, the lot of them. Sorry I can’t be more help."
She sips her tea, and raises a single eyebrow.
"You’re in the thick of all of this, aren’t you? I can’t say I’m surprised—Haas is like a black hole when it comes to pulling people into her singularity of chaos."
Our mouths are currently full of ginger biscuits, rendering it difficult to reply definitively on the matter.
She sighs.
"Word to the wise. You ever happen to find yourself in a place you aren’t supposed to be or don’t have the keys to, the door was already open. And you heard a suspicious sound inside. Any weapons, obscure artefacts, or bodily remains you happen to have on you, you just picked up off the floor. Any magic discharged in the area was done without your knowledge or permission. And when you’re arrested..."
We hurriedly swallow our biscuits and insist in a chorus that our interests are squarely housed in the pursuit of truth and justice, and, indeed, that we are acting upon the explicit request of Second Augur Lawson, and would never presume to break the law in said pursuit.
She sighs again.
"Like I said. <i>When</i> you’re arrested, don’t talk to anyone, and show ‘em my card. And remember, you can always claim self-defense."
She gives us a shake of her head.
"Just... do me a favor, and don’t die out there, kids. John would never let me hear the end of it."
We take her card on our way out the door.
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We find Vasile Kovac reclining on a chaise in his rooms, his legs covered by a heavy blanket, surrounded by papers and books in a scattered mess about the room.
The gentleman is sickly pale and wan, and he coughs into a blood-spotted handkerchief before waving us away, looking annoyed.
"If you’re here with the bank, I refuse to listen to anything you have to say. The opera will be produced as planned at the Mise en Abyme, and it will go forward with all due haste. I don’t care what Van der Berg has scheduled—it’s bound to be boring anyways. This is my masterpiece! It must see the light of day, and I must see it through."
We assure the gentleman that we are not with the Ossuary Bank, as necromancy is beyond heretical to our core beliefs, and that we are merely looking into what happened at the salon.
Kovac falls against his pillows, a hand thrown theatrically over his forehead as he lets forth a weary sigh.
"The salon, yes. How awful. I felt this overwhelming fear, fear for my life, fear for my very existence, and the effect has lingered—I had the most horrific nightmares during my afternoon repose. I believe it was sending a threatening message intended for me, because of my opera, you see."
After a dramatic pause to cough into his handkerchief, the gentleman continues.
"I suspect it’s the Ossuary Bank attempting to get me out of the theater. That, or someone’s jealous over it being received so well. The workshop has generated no end of interest—I just received an enquiry about purchasing the rights to it this morning. Although I am loath to let it fall into someone else’s hands, I could be persuaded."
He gestures laconically to the letter in question with Jamal Benamara’s letterhead at the top of it.
"Only a select few have seen it in workshop so far, and they’ve all been ecstatic. Well, Lord Bahrami got a little hot under the collar, and provided an overly harsh critique, but some people simply cannot stand to see others succeed. I want to put it up right away, but Iacomo Van der Berg is insisting on putting on his dreadful Song Cycle, which will take months to perform in its entirety, months, I tell you, and yes, he was on the schedule for it, and managed somehow to get financial backing, although how, I have no notion, but I am adamant—my opera will be shown first."
We inquire after the subject of the opera, upon which he points to a book on the top of a stack next to his chaise.
"A few months back, I hit a dry spell, and was searching for a topic for my next project. I stumbled across that book at an estate sale—it is about the Company of Strangers, and inside, there was a letter written by one of the Company about the Battle of Byrnum Pike. What a find! It drew me to tears, and it inspired me to new artistic heights. I simply had to write. The opera was written within weeks, and the key song at the center of it was directly inspired by the letter. Go on, you simply must read it too."
We open the book. Nestled within the pages is a letter written on a single page of plain paper yellowed with age.
<center><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Sc57-Letter.jpg" width="500" /></center>
<blockquote><i>Dearest friend,
I write this all-too-brief letter not knowing what the future will hold for either of us in this truly desperate hour, but with the hope we shall both survive it.
I have been called away on short notice—our Backwards Scout discovered a time fold that will lead a select few of our battalion, myself included, to an uncertain past at the Rout of Byrnum Pike, which means that I must leave you to face an uncertain future at Tyger’s Thumb.
We both know the losses at Byrnum were staggering on many fronts, and the odds of my survival are slim. I will run headlong into what I fear is a hopeless endeavor with my eyes wide open, but know I do it willingly, friend. If there is any hope we might change the tide at Byrnum, might stem the now-inevitable fall of the Undulant Valley into Her dreadful hands, we must take it, or all our sacrifices will come to nothing. If the Valley falls, we all do, and the hopes of the universe with us. While I will not be at your side on the lines at Tyger, I shall hold out the slimmest hope that my joining the fight at Byrnum three weeks previous will provide you with the advantage you will need to carry the day today.
Time is short—we are called to take our positions while the window remains open—there are not enough words to express to you what an honor it has been to fight by your side, what a joy knowing you has been.
Fight bravely, my heart. Know I am with you in spirit, and fighting like the devil for all of us, but most of all, for you.
Your brother in arms always,
Samuel Pennyfeather</i></blockquote>
Kovac nods magnanimously.
"If it will help you solve this case, take it with you, I’ve committed every line to memory."
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Second Augur Lawson’s apartment building is utilitarian and slightly run-down—one of the lights flickers in the hallway, and there is the faintest smell of mold that hits our noses in the stairwell.
His neighbor, an elderly woman with a sweet expression, opens her door when she hears our knock.
"Gabriel isn’t in—he’s at work no doubt, dear boy. He’s been particularly busy these past few days—hardly home at all. I usually make a plate for him of an evening, but he hasn’t been home for dinner two days running, and I have a feeling today will be more of the same. I’ll just have it delivered to the office. Wouldn’t do to have him go hungry, now, would it?"
We agree that it certainly would not.
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At the Council of Interested Parties, we narrowly avoid being involuntarily drafted as members in a Sub-Committee for the Committee on Committees, and then make the monumental error of assisting a lady who asks that we deliver a memo to the office down the hall on her behalf.
This, to our dismay, means we are now officially considered Pages of the Council, which is a lifetime post. When the council member down the hall attempts to pin badges onto us to conscript us into permanent service, we hastily retreat to the relative safety of the streets, shouting our apologies.
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Mr. Percy Lutrell is a slight, waspish man with a near-constant sardonic expression on his face. He greets us at the door to his quarters with a certain degree of surprise, as we are unexpected, but immediately ushers us in once we tell him of the attack on the salon.
"Tell me everything," he demands. "Down to the slightest detail."
We do our best to impart what we know so far, careful to keep our sources to ourselves—and when we finish, he leans back into his chair.
"I attend Benamara’s salon from time to time, you know," he says, "it’s one way to stay on top of the goings-on. It seems as though I was lucky not to attend this time around."
He pauses.
"And of course, I’m glad no-one was injured."
His tone seems to contradict his sentiment, but as the gentleman appears to be incapable of sounding sincere, we do not hold it against him.
We ask after his knowledge of the local artists, and he sniffs and looks at us over the rim of his glasses.
"Well, you’ve done right by coming here. I am the foremost expert on that particular topic, as you well know."
He spreads his hands.
"Where to begin? Let’s start with Vasile Kovac, who has yet to have what we would call a ‘hit,’ by any metric. The man is self-obsessed, egomaniacal, insipid, and is rampantly guilty of cultural appropriation without a hint of self-awareness. His uninspired version of artistic expression is so heavy-handed, it’s a wonder he hasn’t worn a groove on the stage. He’s unfortunately prone to writing overly maudlin pablum. There are rumors that his latest opera could be slightly more bearable, which would be miraculous, but I remain highly skeptical. He’s only had one performance in workshop with a limited audience, after all, and didn’t have enough of a spine to invite me—no doubt he wanted an audience of sycophants to stroke his ego. I suppose I’ll have to see it soon enough, though—they’re attempting to move it into full production."
He sighs.
"And as a result of all that, he’s entered into some sort of spat with Iacomo Van der Berg—they’re both competing for performance space at the Mise en Abyme, which is rich, as Iacomo is a pusillanimous drone, completely and utterly lacking in any sort of ambition or originality—he’s the dogsbody of the poetic world—a peon, a scullion, a workhorse, a jejune, a thoroughly spiritless dullard, and I would rather literally eat my hat than listen to a rendering of his inane Song Cycle."
We nod, although we’re in no position to pass judgement on either artist’s merit.
"The rest, let’s see, I believe Farah is working on an academic treatise of some sort—dull and pedantic, I’ve no doubt, and overwrought—they do like to chew their subjects near to death—although it will not hold a candle to Van der Berg. Bahrami appears to have gotten a case of writer’s block, which spares us all of the joy of having to listen to him—he is tedious at best. Ms. de Luca’s latest play might be passable—she does have a rather unique voice, although she can be overly sentimental and edges towards cloying."
Mr. Lutrell seems to have a great many further opinions regarding the various shortcomings present in the artists and writers of Khelathra-Ven, but we manage to make a polite exit after giving him our thanks.
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When we walk up to First Augur Mehdiyeva’s home, we are under the uncomfortable impression that we are being watched, although the house is eerily dark.
This feeling is only further amplified when we knock on the door, as a pair of green slitted eyes suddenly appear to glare at us through the side window.
This is soon joined by another set of eyes, large and bloodshot, glowing and bobbing gently in the window on the other side, and a third set—the irises slowly spinning—looking down suspiciously at us from one of the upstairs windows.
To our discomfort and dismay, in a matter of seconds, every window is filled with staring eyes, all of which view us with silent distrust, suspicion, and vague malevolence.
We apologize heartily and slowly back away, because while it is no end of awful to have all of those eyes staring at us, we know it would be all the worse if we could not see them looking, but knew they were there.
One by one, the eyes fade from the windows, with the exception of the first set, which stares at us until we duck out of sight around a corner. When we peek back around a minute later, the eyes are still there, narrowing a fraction, boring into us, and we quickly back away and take our leave.
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When we walk up to Blessing Ngoie’s house, it is eminently clear that the aviator is an exiled member of the Steel Magi. The house is a wonder of metal twisted into impossible spirals and shapes, looking more like a work of art than a building.
As we approach, to our surprise, the building shifts and shudders, forming what looks like two glowing eyes, the front door looking much more like a mouth than it previously did.
<b><i>"NOT AT HOME,"</i></b> the house booms in a screech of metal.
<b><i>"GO AWAY."</i></b>
We do so with haste.
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We walk into the Temple Court, which features a large bowl of flames in the center of the room, and a cheerful attendant in red robes who smiles and nods when we ask after Mr. Jamal Benamara.
"Mr. Benamara is due to arrive shortly," she chirps. "Once he does, he’ll be busy chanting his filings for the next several hours, followed by the ritual sacrifice. Oh! It’s not what you think—it’s purely symbolic," she hurriedly assures upon seeing our expressions. "He just sets out a few oranges and a cooked squab on the altar, along with a few dashes of red food dye for an appropriate aesthetic—we haven’t exsanguinated anyone here in centuries!"
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The housekeeper who answers the door informs us that we are extraordinarily lucky to catch Commander Pennyfeather, the head of the Myrmidons, both home and awake.
"Poor man’s been running himself ragged with this Carcosan mess, and is only just finishing his lunch."
His tone and expression clearly imply that we are imposing.
We politely persist in our inquiries despite the inconvenience they would cause, and eventually, the housekeeper relents with a sigh and a raised finger.
"Stay there. And don’t touch anything."
While we find the housekeeper’s presumption a touch insulting, and are sorely tempted to be contrary, we manage to refrain from touching anything while we wait—with the exception of the floor with the soles of our shoes, of course, which is unpreventable.
After a few minutes, the housekeeper returns with a covered tray in hand, and directs us to the study with a jerk of his head.
"Come in, then."
Commander Pennyfeather’s study is well-appointed, with several displays of commendations and awards on the walls highlighting a lifetime of service. The gentleman himself is short of stature and whip thin, with streaks of grey shooting through his tightly curled hair. He gestures for us to sit.
"Matthias claimed you were most insistent. Go on, I haven’t all day."
We draw out the letter, and hand it to him.
He frowns after giving it a quick glance.
"This handwriting is mine, as is the signature, but I do not recall writing this."
He reads through the letter, and then reads through it once again, a dawning horror and sadness crossing his face, his dark cheeks turning ashen.
"They kept it. Of course they would’ve. Sentimental fool."
He looks as if he’s aged ten years in the space of a minute, his eyes full of memories and tears, his expression hard and resigned.
"Some things are meant to be forgotten."
He flicks a lighter on his desk.
...and proceeds to set the letter on fire before us.
"Some things must be forgotten. Where did you find this?"
We stammer out that it was found in a book in an estate sale, but before we can mention Vasile Kovac’s name, he interrupts us.
"You will never repeat the contents of this letter to another soul. Is that clear?"
We begin to protest that it would be rather difficult to do so, seeing as how there’s an opera that is being written about it, but before we can get very far into our explanation, he stands, and points a shaking hand at us, his expression thunderous.
"Tell no-one. If I hear you have, I shall see that you’re brought up on charges, and will throw away the key. Get out. Now."
We leave with all due haste.
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We ascend the broad staircase within the Winter Palace, passing a woman whose files have slipped from her hands and spilled over the steps. We offer to assist her, but she looks up and signs, "Confidential."
We turn left at the landing, standing aside for a robed procession on their way down to the first floor, a golden censer swinging ahead of them to clear the air with fragrant smoke.
The Winter Palace rises around us in walls of glass, behind which scurry the clerks and pages who carry out the work of the Council of Interested Parties, and the everyday governance of Khelathra-Ven.
We have some ways to go to reach the top, so we turn left at the landing and continue to climb. We pass a woman kneeling on the steps, collecting disordered files which are stamped red with the word <i>CONFIDENTIAL</i>.
A lawyer-priest of Estra walks past us, a sanctified kris blade held upright between both palms, eyes vacant. We can smell incense in the air behind them, which fades when we turn left at the next landing to continue up the staircase.
A fluttering rush of yellow at the corner of our eye causes us to turn abruptly, startled and suddenly afraid, and we nearly trip over a woman just rising from a crouch, her arms full of folders. She jerks away, and the folders fall from her hands and scatter across the steps at our feet.
We attempt to help, apologizing, but a circle of clerks, hooded and robed for their daily work, appear on the glass balcony high above. As one, their voices hiss through the slits in their masks:
<b><i>"CONFIDENTIAL."</i></b>
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We are shown into Perdita’s home by a gentleman in a fashionable outfit in the style of the Uthmani Sultanate, his entire ensemble dyed a remarkably rich shade of indigo.
The singer is reclining on a divan, surrounded by flowers.
"More admirers, Faraj? It is too much."
She bats her eyelashes. "While the stream of visitors has been never-ending, it is endlessly gratifying to be visited by my adoring public. I had no idea ‘The Secret Names of the Star-Demons of Vz’att’ would generate so much attention."
The lights briefly flicker.
She laughs lightly.
"I’ve been told I’m courting danger, but really, I say the value of artistic expression is in breaking taboos. Besides, I don’t actually name them."
Her eyes glint.
"Not directly, anyways."
We are given a signed print of Perdita’s portrait on our way out the door. While we had the impression a storm was imminent, we walk out to a clear, cloudless sky.
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When we announce at the offices of <i>The Ladies’ Aspirational Repository</i> that we are associates of the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, there is a sudden, dramatic hush.
One by one, the writers, editors, designers, and others creep forward with wide eyes to ask awed questions.
"Is it true that she once pierced an extra-dimensional pocket of existence to threaten the ungods of the realm, and caused the sky itself to shatter to pieces and fall from the firmament?"
We have heard this story from Ms. Haas herself, and acknowledge with warmth that it is true.
"Did she really trap one hundred and forty seven angry ghosts in her heart, while attempting to murder a necromancer who’d made a revenant of her former lover?"
We cough and prevaricate, invoking personal privacy on the subject of the <i>affaire de coeur</i> in question.
"And...and was it a Carcharodon Marvosi Shark that she shot in the eye with a harpoon in defense of the city of Ven?"
This is not a precisely accurate interpretation of the motive as we know it, but we admit the truth of the action itself.
"Did she violate the veil of the afterlife in order to reunite through forbidden necromancy the body and soul of a man drained by a nest of vampires?"
We defend the veracity of this encounter as well, having heard it secondhand from the source herself, on one occasion when Ms. Haas used it to rib Captain Wyndham.
"And she truly battled sky-pirates over the Blackcrest Mountains and flew through a storm, inside a metal butterfly crafted by one of the Steel Magi?"
Here we must clarify some of the finer points, but assure the inquirer that the assertion is, in essence, correct.
"And is it true that she met a Mircallan Countess while traveling across the kingdoms on the Austral Express, and that she and that vampiric lady, alone in the privacy of their compartment, then proceeded to...?"
At this time, we are suddenly reminded of our pressing need to further our own investigations, and leave the staff of <i>The Ladies’ Aspirational Journal</i> clutching their hands to their bosoms and sighing behind us.
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Jacques Pun is a short, cheerful man, with tightly-curled hair and teeth that flash a brilliant white against his contrasting complexion. The jewels along his eyebrows and the intricate metal cages affixed to the backs of his hands mark him as a Steel Magus, as does the gleaming gold filigree which catches our eye when Mr. Pun stretches back in his booth at the coffee house, where we’ve agreed to meet and speak with him. The filigree on display curls delicately downward from Mr. Pun’s navel to the waistband of his trousers, and is revealed beneath the short, embroidered vest which rides up with his movement.
We hastily redirect our gazes to his face, and his smile widens.
"This is a jest, isn’t it? You’re not really here for an interview. I’ve spoken with all the papers already, and if anyone’s back for a second round, it will be with Davey. Did she send you? Is this her having me on, to make up for that little trick I played this morning?"
Our initial confusion is cleared up at the clarification, "Davina," and we realize that he’s speaking of one of his competitors, Miss Wright. We assure him that we are not here on her behalf, nor at the request of any news publication.
Mr. Pun gives each of us the sort of assessing look which is not considered proper in Ey, and just manages to avoid being so here. We hastily inquire about the nature of the ‘little trick’ he mentioned, and are rewarded with another smile, and a shake of Mr. Pun’s head.
"If you haven’t heard it from her, I’m not giving it away. That’s between her and me. So, if you’re not here for an interview, and Davey didn’t send you, then what are we doing here?"
It’s an excellent question. Caught off-guard, we make some general comments about aviators, transport, and dirigibles. Mr. Pun stretches his arms out along the back of the booth midway through this explanation, and our babbling comes to an abrupt, choked halt. There is...that is to say...
The filigree is really quite...extraordinary craftsmanship.
"Fans," Mr. Pun surmises. "I don’t mind, but I do need to be going. If you see Nicky, give him a kiss for me, will you?" He stands from the booth, and the jewels set in his face are illuminated in a slanting shaft of light. "That boy deserves to be well-kissed."
We can find absolutely no reply to that, and remain for some time in the booth, until we can collect ourselves and carry on with our investigations.
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The <i>Esoteric Review</i> is hard at work on their evening edition, and it takes a few minutes for us to get anyone’s attention.
A harried reporter, her hair pulled back into a severe bun, finally notices us hovering awkwardly in the corner.
"See here, what can I help you with?"
We stammer out our purpose, and her eyes narrow.
"Attack on Benamara’s salon, you say? I’ll have to check that out. This is the first I’ve heard of it."
We ask if we could possibly talk to anyone who’d know more about the individuals involved, and she makes a face.
"That’d be Lutrell," she says. "He’s either at a show, or working from home—claims the hustle and bustle of this place cramps his creativity. Do me a favor? Give me a head start so I can get to Benamara first. I want this scoop to be all mine."
We ask if there’s any recent news about the Carcosans.
"That’s going to be all over the evening news—one of my colleagues got that beat, lucky dog. I even covered the Squamous Fine Dining story—but no, they had to give it to Gonzo."
We ask for further information regarding the Squamous Fine Dining incident, and she laughs.
"That lady’s a real piece of work. Her name is Mia Toksvig. Thanks for the tip about the salon."
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When we knock at Gwendolyn Puppinghorn’s door, the sound of a violin stops playing, and we are met by a gentleman who raises his eyebrows at our inquiries.
"Gwen’s at the office, but you can leave a note," he says, before reaching for a pad of paper kept on a table by the door. He looks over at us, pencil held with a flourish. "I am Gwendolyn’s husband, and bound by confidentiality. Please answer the following honestly.
"Have you killed anyone in the last twenty-four hours?" he asks.
No!
"Have you embezzled any funds?"
Definitely not.
"Stolen any property?"
We confer amongst ourselves, and reply that a case could be made for intellectual property theft although it’s tenuous at best. He cheerfully marks the form.
"Performed sorcerous acts of an illegal nature?"
No.
"Resisted arrest?"
There is a significant and awkward pause, and another check on the form.
"Physical altercations?"
No.
"Public indecency or intoxication?"
Never!
"Breaking and entering?"
...Technically no.
"Robbed or desecrated any graves?"
We are quite certain that we have not.
"Anything else to add?"
We ponder, and then volunteer that we may have deserted our posts as Pages of the Council of Interested Parties, but that our conscription was entirely involuntary. For the sake of thoroughness, we add that we unintentionally overheard a confidential meeting of editors at <i>The Strait</i>, and regrettably were forced to break a window in the process of making our escape from a turf war between two crime syndicates of Ven.
He scribbles a few notes at the bottom of the form, and looks at us brightly.
"Right, leave your card here, and she’ll be in touch!"
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"So, I keep getting stuck on the fact that barghests don’t typically glow. And Wyndham isn’t the sort to get fantastical about things, or make things up to be sensational—I say there has to be a perfectly logical explanation for the glowing, and the appearing and disappearing, and we just have to figure that part out."
"Oh! I had an idea about that! It could be part-monstrous undead canine, part-motyxic arthropod! The glow could be a warning to all who come near it, because the illumination is caused by <i>cyanide</i>. That could be the poison that stopped the gentleman's heart!"
"Alright, but keep in mind the butler’s lighting candles in the windows, there’s an escaped prisoner on the loose, and that Jack character is <i>far</i> too helpful—if this is some unholy beast, it had to be <i>created</i>—by whom and for what purpose? And I’m fairly sure cyanide doesn’t glow. I think it’s plankton."
"No, it's definitely...wait, what about mushrooms? What if it's the cook? There are those witchfire mushrooms in El'avarah that glow...they used to cover submarines in them to light the way underwater, you know? Maybe the cook has...fed the barghest a lot of mushrooms? To...scare people? No, but wait, here's what I want to know: <i>Where is Shaharazad Haas?</i>"
"...she has been conspicuously absent, hasn’t she? Wyndham’s been carrying this one. Do you think she’s in disguise? Maybe the butler’s signalling her. The butler’s up to <i>something</i>."
"If the butler's signalling her, is she out on the moors? You know who should be out on the moors, late at night, all alone, <i>very soon?</i> John and Jack the vampire, who’s always brooding and keeps making <i>intense eye contact</i>. Have you noticed his top shirt button is always mysteriously undone whenever John is around? And that John <i>always notices?</i> ...Wait, you don't think that's a clue, do you? Is he missing a button or something?"
"See, now, I think he’s flirting to get John off-balance. Like I said, he’s being <i>far</i> too helpful, which is beyond suspicious, and dangerous, given Haas is nowhere in sight, and who am I kidding, that’s pretty much Wyndham’s type in a nutshell, isn’t it?"
"Yes, but I can't believe John would go for it. I mean, he's had passionate vampire encounters before, like in the last case...and the one before that...and that other one before that...but Haas is always 'rescuing' him from them, and he doesn't really look back, does he? There are no cards or secret mementos exchanged. If this were going somewhere, John would have flung himself bodily on top of Jack to bravely save his life, like...three times already, Jeremiah Donne-style."
"You really are gunning hard for Donne, aren’t you? We’ve been over this. You know he mentions Lawson far more. And their banter—he <i>jokes</i> with him."
"No. Listen. Lawson is a red herring. You <i>expect</i> John to end up with him, because he's the big important person who's always around, but that's the rote option, that's just 'these two people end up together because they're both in the stories a lot.’ No, I think he's going to be the foil, the upstanding respectable marriage option, and John is going to be horribly torn between his passion and his reason, but Donne? That's <i>romantic</i>. Haas tried to kill him when they first met! For no reason! And John saved his life! By <i>falling on top of him!"</i>
"Ah, ah, but like you’ve said, he flirts ridiculously with <i>everyone</i>, and yes, Donne left his card, but has there been any follow-up? Lawson has staying power, and they’ve built a relationship of mutual respect, and that slow build with just a hint of repression is the absolute best. Donne might be sweet, but Lawson is husband material."
"But Donne is <i>forbidden fruit!</i> A relationship with him is legitimately religiously prohibited by John's faith! He quotes <i>Blingfeather's Manual of Etiquette</i> and tries to woo John with <i>honeyed pastries</i>, are you even serious, is there any better way to a man's heart? Not that I would know, but I do hear things. And I've read a lot of stories. ...Literary ones."
"I still think he’s far too forward for the likes of John. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Donne is compelling, but the strong, silent, gruff type with a dry sense of humor gets me every time. And Lawson’s got a jewelled metal hand, I mean... imagine the possibilities!"
"...All right, if we're going in that direction—and <i>you started it</i>—let's consider the possibilities of animated skeletons for a minute. First you think 'no!' but then you think 'hmm, maybe...actually, yes.'"
"I will give you that he has a rather strong draw towards vampires, but actual corpses are..."
"Not <i>corpses</i>, ugh, <i>skeletons</i>. Just imagine... Hey. Excuse me. You. Yes, you. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
"You’re interrupting a confidential editor’s meeting, I’ll have you know! ...How long have you been standing there, exactly?"
We stammer that we haven’t heard anything of note, really, and didn’t mean to disturb, and ought to be on our way, our faces vermillion.
As we make a hasty retreat, we hear,
"I mean, literal boning, really?"
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We nearly give up on Ms. Asenath Reef being at home, for we receive no response to our first or second attempt at a polite knock.
We are in the midst of regarding our options, including debating whether one knocks on doors customarily in Ven, and whether we ought to attempt an alternate entry via creative means—potentially risky given the lady’s reputation—when the door flings open in a burst of bubbles...
And we are met with a terrifying sight.
Ms. Reef is floating before us, her long limbs a coiled spring, her silver eyes wide and wildly flashing in the darkness, the small harpoon held in her webbed fingers pointed directly at us. She is beautifully dangerous, and we are at a loss for words.
We can see several dark shapes bobbing gently behind her, although the room is too dark to easily distinguish what—or who—they are. She gestures with the harpoon.
"Did Wilde send you?"
We must look rather mystified, for she gestures with the harpoon once more, her tail flicking.
"Wilde. You know, hook for a hand? Literal card shark?"
We shake our heads, and one of us has the presence of mind to say we’re with Ms. Haas.
"Haas? That crazy witch?"
...And Captain Wyndham, of course, who can vouch for our character and intentions.
"Now that makes a little bit more sense."
We helpfully volunteer that the lady appears to require assistance, and valiantly offer to provide it if we can, despite our trepidation as to what exactly that might entail.
She lowers the harpoon—keeping her finger worryingly close to the trigger—and looks at us all cautiously, her lip curling in suspicion.
"My brother’s being set up to take a fall, and I’m not about to let that happen."
She tosses up her hand—not the one holding the harpoon, thankfully—and emits several choice words we would not care to repeat.
"You wouldn’t happen to know who’s sending my brother Carcosan bodies, would you? I went to process his scheduled shipment last night, and the cargo box was stacked full of them. I’ve been trying to move them ever since, clean up this —— mess."
She raises the harpoon once more. "...That last part stays between me and you, by the way."
We heartily assure the lady that we are the very souls of discretion, and tell her we will be certain to inform her if we learn anything further.
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The walls of <i>Zheng’s Travel Guides</i> publishing office are decorated with full-color posters of many enticing locations, which attract our eye as we follow the editor-in-chief to zir office. We explain the nature of our investigation, and ask after more unusual methods of travel.
"There are always interplanetary portals—more common than you might think, and with a low occurrence of ill effects. Transdimensional shifts into parallel universes are very popular now—it’s a circuitous route, but many tourists appreciate that the appeal of travel is in the journey more than the destination. You might never reach your destination, should you choose to leave this dimension, but isn’t that life? And what a splendid adventure you might have."
We ask if there are any more reliable methods of transport, which causes the editor-in-chief to stroke zir ornamental beard in serious thought. The strings of tiny bells woven together on silk strands chime, meditative and vaguely unsettling.
"Dream-paths are always a possibility, although they can have unpredictable results. The desires of the unconscious are not always in concert with the waking mind. Depending on the destination, you can also make use of time folds...where did you say you were going?"
We clarify that we are not planning to travel, ourselves, but are looking into transit between Khelathra-Ven and Carcosa.
"Oh, you don’t want to holiday there." Ze shakes zir head, and the bells chime again in a dissonant chorus. "I’d sooner drop in unannounced and take my chances on Marvos. Although if you’re set on visiting, here’s my advice: Buy a one-way ticket. You won’t need the return trip."
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At the Lake of Stars in Little Carcosa, we see a gloriously plump lady whose formidable bearing greatly exceeds her physical height, lingering at the edge of the water feature. She is the sort of woman one can imagine leading a vanguard, magnificent and not to be trifled with, her bustle and broad skirts sweeping out behind her. This rather intimidating impression is tempered, however, by the way the woman is dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, and the occasional soft sniffle or sigh, which we hear as we cautiously approach to inquire if there is anything we can do to assist her.
"Oh, don’t mind me," she tells us with a tremulous smile. "No, I’m all right, really. I just witnessed the loveliest thing...a proposal, right here, beside all of the stars in the night sky. They seemed so happy—they met just over there, bags all packed, and left together.... I’ve been imagining where they might have gone off to start their new life."
She takes in a great breath and lets it out in a whooshing sigh, indulging in one more delicate sniffle. "I’m an author, you see, so that sort of romance and adventure appeals to me. Francesca Vandegrift-Osbourne. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
We assure the lady that the honor is ours, and make our own introductions. Ms. Vandegrift-Osbourne tucks away her handkerchief and purses her lips.
"I’ve been a bit on edge lately, I’m afraid. Everything in the news of late...and my own dear friend, Lady Quinella Thrumpmusket, has had a murder in her very own garden. Practically on her doorstep!"
We notice that Ms. Vandegrift-Osbourne’s red-rimmed eyes are a pale brown, and ask as delicately as we are able if she’s had reason to fear for her own safety.
She gives us another watery smile. "Because I am a Carcosan exile, you mean? No, not directly, although I have given it thought. If the Repairers of Reputations really have come in force to Khelathra-Ven.... Well, I suppose we can only wait and see."
We thank Ms. Vandegrift-Osbourne for her time, and tell her we’re looking forward to reading her next book. We leave her gazing into the water at the far-away constellations of her homeland, the stars burning black in the night sky over Carcosa.
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When we knock on Augur Roberts’ door, a flurry of sounds erupts from the other side.
The door opens a good two minutes later, the person who opened it flushed and breathing heavily.
"And what can I help you with today, you fine people you?" he says, attempting to lean casually against the door frame and failing.
We inquire after Augur Roberts.
"Working rather long hours today, I’m afraid, not expected back ’til late. I’m her roommate."
We notice the gentleman in question has yet to tell us his name, and does not appear to be inclined to do so. We hear a noise from behind him, and he shifts to more thoroughly block our view of the interior.
"So, you see, absolutely no reason for you to be here. None at all."
A dishevelled individual covered in scratches emerges from behind a door, and hisses towards Roberts’ roommate.
"Abe, we gotta get ’im to the track now, or we’re gonna miss our chance!"
The person we presume to be Abe hushes his scratched friend, and turns back to us with a wide grin.
He laughs. "I know what this looks like. But I don’t have a barghest in my bedroom, and I’m certainly not taking it to an illegal racing track. Of course not. I’m roommates with a Myrmidon. That’d be quite magnificently stupid of me, wouldn’t it?"
His grin tightens. "<i>Magnificently</i> stupid."
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The Unremembered Gardens are eerie in their silence, when compared with the bubbling, bustling commerce found elsewhere in Ven. They are hidden away inside a massive underwater cavern, flooded since the sinking of the great city, and are cultivated to give the impression of columns growing up from the seabed, which flower into elaborate capitals. The water here is very still, sheltered from the currents that carry traffic throughout Ven, and weak shafts of light cut diagonally through the dimness from the surface far above.
In the center of the circle formed by these aquatic columns floats a Khelish gentleman, his long hair unbound and drifting in a cloud about his head. We recognize his description and manner of dress, which is both flamboyant and out of fashion; the half-hose sagging at the knees, and slashed sleeves billowing open in the weightless depths.
"Lord Bahrami, are you well?"
For a moment, there is no response, but then Lord Bahrami turns to us and blinks, his eyes visible in glimpses behind the tangle of his long hair.
"Who are you? Where are we? What am I doing here?"
Further queries show that Lord Bahrami is bereft of recent memory, and moreover seized by a confusion as to his own motives and actions. We suspect his disorientation is due to the amnesia spell, of which we see evidence in the chalked glyphs inscribed on a circle of ornamental rocks.
Offering sincere apologies for the impropriety, we take Lord Bahrami by the hand and begin to rise from the secluded gardens, making our way slowly toward the distant light above.
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A creature of octopodean features informs us in a bubbly accent that Saltpetre is unfortunately not at home. The good siram doffs its hat in a gentlemanly manner using one of the tentacles that forms its (very dashing) mustache and beard, and suggests we are most likely to find its neighbor at the Docks at Shattered Point.
We are deeply charmed, and if one of us lingers behind for a moment in order to discreetly exchange calling cards with the admittedly striking siram, the rest of us pretend politely not to notice.
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When we see the exterior of Augur Extraordinary Joy-In-Sorrow Standfast’s home, we are, for a moment, transported back to Ey. The simple, block-like structure with neat, square windows and a small, tasteful symbol of the Creator over the doorway reminds us rather viscerally of our birthplace.
The sensation is decidedly bittersweet—we did, after all, make the decision to attend the Honoured University of Khel, which is some distance from our homeland, for good reason.
We knock at the door, noticing a number of talismans warding against evil hanging from the tree in the yard, the front lawn trimmed too short with a military precision, the curtains drawn tight at the windows, no doubt to make the interior resemble the dimly lit sky of Ey as much as possible.
We blink in the sun, not minding the glare, and take a deep breath, smelling the faintest tang of the ocean, the light scent of the wax-flowers, and the greenness of the lawn, rebelliously colorful despite the occupant’s best attempts to rein it in. We feel a moment’s gratitude for our decision to come here, to the often mystifying but never boring collection of cities called Khelathra-Ven.
No-one answers the door, something we are likewise grateful for.
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When we arrive at Cordwangle’s Superior Pie Emporium, the place is doing a brisk business, and Cordwangle himself is working the counter. He is a merry man, lightly dusted with flour, but quickly frowns when we tell him why we are there.
"What, exactly, are you implying? I’ll have you know I feed my eels the finest quality chum, and I swear, by the Scourge-Priest of Bu, May He Whip Forevermore, that my chum is all fish. There ain’t no people in my chum. Never has been, never will be, and you can tell Squamous they can choke on a fishbone."
We attempt to mollify the gentleman by offering to purchase some of his pies, which do indeed look lovely, but he gestures with a finger.
"Out, out of my store. And don’t you dare poke your noses ’round here any time soon."
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Lady Quinella Thrumpmusket stands an intimidating six and a half feet tall, not including her feather turban.
"Are you with the Myrmidons, then, darlings?" she booms, and upon explaining that we were providing assistance on a variety of matters on behalf of Second Augur Lawson, she shows us to her back garden, which is nicely appointed with a variety of perennials.
"As I told those earlier fellows," she says, at a volume wholly unnecessary given our proximity, "it was most peculiar, I was preparing for afternoon tea, and I happen to make my way to the veranda to gather some mint as garnish, and there, in the back garden, is a corpse, plain as the nose on my face, with an enormous trident sticking right out of it."
She leans closer to us for emphasis, although she does not diminish her tone in any way.
"I assure you, my poppets, there was a dead body in that bed of hostas over there. Staring up at me with vacant yellow eyes. You can see, some of the leaves are quite bedraggled, poor little things."
She straightens back to her impressive height.
"I notified New Arcadia Yard, of course, it was most disconcerting, and who of all people should come to my door next but my good friend, Evadne de Silver?"
She gestures.
"And me with a corpse in the hostas!
"I wasn’t expecting company, but I did my best to be a gracious hostess under the circumstances. Poor, dear Evadne was quite distracted, which is understandable. Apparently the unfortunate addition to my garden wasn’t the only dead Carcosan that’d shown up recently—hence the unconscionable delay from New Arcadia. Imagine, one of her own people, showing up dead in my garden of all places! Tea was a very short affair. And to make matters worse, when the Myrmidons finally showed up, I took them round to the garden, and poof! The body was gone, just like that."
She looks at the flower bed as if staring could somehow make the body reappear, but her efforts are in vain.
"It was there," she adds, very nearly at a normal level of speech. "I’d swear by Yohanna herself."
We assure her that we believe her story, and take our leave.
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Ms. Patience Eze is putting on her jacket, and informs us that we’ve unfortunately just missed Captain Wyndham.
"He said you were taking charge of this case, is that so? He couldn’t stop talking about how much promise you’ve been showing."
This is naturally overwhelming, and we all flush a rather deep red, and stammer, and are generally at a loss for words.
"You remind me of him, when we were at University together. Do you know, we played the most delicious prank once with the statues at the Hall of the Learned, you must have him tell you of it if he has not already."
He has not, something that must be remedied sooner rather than later, clearly. We tell her of our progress thus far on the case.
When we describe the bullet we found, she nods, making a thoughtful face.
"Yes, that would be from a jezail—a weapon used by the Empress of Nothing. It gives one wounds that come and go, or sometimes even shift within the body. Most terrible, really."
She pauses, looking a little sad.
"John was wounded by one of these, you know. He so rarely talks about his time in the Company, but I hardly blame him. After all, he is the very soul of discretion. And besides, when you’re fighting an enemy who exists outside of time and space, I'd imagine it's prudent to be a little close-lipped."
She pats us on the shoulders.
"He is a good man, and a better friend, and I am glad you have found one another. Take care, now."
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Mia Toksvig shudders as she recounts her experience at Squamous Fine Dining.
"I was there with a business associate, discussing the current price of Mollusca Indigo ink—it’s quite popular these days—and when I cut into my fish..."
She shakes her head as her pet monkey chitters, its tail winding around her shoulders.
"You can only imagine. I panicked, and nearly turned over the table. I couldn’t find it after, but I know what I saw. Squamous claimed their fish were free-grazing, and mine just happened to graze on... oh, it’s just awful.
"And it’s made me wonder, you know, whether eating something that’s eaten a person is a form of indirect cannibalism, and which religious orders would be opposed—Yohanna’s martyrdom does include a symbolic eating of her flesh, but even if it’s taken more literally by some, it’s the flesh of the divine, not..."
She turns her head to look at the monkey, who’s chewing on something it’s pulled from her vest pocket.
"What on earth have you got there, love? What on earth is..."
There's a shriek as a human finger, more than a little worse for wear at this point, falls to the floor and rolls under the table.
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Squamous Fine Dining is an upscale establishment, where white tablecloths flutter with the water currents, and all the servers wear fine black jackets as they drift from party to party, assisting the diners in selecting their meal as it swims above their heads through the open windows.
It really does exemplify the notion of ‘the catch of the day’.
The news report we heard earlier today, however, tells of a different sort of catch, and we wish to gain further information about the unfortunate addition of fish fingers to the menu. A fishing expedition, as they say.
We are hardly appropriately attired for such a fine restaurant, and are quite fish out of water on that accord. The maître d', a handsome citizen of Ven with large, piscine eyes and tentacles waving gently in front of its mouth attempts to politely explain as much, expecting we are there to dine. Once we explain our reason for being there, which is a different kettle of fish entirely, the good siram immediately hushes us and takes us aside for a quiet conference.
"Are you with the press? I assure you, our fish are free-range," the maître d' burbles.
We assure siram that we are there to provide assistance for Second Augur Lawson on a case, which does little to calm the maître d'.
"Ah. Well. You see... fine! We occasionally obtain... non-traditional food sources for our stock. I expect that will stay confidential, however."
We press a little further about the... shall we say... fishy circumstances under which the body was obtained, but the maître d' remains tight-lipped about how this particular body ended up sleeping with the fishes.
"It is not our usual practice, you must understand. We’re no Cordwangle’s. We were simply taking advantage of an unexpected windfall. Besides, we no longer have the foodstock in question. A lady in a purple coat wearing a rather distinctive hat came to take it away. She did not provide a name, so please do not ask for it."
We ask siram about the diner in question who made the gruesome discovery, and the maître d' shakes its head.
"I will certainly not divulge the identity of one of our diners without a warrant. Now please leave, so I may go back to our paying customers."
Our porpoise achieved, we take our leave. After all, we have bigger fish to fry.
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We are ushered into the parlor of Mr. Iacomo Van der Berg. He has been described to us as a noted poet, if only for the length of time which he has devoted to his craft, and an equally noted bore. The room smells faintly of tobacco smoke and he greets us heartily enough as we enter.
After some rather lengthy pleasantries, we recall to him the purpose of our visit. "Ah, yes. That unpleasantness. How can I help you?"
He is delighted but not surprised to be asked about his song cycle, and settles in for a good, long monologue. "My most ambitious work," he calls it. "It chronicles the trials and triumphs of the Plodde family. Generation-spanning. A lens into the changing times between the nineteenth and the twentieth council."
Appreciative hums and nods are all he needs to keep going.
"Admiral Bohr is sponsoring it. Most generous, most generous. Bit of a recluse, but his connections are sterling. He convinced old du Maurier to let us perform it at the Mise en Abyme."
Suddenly, Van der Berg starts rifling through the papers on his desk. He comes up triumphant. "I haven't the voice to sing it, but I suppose you would like a preview. I could read you a few lines..."
Oh, no.
He mistakes the expressions of horror on our faces for excitement.
<i>"The abbey park by midway through year six
Had fallen into ruin and decay,
All overgrown, its trees shrunk to mere sticks,
Tho' once a masterpiece by Cappell-Day,
Its folly left in folly to fall down,
That seat of romance of which Shen once wrote
During a summer visit in his youth.
The windmill bladeless stood, its beams were smote
By ruthless time and sky peeked through the roof.
So Swythe engaged—"</i>
We doze off as he goes on about roof repairs in iambic pentameter and float into dreamland. We are climbing an endless staircase, up and up, twisting improbably through bare wood beams. The sky shows in tantalizing glimpses, appearing and then disappearing the next instant. If only we could reach the sky...
We start awake as our chins thud onto our chests. Disturbed by the movement, Van der Berg breaks off. We take the opening and make good our escape, pleading pressing business.
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When we attempt to enter the Mise en Abyme theater, we find our path to the entrance thwarted—the front doors are barred by a pair of intimidating-looking revenants of the Ossuary Bank, and while their eyes are sewn shut with copper thread, they turn their heads to us as we approach, and will not let us in despite our polite requests.
We sneak around to a rear entrance, furtively knocking in an attempt to avoid drawing further attention, and are thankfully let in by a stage-hand.
The theater itself is in a fair degree of chaos, but not having attended any theatrical rehearsals before, it is difficult to determine how much of this is typical, and how much is due to recent events.
After making several inquiries of various stage-hands, and, to our horror, interrupting a performer in his dressing-room en déshabillé, we are finally directed to Mr. Charles du Maurier—a tall, broad, striking gentleman with kohl-darkened eyes. He looks a little harried as we come his way.
"If you’re with the bank, this is an issue between Vasile Kovac and Iacomo Van der Berg—leave it to them to sort it out, and for the sake of the Princes of the Mocking Realm, leave us be."
We assure the gentleman that we are not with the bank, but are rather investigating a case, and inquire about the conflict in question.
He sighs, running a hand through his slicked-back hair.
"What is there to say? We’re in rehearsal for Kovac’s opera, which was well-received in its initial workshop, and Van der Berg had been scheduled to go on instead. He’s got the right of way, to be sure, but the opera is bound to sell far more tickets. The bank is pressuring the theater to let Van der Berg take his turn—apparently, he’s got some wealthy patron or another—but for now, we are preparing for the opera to move forward. If we even can, that is, our lead soprano hasn’t shown for rehearsal today."
We ask for the lady’s name.
"Katrina de la Martynière. She’s usually far better at showing up, but... she is Carcosan, and there’s been some nasty business in the news—I worry something may have happened to her."
We hear some singers warming up on the stage, and ask Mr. du Maurier about the opera itself.
"It follows several members of the Company of Strangers through the war and beyond—there’s some excellent material there, to be sure, and, as I’ve said, the workshop was quite promising, although one of the attendees—a Lord Bahrami—was quite incensed over one of the songs, and exchanged words with Mr. Kovac after."
We indicate curiosity about the song, and Mr. du Maurier brings us to the stage. "Let’s do Charge of the Havoc Company next."
He gestures for the singers to begin.
<div align="center"><i>Eighteen days, eighteen days...
Eighteen days, eighteen days
Eighteen days distant,
Through the fold in time
Rode the six hundred.
'Charge, Havoc Company!
Fall on their flank!' he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Charge, Havoc Company!'
Was there a soul dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Byrnum was sundered.
Splitting from Tyger’s Thumb
Uncertain what’s to come
Hearts pounding to the drum
Racing towards Byrnum Pike
Rode the six hundred
Cliff-face to right of them,
Chasm to left of them,
Jezail in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Praying they’re not too late,
At the Unending Gate
Into the jaws of Death,
History to unmake
Rode the six hundred.
See how they charge and fight,
Flanking with skill and might
Out of the Empress’ sight
Changing the past, while
All the world slumbered.
Plunged in the battle horde
Swinging a singing sword;
Soldiers of Nothing
Broke, fell into grave discord
Shattered and slaughtered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Chasm to right of them,
Cliff-face to left of them,
Jezail behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Praise be, they were not late,
They fought to change our fate
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from a future date,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
What did the time scout see?
Once ruin now victory!
While the world slumbered.
Honour their memory!
Praise Havoc Company
Noble six hundred!
Eighteen days, eighteen days...</i></div>
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Beloved children’s book author Francesca Vandegrift-Osbourne is not at home when we call, and we’re told by her companion that she is out taking her daily constitutional, and is unlikely to return for some time.
As we turn to leave, a small cross-stitch hanging beside the door catches our eye. It reads:
<i>Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.</i>
It touches some hidden recess of our memory, but though we think on it at length, we cannot recall precisely what.
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At the headquarters of Professor Lipquist’s Filterless Cigarillos, we find the marketing department deep in discussion.
"Valentino’s has that memorable jingle everywhere. You can’t take an enjoyable walk or stop in at a reputable business without hearing the melodious thing."
(In the interest of transparency, we should note that the words ‘memorable’, ‘enjoyable’, ‘reputable’, and ‘melodious’ are substitutions of our own for the less savoury language employed.)
"The problem is that it’s—" here there occurs a descriptive discourse on the suggestive alternate meaning of ‘good rough shag’ "—and we don’t have that kind of appeal. We need something salacious. Something titillating. Something provocative."
At this juncture, our presence in the office is noticed. "Hey, you. What makes you think about —?" And here, again, we must omit certain passages of the conversation, out of consideration for gentler members of our audience.
"It’s got to be just risqué enough. Too much and people start to think it’s in poor taste."
We are assuredly in agreement with this philosophy, but our opinion is no longer being solicited.
"How about this— ‘Professor Lipquist’s Filterless Cigarillos. Let Lipquist’s Quist Your Lips!’"
A collective consciousness of fireflies circling in the corner, in a position to supervise the proceedings, blink in unison: <b>-. ---</b>
"Live life unfiltered! Filter what comes out of your mouth, not what goes in!"
"Please, no. Cigarillo filters are the least exciting thing anyone could imagine. What about a schoolyard fantasy? ‘The Professor knows you’ve been naughty. Be good, with Lipquist’s Filterless Cigarillos."
"I think I might have just actually vomited in my mouth."
(We have chosen to leave this description intact, as it is not strictly speaking vulgar in nature, but we apologize if it causes any offense.)
"What about: ‘The stain means high quality!’"
This, for my audience who do not indulge in the deleterious habit of smoking tobacco, refers to the notable stain which the Lipquist’s brand leaves behind on clothing and skin, and which is uniquely recognizable by color and scent.
One of the beings heretofore silent exhales a lengthy hiss. "We do not talk about the ssssstain."
There is another pause for contemplation. The swarm of fireflies winks meditatively.
"‘Lipquist’s: Draw the smoke into your lungs until it burns your throat and sears your soul.’ Take the witchcraft angle. People eat that sorcery metaphor up. It’s prurient in its own way."
(The words metaphor and prurient are likewise an editorial substitution.)
A contemplative silence follows this pronouncement, followed by the slow approbation: "That’s...actually pretty good. We can do something with that. Hey...who are you?"
It seems our presence has been noticed again, and we are treated with curious stares by all present in the room. We explain that we are private investigators, or rather the associates thereof, here to collect evidence for a case at the behest of the Myrmidons....
The fireflies blink again, emphatically: <b>--- ..- -</b>
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With help from Ms. Reef, we make our way to Wilde’s base of operations. The journey takes us nearly halfway across Ven and down a rather suspect series of winding alleyways and tunnels. We arrive at the location more than a little trepidatious, as the area does not entirely inspire confidence as to our personal safety.
We are met at the door by three henchmen, all armed to the teeth—and several of them have very sharp teeth indeed.
We manage to explain our purpose, and are ushered into an office, where we are told quite sternly to wait.
Wilde enters the room after several minutes have elapsed. He is enormous, with a pointed nose and pointier teeth, and his left arm ends in a vicious-looking hook.
"Well, now," he purrs, circling us, his gaze piercing us as our hearts pound wildly, "what have we here? Fresh meat, looks like."
We ask if the gentleman knows anything about the Carcosan bodies.
He laughs.
"That —— mess? I wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole. You think I’m wrapped up in that ——?"
We imply that we were directed there by a certain Ms. Reef.
"She’s full of ——. She’s the one up to something. I already got The Unquenchable Flame breathin’ down my —— neck cos they think I’m in the back pocket of the Throat-Slitter’s Consortium—which is ——. I’m not gonna start a two-front war. And I kill someone, you better believe I don’t leave evidence. —— amateur hour around here."
There’s a crash and muffled shouting.
"What..."
The muffled shouting becomes muffled fighting.
"What the ——?" Wilde opens the door. "You —— want a fight? You got a —— fight!"
The next few moments are pure chaos, as we seem to find ourselves thrust into the middle of a turf war of some kind, but we miraculously manage to break a window and swim away with only minor injuries.
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<i>If you want a good rough shag,
The choice is Valentino’s!
Oh-so-good when it gets hot,
Give our good rough shag a shot!</i></center>
When you need a pick-me-up during a quiet moment alone, to fill the time or to dispel a creeping feeling of existential dread, why not try Valentino’s Good Rough Shag? Made of the highest quality tobacco, take Valentino’s with you wherever you go.
Pausing on your way across the Rose Gold bridge between Khel and Athra to look out over the barges on the scenic Khelathran Strait? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
On your way from the Winter Palace to an appointment at the temple-courts, and hoping to avoid the Scourge-Priest of Bu (May He Whip Forevermore)? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Taking a leisurely swim through the Tunnel of Lost Souls on your way to the Unremembered Gardens? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Stranded on the Isle of the Dead, that ancient necropolis where the god-kings of Khel were once interred under the watchful eye of Anu, Lord of the Underworld? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Enjoying a night out at the theatre on Wax Flower Hill, inside a nightmarish pseudoreality ruled by capricious, thought-devouring gods? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Accidentally fallen through a transdimensional portal to the barren, faceless ash-wastes of Telash-Ur with little hope of rescue? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Wherever you are in life, be prepared with Valentino’s Good Rough Shag. There’s nothing else like it.
<center><i>If you want a good rough shag
The choice is Valentino’s!
Oh-so-good when it gets hot
Give our good rough shag a shot!</i>
<code>(This message brought to you by Valentino’s Good Rough Shag
and the Unified Tourism Board of Khelathra-Ven.)</code></center>
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Miss Davina Wright meets us on the ground floor of the boarding house in which she resides, and rather than inviting us up to her room—an invitation we could not, in all propriety, have accepted—she joins us in a brief stroll around her neighborhood block.
Miss Wright is turned out in a smart, well-tailored suit which flatters her broad shoulders and generous figure. She is a statuesque woman, one whose movements are confident and deliberate, and her russet hair is pinned back into a riot of curls beneath a pinstripe hat.
We fall in around her, but even before we can make our inquiries, she begins to give an interview.
"What do I think of my chances? The same as any of the others, although neither of them want it as badly as I do." She winks. "I have the advantage of knowing the terrain, and some of the unique hazards of the wastes, but anyone who flies their best will be able to navigate new challenges just as I did. I have made the only successful solo flight across the Dread Wastes of Bai, but that doesn’t mean I’ve seen everything that’s out there. It’s a long way across, and I’ve no doubt we’ll encounter obstacles none of us have yet imagined."
She glances around at us and frowns slightly. "Aren’t you going to take notes?"
It does feel as though we ought to, and in a matter of moments our notebooks are in our hands, taking down Miss Wright’s statement as she continues.
"What challenges will we face, in the Dread Wastes? The biggest one by far is the sand. Anytime you set down—for maintenance, to refuel, to let the engine cool—the sand gets into everything. It’s nasty stuff, and if you’re not careful it can spoil your water and food, and jam up your undercarriage. And when it gets into your clothes, the <i>itching</i>!"
We make polite noises of discomfort ourselves at the direction this interview seems to be taking, but thankfully for us, Miss Wright is already moving on to new descriptions of the terrifying landscape.
"The storms are unlike anything we see here—walls of sand for miles, complete blackout visibility, and if you’re not high enough it will stall out your engine and then you’re in freefall. That’s what cut short most of the attempted flights across the wastes before mine, and for me it was a near thing. You could say I was lucky, but there’s skill involved in being able to read the weather and adjust your course. My parents are from the Uthmani Sultanate, and I grew up hearing their stories of the sandstorms back home."
We have fallen behind Miss Wright’s strides in our attempt to write all of this down, and hasten to catch up as she continues.
"Then there’s the demons...oh, don’t look at me like that!" Her laugh is loud and honest as she takes in our varied expressions. "That’s not what you want to hear about, though, is it?"
We gratefully step into the opening Miss Wright seems to have produced. "Actually, no, we..."
"You want to know whether the romantic speculation is true, and which contender I’m cozying up to, Nik or Jacques." She winks again as we stare, open-mouthed.
This is not, in fact, what we are here to investigate, although in full candor we have to admit that we have heard some local gossip on this subject.
Miss Wright cocks her head, smiling mischievously, and the copper gleam of her curls catches the light. "I couldn’t possibly comment. A lady never kisses and tells. Is that enough for the interview, do you think? Oh, let’s stop here."
She comes to a halt in front of a bright pavilion, which must house the neighborhood market. "This is as good a backdrop as any, don’t you think?" When we stammer our confusion, she frowns. "You didn’t bring a camera? Oh, well, I could have stayed in my flight clothes and saved an hour."
She pulls the hat from her head and scratches fingernails through her curls, shedding hair pins as she does. "Will there be anything else?"
We look down at our notes, and cannot think of anything, although we also haven’t managed to ask a single question. After a moment, we thank the lady for her time, and bid her a good day.
"I always have time for <i>The Ladies’ Aspirational Repository</i>," she tells us, her smile wide and unfettered, and tips her hat. She is long gone, strolling down the walkway and whistling, before we understand the need to correct her.
[[Consult amongst ourselves|Us]]<<if visited("41") is 1>><<set $leads++>><</if>><<set $item10 to true>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/41-Chapter+41+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
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We manage to intercept the conductor of the Austral Express on the platform in the train station, surrounded by the gossip and conversation of the well-to-do travelers on their way to board the train.
"I’m afraid I don’t have the time...we must keep to the schedule, and the train is set to depart..."
We assure him that we’ll only take a moment, and ask whether he’s noticed any change in the demographics of his passengers of late.
"Carcosans? No more than usual...most of our passengers are from the Hundred Kingdoms, or traveling abroad from Khel. You know where we make our stops...speaking of which, I really must be going..."
We beg his indulgence for one moment more, and ask if he can imagine any way that refugees might be smuggled in by train.
He snorts in dismissal. "On this train? Not likely. This is a luxury line, the jewel in the crown. Even if refugees could pay their way, they wouldn’t blend in with this lot."
His tone has taken on a snide superiority which we do not appreciate, and we remind him that refugees from any country might prove invaluable in any number of avenues, regardless of their liquid assets or nationalities.
He waves a dismissive hand and cuts us off. "I didn’t mean any insult. I’m only saying that if they’re arriving en masse, they aren’t traveling on my train. Now I’m afraid I <i>must</i> be on my way. The Austral Express won’t wait."
On our way out of the station, we browse the rack of travel brochures beside the ticket office. The Austral Express makes stops in Szajnin, Sfantvar, Bagne Loup, Vedunia, and Liohtberg, and for each of these, we find a pamphlet advertising the wealth of insights to be found for these cities and many more in Zheng’s Travel Guides.
After a guilty moment of temptation, we select several that we recognize from our mentor’s chronicled adventures alongside the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, published in regular installments by <i>The Strait</i>. For purposes of research and preparedness, of course.
[[Consult amongst ourselves|Us]]<<if visited("42") is 1>><<set $leads++>><<set $cbodies++>><</if>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/42-Chapter+42+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
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The front desk clerk looks harried when we arrive. Her eyes lock on us. "Oh, thank you. You're here for the body, right?"
We look around for someone else she could be talking to, and her face falls. "I'm sorry. It's just been such a horrible day. Professor Tal's class got overscheduled, and then a dead Carcosan. I'm just a student worker! ...I'm sorry. How can I help you?"
She asks us to sign in. As we scrawl our names, we notice someone named Reef signed in only a few lines above our own signatures. She gives us directions to Professor Donahue-Kishen's office.
Ze is a brisk person with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on zir nose. "Oh, you've been listening to Kovac, have you?" ze says waspishly. "Kovac's latest is nonsense. The historical record is clear: the reinforcements were on their way to the Luna front when Command redirected them. They came through a ravine and surprised the enemy. If there's poetry in it, it's the bravery and cunning of those few souls. In any case, the Backward Scouts are a myth. It flies in the face of responsible historiography, and what's worse, the public eats up Kovac's tripe. The man is a menace."
After we accept a few citations, the professor's expression turns fond. "And how is John? I miss having him in my classes. There's a spark there, you know, and you need only blow on it a little to see it flare up into brilliance. Him and his friend, I think she's become a metallurgist now. Rare students. Rare minds."
We share a few more fond words about our mutual friend, and the professor admonishes us to do some reading. "Perhaps you'll find a spark kindling as well." Ze winks.
[[Consult amongst ourselves|Us]]<<if visited("77") is 1>><<set $leads++>><</if>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/77-Chapter+77+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
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The author of <i>Zheng’s Travel Guides</i> resides in a mansion in a corner of Athra so crowded that it has expanded upward rather than outward, and sits on a single lot, stretching more than a dozen stories high. There are a number of entrances, all of them entirely inaccessible to us from the street; but when we ask, a passing cyclist kindly offers us the use of her flying velocipede, that we might ascend to ring one of the doorbells.
We are not accustomed to flying velocipedes as a mode of travel, particularly when sharing one among a group, and therefore it is with some trial and error that we make our way upward. Our cooperative steering is not quite as coordinated as we might like, and therefore it is a disappointment, but perhaps not a surprise, when our course goes astray, and leads us around the back of the house before we can reach the appropriate altitude.
There is an ominous dark portal swirling in the air behind the mansion, and by the time we come around the corner in sight of it, it is already too late to halt our momentum. We are drawn in and then spat out of the void.
We return to awareness under a hazy ultraviolet sky. The landscape around us is flat and barren, and the air clogged thick with what we realize is ash, as that substance is all around us in shifting gray mounds, soft beneath our cheeks and our grasping fingers.
We sit up and cough, choking, and the ash stirs up all around us. When it settles, we find ourselves surrounded by a ring of silent, hooded figures, all wearing gray masks. There are no holes in the masks for eyes or mouths, and they gaze at us with featureless expressions.
As one, they lift their gloved hands to their faces, and remove their masks. Ash pours from the masks in a drifting stream, caught by intangible currents in the oppressive air. We cannot see for long moments, choking again on the thick residue which crowds our nostrils and coats our tongues.
When the air clears, we see the circle of hooded figures still standing around us, motionless.
Their masks are gone.
Beneath the hoods we see pale, featureless ovals, devoid of feature or expression.
They have no faces.
"Oh dear, what’s this, a stowaway?"
We are plucked unceremoniously from the unchanging ash dunes, and are deposited on a windowsill high above the ground, in what we are relieved to see is once again Athra. A magnificent individual with fashionable taste in Uthmani clothing—our rescuer, it would seem—regards us from the eaves nearby.
Assuming this to be the resident of the house, we bow respectfully, as best we can without toppling from the window. Ze is dusted with gold, which brightens zir luminous skin, and crowned with a swirl of night-black hair in the shape of a meringue.
"I’m sorry. While I don’t pass judgement on those in need of affordable ways to travel, it would be irresponsible of me to look the other way when that transportation is via my own interplanetary portal. Besides which, you don’t look as though you’ve packed appropriately for the ash-wastes of Telash-Ur. If I’m wrong, I hope you’ll accept my apologies, and an autographed copy of one of my books. Your choice; just tell the housekeeper. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I must be off. Nine-tenths of travel writing is the travel."
So saying, ze tips an imaginary hat in our direction, leaps from the roof of the house, and disappears through the portal, which closes with a sound like the distant implosion of a cloud.
We look down from the windowsill to the ground far below, and wonder if there’s anyone in the house who might be willing to assist us in a dignified descent.
[[Consult amongst ourselves|Us]]<<if visited("16") is 1>><<set $leads++>><</if>><<set $item10 to true>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/16-Chapter+16+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
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The guild member representing the Ubiquitous Company of Printers and Typesetters hands us an exquisite pamphlet printed on paper so silky that it seems nearly a crime to touch it, the ink gleaming, the edges of each letter crisp and precisely rendered.
The pamphlet extolls the use of Mollusca Indigo ink for use in the printing medium, praising its smooth application and lasting sheen that will display beautifully for years—far preferable to wasting it on cloth, seeing as any lustre is lost upon the first laundering.
She also warns us of the blasphemous danger in listening to Perdita’s latest single, and suggests rather darkly that Perdita is attempting to entrance the general public through sorcerous means, and thus bend them to her will for nefarious purposes—no doubt related to the Dyer’s Guild’s desire for a monopoly on a certain kind of ink.
[[Consult amongst ourselves|Us]]<center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/87-Chapter+87+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[QUESTIONS ONLY: MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
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<h3>PART ONE</h3>
<ol><li><b>Who was the architect of the threat at the writers' salon?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> Lord Bahrami.<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>Who was the target of the threat?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> Vasile Kovac.<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>Why was the target threatened?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> To close down the production of his new opera.<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>To what company did Lord Bahrami formerly belong?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> The Company of Strangers (Havoc Company is also accepted).<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>What actually happened at the Battle of Byrnum Pike?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> A force from the Company of Strangers traveled through time in order to provide reinforcements and change the course of the battle.<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>Where can Lord Bahrami be found?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> The Unremembered Gardens.<</linkreplace>></li></ol>
<h3>PART TWO</h3>
<ol start="7"><li><b>Who is responsible for the Carcosan bodies turning up around the city?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> Asenath Reef.<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>Who is responsible for bringing the bodies into Khelathra-Ven?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> Evadne de Silver and Enoch Reef, aided by Jamal Benamara.<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>For what purpose?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> To smuggle them out of Carcosa for reanimation in Khelathra-Ven.<</linkreplace>></li>
<li><b>What happened to Katrina de la Martynière and Augur Garibaldi?</b>
<<linkreplace "Show Answer">><i>Answer:</i> They eloped together.<</linkreplace>></li></ol>
<center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/88-Chapter+88+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS: MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
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[[We still have some investigating to do.|Us]]
[[Take our findings to Haas.|Solution]]<center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/78-Chapter+78+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
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We find the consulting sorceress, Shaharazad Haas, awaiting us in the parlor at 221b Martyrs Walk, in the company of our tutor, Captain John Wyndham, and Second Augur Lawson.
We are surprised to see Second Augur Lawson away from new Arcadia Yard at such a harrowing time, what with all of the Carcosan bodies turning up around Khelathra-Ven—but when we remark upon it, Ms. Haas only smiles.
"What bodies? I believe you will find there were no true fatalities. Or at least, none that remained permanent."
Ms. Haas is wrapped in a deep crimson dressing gown, which complements the glow of her light-brown skin. Her black hair is twisted up in a towel, and she’s sipping from a cup of something we strongly suspect is not strictly tea.
While her manner of dress is not always what we would consider decent for company, in this instance it looks as though she’s just returned from a swim in Ven, rather than having disrobed for some other, mysterious reason.
Mrs. Hive has taken up occupancy in a new host, one which Captain Wyndham explains was...’borrowed’...by Ms. Haas earlier in the day for the conducting of some experiments, to do with the little-studied Bone Cults of Lei. Apparently its services are no longer needed, and therefore Mrs Hive has full use of all limbs once more, and has celebrated by making scones.
We accept refreshments to be polite, but having made unpleasant discoveries inside of Mrs. Hive’s baked goods in the past, we attempt to nibble only around the edges as we listen to Ms. Haas’ account of the case.
"We were fortunate from the beginning to have a limited number of suspects, all conveniently in one location. The bargee at the Ecet’s Cove docks confirmed that no one besides the attendees of the salon traveled to the village, making this an internal affair. What motive could there be for frightening an insipid gaggle of artists, without harming or explicitly targeting any particular attendee?
"By consulting an insufferable, pig-headed fool well-acquainted with the community—" she does not use the word fool "—I soon discovered the conflict at the Mise en Abyme theatre. Someone—a mysterious benefactor, already suspect—had gone to great lengths to replace the opera in residence with a song cycle by that dreadful bore, Van der Berg. Van der Berg’s poetry wouldn’t inspire a Carcharodon Marvosi Shark to break a tooth over it, much less a wealthy benefactor to bring to bear the weight of an institution such as the Ossuary Bank. No, it was far more likely that the responsible party wished to close down the opera, which had given a single, limited performance, but was now set to go into full production."
"But why?" asks Captain Wyndham, rapt in his attention to this story. "Was it a personal vendetta?"
"There was some animosity between the composer, Vasile Kovac, and Lord Bahrami, another author who frequented Yasmine Benamara’s narcoleptic salons, but the motive is in the opera’s content. One of the guests who attended the workshop became agitated at a single song—and having heard Kovac’s work, I can assure you that anyone with taste would have been offended much earlier by the entire load of drivel."
(Here again we take some poetic license with the language employed by Ms. Haas, which had a greater range of color.)
"The Battle of Byrnum Pike, wasn’t it?" asks Second Augur Lawson, and Captain Wyndham visibly startles.
"A victory for the Company of Strangers, over the forces of the Empress of Nothing. Here," says Ms. Haas, nodding, "is where this case becomes briefly interesting. The official record states that the battle was won through the arrival of reinforcements, but notes that this account can only be considered accurate as of the time of printing, due to the nature of the Unceasing War, which is fought across time as well as space.
"The song in the opera tells a different story. One which, if it were to be made public knowledge, might cause events to unfold in a different fashion, and that strategic victory to become a devastating defeat."
"Good gracious," Captain Wyndham murmurs. He has gone very pale, and replaces his teacup carefully in its saucer. "You mean a Time Fold. But how could that information have been lost?"
"A cover-up," announces Ms. Haas, with a bright gleam in her eyes. "One of immense magnitude. The key is in the message found at Lord Bahrami’s apartments—you’ll recall it was he who became so distraught upon hearing the song that detailed this alternate version of the Battle of Byrnum Pike. His correspondence, also, written under the obvious pseudonym of ‘Admiral Bohr’—an anagram of Lord Bahrami."
"Bahrami’s our man, then?" asks Second Augur Lawson, and Ms. Haas inclines her head.
"The evidence found in his apartments is all the proof we require. A bullet which materializes in and out of existence, marking it as one of the peculiar and unique weapons used by the forces of the Empress of Nothing. This, along with his occasional limp, marks him as a former member of the Company of Strangers."
Captain Wyndham’s hand goes to his shoulder, rubbing at the phantom ache of a similar wound. "So he was trying to keep it quiet. But why wait for so long to act? Why not close down the workshop before the performance? He must have known the nature of Kovac’s project."
"He had forgotten," reveals Ms. Haas, "and has lost his memory again, by his own will. The wax cylinder found in his apartments, which I copied over for safekeeping, reveals a meeting with an unknown but no-doubt mercenary individual, arranging for Bahrami ‘to forget again’. I imagine Lord Bahrami himself is now insensible of the past weeks, and was likely found in the presence of some sorcery—an amnesia spell, most probably, which left him as ignorant as before."
"It really has been forgotten, then," muses Captain Wyndham in a soft voice. "Everything that happened. The sacrifices made."
Ms. Haas’ expression softens, however minutely. "Nothing is entirely forgotten, Captain," she replies. "Certainly not sacrifice."
"But all of us know, now," Second Augur Lawson points out. "Even if I keep it out of the official report, if Captain Wyndham or any of this lot—" he gestures to us "—are called in for interrogation by someone higher-up, they’ll spill the whole story. Lying, Captain," adds Lawson wryly, "is not one of your virtues."
"I wouldn’t call it a virtue at all," replies Captain Wyndham, who seems unable to decide whether or not to take this as a compliment.
"That won’t be a problem," announces Ms. Haas, standing from the embrace of the overstuffed armchair on which she has been reclining. The sudden movement causes her dressing gown to gape at the neck and knee, and we hastily affix our gazes to our scones. "I have the spell already prepared. Augur Lawson, you should write down whatever you have to in order to make your official statement, without the necessity of further digging down the line."
Second Augur Lawson sighs heavily. "You really can’t do sorcery on an officer of the law."
"I certainly can and I certainly will," replies Ms. Haas. (She does not say ‘certainly’.) "If it makes you feel any better, you won’t remember it."
<p class="subtitle fancy"><span>. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .</span></p>
We find ourselves in the parlor of 221b Martyrs Walk, taking tea with our mentor, Captain John Wyndham, Second Augur Lawson of the Myrmidons, and the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, who is clad only—and indecorously—in a dressing gown, but takes her leave of us in short order, announcing that she is in need of tobacco.
Unaccountably disoriented, we bite into the scones on our plates, and, in several cases, almost instantly regret it.
Captain Wyndham has a faraway look in his eye, and his hand is on his shoulder, where we know an old wound occasionally pains him. Before we can speak, Second Augur Lawson clears his throat.
"I ought to be getting back to the Yard," he says, setting his saucer down on a side table and standing up to leave. "Thank you for the hospitality. Good to have this case sorted out."
"Yes. It’s always a pleasure, Augur Lawson," says Captain Wyndham, some of the fog clearing from his eyes as he, too, stands up, and favors the augur with a smile.
Second Augur Lawson snorts. "Only because I came to you this time, rather than finding you in the middle of one of my investigations. Take care of yourself, Captain."
He nods to us, and we murmur goodbyes, taking our leave as well. Captain Wyndham looks as though he would prefer some time alone for introspection, and we ourselves...
...in strictest truth, we can’t remember why we came. We suppose it must have been at an invitation for tea. Anything else is entirely out of our characters.
We step from the stoop into the hazy Athran afternoon, and find ourselves looking forward to our next adventure.
<center><b>The End</b></center>
Shaharazad Haas solved this case by following 6 leads: Docks at Ecet’s Cove, Percy Lutrell, Mise en Abyme, Fata Morgana, Lord Bahrami, and Docks at Shattered Point. She also used the following news articles: <i>‘Who’s Who’ Literary Guide</i>, and <i>Valentino’s Sponsor Ad</i>.
We solved this case by following $leads leads:
<ol><<if visited("44")>><li>Yasmine Benamara</li><</if>>
<<if visited("18")>><li>Little Sisters of Thotek the Devourer</li><</if>>
<<if visited("59")>><li>Percy Lutrell</li><</if>>
<<if visited("24")>><li>New Arcadia Yard</li><</if>>
<<if visited("25")>><li>New Arcadia Yard: Sorcerous Crimes Unit</li><</if>>
<<if visited("5")>><li>Docks at Ecet's Cove</li><</if>>
<<if visited("36")>><li>Sea-god's Nipple</li><</if>>
<<if visited("71")>><li>Lady Quinella Thrumpmusket</li><</if>>
<<if visited("43")>><li>Lord Bahrami</li><</if>>
<<if visited("46")>><li>Ambrosia de Luca and Domitia</li><</if>>
<<if visited("73")>><li>Iacomo Van der Berg</li><</if>>
<<if visited("20")>><li>Lawyer-priests of Estra</li><</if>>
<<if visited("12")>><li>Embassy of the People's Republic of Carcosa</li><</if>>
<<if visited("37")>><li>Squamous Fine Dining</li><</if>>
<<if visited("57")>><li>Vasile Kovac</li><</if>>
<<if visited("4")>><li>Ossuary Bank</li><</if>>
<<if visited("48")>><li>Cora Beck and Eirene Viola Delhali</li><</if>>
<<if visited("40")>><li>Valentino's Good Rough Shag</li><</if>>
<<if visited("67")>><li>Enoch Reef</li><</if>>
<<if visited("52")>><li>Farah</li><</if>>
<<if visited("55")>><li>221b Martyrs Walk</li><</if>>
<<if visited("6")>><li>Docks at Shattered Point</li><</if>>
<<if visited("38")>><li>Mise en Abyme</li><</if>>
<<if visited("22")>><li>Fata Morgana</li><</if>>
<<if visited("33")>><li>Unremembered Gardens</li><</if>>
<<if visited("62")>><li>Samuel Pennyfeather</li><</if>>
<<if visited("17")>><li>Ubiquitous Company of Skinners</li><</if>>
<<if visited("63")>><li>Perdita</li><</if>>
<<if visited("42")>><li>Honoured University of Khel</li><</if>>
<<if visited("66")>><li>Asenath Reef</li><</if>>
<<if visited("54")>><li>Garibaldi</li><</if>>
<<if visited("32")>><li>Lake of Stars</li><</if>>
<<if visited("45")>><li>Katrina de la Martynière</li><</if>>
<<if visited("26")>><li>Temple-court</li><</if>>
<<if visited("7")>><li>Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey</li><</if>>
<<if visited("75")>><li>Wilde</li><</if>>
<<if visited("51")>><li>Charles du Maurier</li><</if>>
<<if visited("3")>><li>Hippocrene</li><</if>>
<<if visited("76")>><li>Davina Wright</li><</if>>
<<if visited("53")>><li>Nikolaj Fortescue-Blake</li><</if>>
<<if visited("64")>><li>Jacques Pun</li><</if>>
<<if visited("74")>><li>Francesca Vandegrift-Osbourne</li><</if>>
<<if visited("49")>><li>J.R. Donahue-Kishen</li><</if>>
<<if visited("35")>><li>Cordwangle's Superior Pie Emporium</li><</if>>
<<if visited("31")>><li>Zheng's Travel Guides</li><</if>>
<<if visited("23")>><li>Council of Interested Parties</li><</if>>
<<if visited("47")>><li>Evadne de Silver</li><</if>>
<<if visited("8")>><li>Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh</li><</if>>
<<if visited("9")>><li>Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms</li><</if>>
<<if visited("10")>><li>Embassy of Marvos</li><</if>>
<<if visited("11")>><li>Embassy of Mircalla</li><</if>>
<<if visited("13")>><li>Embassy of the Uthmani Sultanate</li><</if>>
<<if visited("14")>><li>Ubiquitous Company of Dyers</li><</if>>
<<if visited("15")>><li>Ubiquitous Company of Fishers</li><</if>>
<<if visited("16")>><li>Ubiquitous Company of Printers & Typesetters</li><</if>>
<<if visited("19")>><li>Pearl Farms</li><</if>>
<<if visited("21")>><li>Shah, Shah, and Puppinghorn</li><</if>>
<<if visited("27")>><li>Winter Palace</li><</if>>
<<if visited("28")>><li>Ladies' Aspirational Repository</li><</if>>
<<if visited("29")>><li>The Esoteric Review</li><</if>>
<<if visited("30")>><li>The Strait</li><</if>>
<<if visited("34")>><li>Coral Towers</li><</if>>
<<if visited("39")>><li>Professor Lipquist's Filterless Cigarillos</li><</if>>
<<if visited("41")>><li>Austral Express</li><</if>>
<<if visited("50")>><li>Jeremiah Donne</li><</if>>
<<if visited("56")>><li>Ptolemy Khan</li><</if>>
<<if visited("58")>><li>Gabriel Lawson</li><</if>>
<<if visited("60")>><li>Mehdiyeva</li><</if>>
<<if visited("61")>><li>Blessing Ngoie</li><</if>>
<<if visited("65")>><li>Gwendolyn Puppinghorn</li><</if>>
<<if visited("68")>><li>Roberts</li><</if>>
<<if visited("69")>><li>Saltpetre</li><</if>>
<<if visited("70")>><li>Joy-in-Sorrow Standfast</li><</if>>
<<if visited("72")>><li>Mia Toksvig</li><</if>>
<<if visited("77")>><li>Zheng</li><</if>></ol>
Along the way we discovered the whereabouts of $cbodies Carcosan bodies (we could have found 23.5).
[[Credits|Credits]]<center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/12b-Chapter+12b+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/12b-Chapter+12b+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
With a gulp of trepidation, we ascend the steps and enter.
After passing the security automatons, a secretary with Carcosan-yellow eyes hears our business and takes our names before asking us to wait in the lobby. As the clicks of their heels echo down the hallway, we avail ourselves of barely-comfortable chairs and try not to succumb to boredom.
Having sat in silence for a few minutes doing little more than twiddling our thumbs, we slowly become aware of the pattern-paper on the walls. The mustard-monochrome color palette is an unremarkable Carcosan aesthetic, but closer inspection reveals subtle geometries, ever-shifting in a kaleidoscopic movement. We leave our chairs to take a closer look, fascinated by the mesmerizing shapes....
YOU OPEN YOUR EYES IN A SPIRAL STAIRWELL, STONE STEPS AND STONE WALLS ON ALL SIDES. THE LIGHT IS MINIMAL AND CAST FROM AN UNKNOWN SOURCE. IN FACT YOU WOULD GREATLY LIKE TO KNOW WHERE THE LIGHT IS COMING FROM.
A FEELING OF FEAR PRICKLES UP THE BACK OF YOUR NECK, THE URGE TO RUN CREEPING UP ON YOU LIKE THE TIDE. YOU DON’T KNOW IF THE DANGER IS IN FRONT OR BEHIND.
YOU PUT OUT YOUR HAND AND FEEL A POROUS STONE, SOFTER THAN YOU COULD HAVE IMAGINED. WITH YOUR HAND ON THE WALL, YOU START FORWARD, CLIMBING.
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh|Pesh]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Uthmani Sultinate|US]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Mircalla|Mircalla]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey|Ey]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms|HK]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Marvos|Marvos]]<<set $leads++>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/79-Chapter+79+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/79-Chapter+79+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
YOU ARE WALKING UP A SPIRAL STAIRCASE MADE OF STONE AND NIGHTMARE. YOU WERE BORN ON THIS STAIRCASE AND YOU WILL DIE ON THIS STAIRCASE AND YOUR DEATH WILL COME SOON. YOU CAN FEEL HIM STALK YOU WITH A JAUNDICED HUNGER.
YOU TOUCH THE WALLS AS YOU CLIMB AND YOUR FINGERS SWIM IN THE EDDIES OF THE TOO-SOFT MASONRY. THE FRICTION REVERBERATES THROUGH YOU, FAINT AND ECSTATIC AS THE WHISPER OF A LUNATIC.
YOU WILL DIE HERE ON THESE STAIRS, BUT YOU WILL GO MAD FIRST.
HE IS EXPECTING YOU.
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Uthmani Sultinate|US]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Mircalla|Mircalla]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey|Ey]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms|HK]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Marvos|Marvos]]<<set $leads++>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/80-Chapter+80+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/80-Chapter+80+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
YOU ARE WALKING UP A SPIRAL STAIRWELL, STONE ABOVE AND BELOW AND WITHIN YOU. THERE HAS NEVER BEEN ANYTHING BUT STONE,YET SUDDENLY.
THE MAKINGS OF A HALLWAY, AS YOU TURN THE ENDLESS CORNER. A CORRIDOR BRIGHTER THAN THE TOWER OF STAIR. YOUR HEART LEAPS AS YOU TURN TO LOOK.
A RAGGED FIGURE IN A YELLOW CLOAK WAITS FOR YOU AT THE END OF THE CORRIDOR, HIS OUTLINE SICKLY PALE IN THE DUSTMOTE-STRICKEN LIGHT.
YOU KEEP CLIMBING, HURRYING PAST HIS SIGHT, BUT YOU KNOW IT IS A FUTILE EVASION.
HE FOLLOWS BEHIND.
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh|Pesh]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Mircalla|Mircalla]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey|Ey]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms|HK]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Marvos|Marvos]]<<set $leads++>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/83-Chapter+83+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/83-Chapter+83+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
YOU ARE WALKING UP A STAIRCASE THAT SPIRALS UNCEASINGLY. YOUR FOOTSTEPS ECHO DULLY ON THE STRANGELY SOFT STONE, BUT YOUR SENSES ARE STRAINING TO THEIR UTMOST, VIGILANT FOR ANY CHANGE IN YOUR SURROUNDINGS THAT MIGHT SIGNAL ESCAPE.
NOTHING COMES. NO OUTSIDE SOUNDS, NO COOL DRAFT. JUST THE STAIRS IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES, AND THE STAIRS THAT YOU DARE NOT LOOK BACK TO EXAMINE.
FROM BEHIND YOU COMES THE SOUND OF OTHER FOOTSTEPS, AND THE STRANGE SUSURRATION OF FABRIC DRAGGING ALONG STONE. IT SOUNDS SO CLOSE.
YOU CLIMB FASTER, BUT THE ECHOES OF YOUR PURSUER KEEP PACE.
YOUR LEGS ARE TIRING. IS THERE NO WAY OUT?
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh.|Pesh]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Uthmani Sultinate.|US]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey.|Ey]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms.|HK]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Marvos.|Marvos]]<<if visited("Ey") is 1>><<set $leads++>><</if>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/84-Chapter+84+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/84-Chapter+84+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
Oh. We blink and recognize the Eyan embassy, which is oddly comforting in its familiarity. The time we spent here was a much more mundane sort of nightmare, sorting out a mixup with some of our papers. This chair will do nicely to rest shaking legs.
There’s a clink, and we realize the secretary has brought tea. He tuts gently and settles down with his own cup. The scent is pure calm, an herbal blend served by Eyan parents to their fussy children at bedtime.
"Caught the eye of the witch kings, that’s what you did," the secretary says knowledgeably. "It’ll be all right in a moment."
We close our eyes at the first sip. Just before the peace of darkness, in one uncertain half-second, there’s a flicker of yellow robes in the corner of our eyes.
"Take a deep breath. One... two... three. Hold it a moment. Now let it out slow.... Very good. Another. Let your shoulders relax.... Are you ready? Open your eyes."
[[Consult amongst ourselves|Us]]<<set $leads++>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/82-Chapter+82+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/82-Chapter+82+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
YOU ARE WALKING UP A SPIRAL STAIRCASE. YOU WOULD GIVE YOUR OWN SOUL TO ESCAPE THIS STAIRCASE. THE AIR TASTES OF TIN, A METALLIC PANIC THAT PERVADES EACH BREATH AND EACH STEP. YOU ARE DRIPPING SWEAT AND IT IS NOT EXERTION BUT FEAR THAT POOLS ITS EVIDENCES IN THE SMALL OF YOUR BACK, IN THE FURROWS OF YOUR BROW.
YOU CLIMB AND CLIMB AND FEEL AS IF EACH STEP IS BRINGING YOU FARTHER INTO YOURSELF, INTO THE HEART OF YOUR FEAR, CLOSER AND CLOSER TO AN INEVITABLE, HORRIBLE TRUTH OF THE WORLD THAT CAN NEVER BE UNKNOWN, AND YET YOU KNEW ALL ALONG.
YOU THINK MAYBE IT IS TIME TO STOP CLIMBING.
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh|Pesh]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Uthmani Sultinate|US]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Mircalla|Mircalla]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey|Ey]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Marvos|Marvos]]<<set $leads++>><center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/81-Chapter+81+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/81-Chapter+81+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></center>
YOU HAVE BEEN WALKING UP A SPIRALING STAIRCASE FOR UNNUMBERED MINUTES ONLY TO FINALLY REACH THE TOP AND ENCOUNTER A DEAD END.
YOU FIND YOURSELF ON A PLINTH SURROUNDED ON ALL SIDES BY CLOSED EYES, THE FLOOR AND WALLS AND CEILINGS A VAST VAULTED MASS OF EYES, NONE OF THEM OPEN, AND YET YOU FEEL THE UNCEASING GAZE OF A MALEVOLENT INTELLIGENCE UPON YOU. NO MATTER WHICH WAY YOU TURN YOU CANNOT FIND THE SOURCE.
AND YOU CANNOT FIND THE WAY BACK DOWN THE STAIRS.
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh|Pesh]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Uthmani Sultinate|US]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of Mircalla|Mircalla]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey|Ey]]
[[Seek asylum at the Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms|HK]]
<center><h1>Thank you so much!</h1></center>
If you enjoyed this game and would like to put some money towards it, you can do so <a href="https://eldritchdetective.itch.io/the-case-of-the-startled-salon/donate">here</a>. All proceeds will be donated to <a href="https://www.rainbowrailroad.org/">Rainbow Railroad</a>. You can also:
<ul><li><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366429">Leave a comment on AO3!</a></li>
<li><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pod_together2020">Browse other audio fanworks created for Pod_Together 2020!</a></li></ul>
<center><h1>Credits</h1></center>
<b>Eldritch Sorceress: The Case of the Startled Salon</b>
<b>Sentient Hive:</b> AirgiodSLV, kitkat50311, CompassRose, epaulettes, minnabird, elle_dubs, ellejabell, mahons-ondine, sisi_rambles, Kess, annapods
<b>Notes:</b> Thank you to everyone involved with this project; it wouldn’t have been possible without you. Special thanks to Ellejabell, for the exhaustive pronunciation guide we would have been lost without; to Annapods, who said, 'Have you heard of Twine?' and signed on to make coding magic; and to our playtesters, whose experience and feedback along the way were invaluable.
<b>Music & Quotations:</b>
Valentino’s Jingle (chapters 1 & 40): Little Lily Swing - Tri-Tachyon
Theme Music (chapters 2 & 78): The Black Waltz - Scott Buckley
“A man may fish...” quote (chapter 15): Hamlet - William Shakespeare
Cordwangle’s Theme (chapter 35): Sweeney Todd - Stephen Sondheim
Havoc Company Chorus (chapter 38): The Charge of the Light Brigade - Alfred, Lord Tennyson (original poem) / The 3D’s (music)
“When you have eliminated the impossible...” quote (chapter 74): The Sign of the Four, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
<b>Council of Interested Parties (Concept & Project Lead):</b> AirgiodSLV
<b>Ubiquitous Company of Story & Plot Development:</b> AirgiodSLV & kitkat50311
<b>Ubiquitous Company of Sound Editing & Soundscaping:</b> ellejabell
<b>Ubiquitous Company of Artists:</b> CompassRose
<b>Ubiquitous Company of Twine Design:</b> epaulettes & annapods
[[Individual scene credits available here!|Credits2]][[Consult the directory.|Directory]]
[[Review the news.|News]]
[[Turn out our pockets.|Inventory]]
[[I think I know what's going on! [Careful, here lies spoilers!]|Q and A]]We turn out our pockets to review the detritus of evidence, notes, stubs, and cards we've acquired over the course of this case.
<ul><li>[[A list of informants and a directory of Khelathra Ven.|Directory]]</li>
<<if visited("55")>><li>[[Hints from Shaharazad Haas herself.|SH Hints]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("34")>><li>[[Hints from an imprisoned Lord of Ven.|CT Hints]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("5")>><li>[[A list of the disrupted salon's attendees.|Salon List]]</li><</if>>
<<if $item15 is true>><li>[[The mysterious device which caused the stir at the salon.|Terrible Device]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("43")>><li>[[One of Dr. Bhume's own Thaumatropic Ambulatory Music Boxes|Bhume Box]]</li><</if>>
<<if $item8 is true>><li>[[A garbled message copied from Bahrami's wax cylinder.|Watery Message]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("38")>><li>[[Notes on the lyrics of the song we heard from Vasile Kovac's opera.|Havoc Company Song]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("22")>><li>[[Excerpts from our research at the Fata Morgana.|Fata Morgana]]</li><</if>>
<<if $item16 is true>><li>[[A letter from another place and time.|Pennyfeather letter]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("54")>><li>[[The mysterious telegram from Garibaldi's rooms.|Coded Telegram]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("6")>><li>[[Emergency Surfeiting Worms! Always handy.|Worms]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("45")>><li>[[Two dirigible fares from the rooms of Katrina de la Martynière.|Dirigible Fares]]</li><</if>>
<<if $item2 is true>><li>[[A smattering of calling cards.|Calling Cards]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("76")>><li>[[Notes from our accidental interview of Miss Davina Wright.|Wright Interview]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("13")>><li>[[Our newly-purchased Uthmani goods.|Uthmani stuff]]</li><</if>>
<<if $item10 is true>><li>[[Several edifying pamphlets.|Several Pamphlets]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("14")>><li>[[Sample swatches of a beautifully dark fabric.|Sample fabrics]]</li><</if>>
<<if $item12 is true>><li>[[Paraphernalia surrounding the release of Perdita's 100% uncursed single.|Perdita Paraphernalia]]</li><</if>> <<if visited("74")>><li>[[The notation of a familiar aphorism.|Aphorism]]</li><</if>>
<li>[[A relentless earworm.|Valentino Jingle]]</li>
<<if visited("Ey")>><li>[[The echo of a dream....|Dream]]</li><</if>></ul>
<<if $cbodies gt 1>>One of our number also has a notebook with tally marks letting us know we've seen or heard of at least $cbodies Carcosan bodies so far.<</if>>
[[Consult amongst ourselves.|Us]]<center><i>If you want a good rough shag,
The choice is Valentino’s!
Oh-so-good when it gets hot,
Give our good rough shag a shot!</i></center>
When you need a pick-me-up during a quiet moment alone, to fill the time or to dispel a creeping feeling of existential dread, why not try Valentino’s Good Rough Shag? Made of the highest quality tobacco, take Valentino’s with you wherever you go.
Meeting your sweetheart for a romantic stroll around the Lake of Stars in Little Carcosa? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Chartering a wyvern or flying horse and carriage at the Hippocrene for an aerial journey across the Hundred Kingdoms? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Making your ascent via mechanical platform to Fata Morgana, Khelathra-Ven’s famous flying library? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Purchasing a worm at the Docks at Shattered Point, in preparation for a visit to the city’s underwater district, the Sunken City of Ven? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i><<if visited("40")>>
Pausing on your way across the Rose Gold bridge between Khel and Athra to look out over the barges on the scenic Khelathran Strait? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
On your way from the Winter Palace to an appointment at the temple-courts, and hoping to avoid the Scourge-Priest of Bu (May He Whip Forevermore)? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Taking a leisurely swim through the Tunnel of Lost Souls on your way to the Unremembered Gardens? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Stranded on the Isle of the Dead, that ancient necropolis where the god-kings of Khel were once interred under the watchful eye of Anu, Lord of the Underworld? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Enjoying a night out at the theatre on Wax Flower Hill, inside a nightmarish pseudoreality ruled by capricious, thought-devouring gods? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i>
Accidentally fallen through a transdimensional portal to the barren, faceless ash-wastes of Telash-Ur with little hope of rescue? <i>(Good Rough Shag!)</i><</if>>
Wherever you are in life, be prepared with Valentino’s Good Rough Shag. There’s nothing else like it.
<center><i>If you want a good rough shag
The choice is Valentino’s!
Oh-so-good when it gets hot
Give our good rough shag a shot!</i>
<code>(This message brought to you by Valentino’s Good Rough Shag
and the Unified Tourism Board of Khelathra-Ven.)</code></center>
[[Done|Inventory]]<<if visited("5")>>We review the passenger list given to us by the bargee at Ecet's Cove regarding who came to attend Mrs. Benamara's ill-fated salon:
<center><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Ch5-PassengerManifest.jpg" width="400" /></center>
<blockquote><i>Ambrosia de Luca
Domitia
Farah
Lord Bahrami
Vasile Kovac</i></blockquote>
[[Done|Inventory]]<<if visited("43")>>Upon examination, the wax cylinder we copied from Lord Bahrami's apartment was clearly one of the cunning recording tubes employed by Dr. Bhume’s Thaumatropic Ambulatory Music Box. We've purchased one for ourselves, but as before, when we attempted to play the recording, we were baffled by an unintelligible stream of burbling gurgles.<</if>><<if visited("6")>>
After purchasing Surfeiting worms and listening to the cylinder again in the watery depths of Ven, we now know it holds the message of a melodic voice saying,
<div align="center"><i>"I shall meet you in a forgotten place, to forget again. What was done can be undone, and you will find your peace."</i></div><</if>>
<<if visited("25")>>Although we didn't get much from our ill-advised trip to the Sorcerous Crimes Unit of New Arcadia Yard, Second Augur Standfast did give us a clue to the meaning behind this mysterious recording. According to her, "the message refers to an amnesia spell, cast by sorcerous means."<</if>>
[[Done|Inventory]]
A rummage through our things produces several lightly-crumpled pamphlets:
<<if visited("17")>>A tasteful pamphlet from the Ubiquitous Company of Skinners featuring the many products to which we might dedicate ourselves after death.<</if>><<if visited("16")>>
An exquisite pamphlet from the Ubiquitous Company of Printers & Typesetters printed on paper so silky that it seems nearly a crime to touch it, the ink gleaming, the edges of each letter crisp and precisely rendered. It extolls the use of Mollusca Indigo ink for use in the printing medium, praising its smooth application and lasting sheen that will display beautifully for years—far preferable to wasting it on cloth, seeing as any lustre is lost upon the first laundering.<</if>><<if visited("9")>>
A travel brochure from the Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms entitled ‘Top 10 Things to Do with Your Platonic Polycule’ that lists the Austral Express’s tour of the the Hundred Kingdoms, including stops in Vedunia and Loightberg.<</if>><<if visited("41")>>
We also acquired several more travel brochures crafted by Zheng's Travel Guides when we stopped by the train station. We were sure to pick up those describing locations we recognized from our mentor’s chronicled adventures alongside the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, published in regular installments by <i>The Strait</i>. For purposes of research and preparedness, of course.<</if>>
[[Done|Inventory]]Several of us have purchased a selection of brilliantly-colored handkerchiefs, and one of us has additionally bought a rather daringly-patterned pair of socks from the wares seller at the Embassy of the Uthmani Sultinate.
[[Done|Inventory]]One of us still has their complimentary wax cylinder of Perdita’s latest radio release, ‘The Secret Names of the Star-Demons of Vz’att.’ We are <i>by no means assured</i> that playing it is perfectly safe, and are indeed half convinced it <i>will</i> lead to our being cursed, possessed, or smote.<<if visited("63")>>
We've also found ourselves in possession of a signed print of Perdita’s portrait. We are unable to come to an agreement if it is likely or not to be cursed by association.<</if>>
[[Done|Inventory]]We still have a few of the sample swatches offered to us by the Ubiquitous Company of Dyers, who wished to illustrate to us that Mollusca Indigo ink can be used to make beautiful fabric (which is clearly a superior medium to paper when it comes to durability, utility, and variety of applications).
[[Done|Inventory]]It seems we've amassed quite a few calling cards, from several estimable persons, including:
<ul><<if visited("43")>><li>The friendly concierge at Lord Bahrami's apartments, who is owed a letter.</li><</if>>
<<if visited("21")>><li>Captain Wyndham’s personal solicitor, Ms. Gwendolyn Puppinghorn.</li><</if>>
<<if visited("56")>><li>Ptolemy Khan of the Ossuary Bank's Department of Inadvisable Loans.</li><</if>>
<<if visited("69")>><li>A handsome creature of octopodean features, whom one of our number may or may not be planning to call upon before too long.</li><</if>></ul>
[[Done|Inventory]]From the Company of Strangers' <i>Record of Days</i>:
<blockquote>This is the current official account as of the time of publication, which may be revised in the future, or rather an alternate timeline of the present, due to the intervention of mad gods and/or time and interdimensional travel.
When the line broke, they began to fear that all was lost. If the Empress of Nothing took Byrnum Pike, the whole of the Undulant Valley would fall to her as well. Hope came at last in the form of a small company of reinforcements.
Having been diverted on their way to another front, Havoc Company found a small ravine through which they could pass undetected. They emerged at the back of the Empress' horde and fell upon their unsuspecting flank. Very shortly, the tide of the battle turned</blockquote>
Another of our number has recorded the following excerpt:
<blockquote>An extratemporal jezail is a fiendish weapon devised by those who serve the Empress of Nothing. Its bullets appear and disappear, unanchored in time. It does not merely do injury once, but many times: the injury, though it first healed years ago, may reappear fresh, and not always in the same place where it was initially incurred. In this way many careers in the Company of Strangers have been ended.</blockquote>
[[Done|Inventory]]Although we're not sure how to untangle the riddles wrought by Walking Upwards Unmaking, we do our best to review the clues that she provided:
<blockquote><i>There is a portal to another world in the heart of Ven. One less welcoming than this. Another bargain has been made for the forgetting of that which must not be remembered, and it will be made again. The answer you search for is in a letter that should not have been sent, and a song that must not be sung. You will find the one you seek in a place long forgotten, and another with answers whose name is written in my throne.</i></blockquote>
[[Done|Inventory]]Between the lot of us, we're able to reconstruct the lyrics from the excerpt of Kovac's opera that we heard at the Mise En Abyme:
<div align="center"><i>Eighteen days, eighteen days...
Eighteen days, eighteen days
Eighteen days distant,
Through the fold in time
Rode the six hundred.
'Charge, Havoc Company!
Fall on their flank!' he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Charge, Havoc Company!'
Was there a soul dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Byrnum was sundered.
Splitting from Tyger’s Thumb
Uncertain what’s to come
Hearts pounding to the drum
Racing towards Byrnum Pike
Rode the six hundred
Cliff-face to right of them,
Chasm to left of them,
Jezail in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Praying they’re not too late,
At the Unending Gate
Into the jaws of Death,
History to unmake
Rode the six hundred.
See how they charge and fight,
Flanking with skill and might
Out of the Empress’ sight
Changing the past, while
All the world slumbered.
Plunged in the battle horde
Swinging a singing sword;
Soldiers of Nothing
Broke, fell into grave discord
Shattered and slaughtered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Chasm to right of them,
Cliff-face to left of them,
Jezail behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Praise be, they were not late,
They fought to change our fate
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from a future date,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
What did the time scout see?
Once ruin now victory!
While the world slumbered.
Honour their memory!
Praise Havoc Company
Noble six hundred!
Eighteen days, eighteen days...</i></div>
[[Done|Inventory]]After acquiring a cylinder, we hastily acquired the means to make use of it. Luckily, Dr. Bhume's Thaumatropic Ambulatory Music Boxes—the latest fad in Khelathra-Ven—are easy to come by at the moment.
[[Play the watery message.|Watery Message]]<<if visited("14")>>
<<linkreplace "Play Perdita's single.">>On second thought, we're quite attached to our immortal souls...<</linkreplace>><</if>>
[[Done|Inventory]]<<if $item19 is true>><li>[[Notes on a curious bullet and its effects.|Mysterious Bullet]]</li><</if>>
<<if visited("43")>>Notes from our experience of the curious bullet in the display case at Lord Bahrami's apartments:
<blockquote>At first we assumed it to be a piece of hollow glass, but just as we glanced away, the flower-blossom form of a fired bullet appeared within, seemingly from thin air. It was a display case for the bullet, which appeared in the light to be of a blackened copper hue.
Before we left, we were able to witness the bullet fade away from view, though it had been plainly visible a moment before. We picked up the case and a good shake proved the bullet was not simply invisible, but had become immaterial.</blockquote><</if>><<if visited("36")>>
Notes from our consultation with Ms. Eze:
<blockquote>"Yes, that would be from a jezail—a weapon used by the Empress of Nothing. It gives one wounds that come and go, or sometimes even shift within the body. Most terrible, really. John was wounded by one of these, you know. He so rarely talks about his time in the Company, but I hardly blame him. ...When you’re fighting an enemy who exists outside of time and space, I'd imagine it's prudent to be a little close-lipped."</blockquote><</if>><<if visited("22")>>
Notes from our researches at the Fata Morgana:
<blockquote>An extratemporal jezail is a fiendish weapon devised by those who serve the Empress of Nothing. Its bullets appear and disappear, unanchored in time. It does not merely do injury once, but many times: the injury, though it first healed years ago, may reappear fresh, and not always in the same place where it was initially incurred. In this way many careers in the Company of Strangers have been ended.</blockquote><</if>><<if visited("43")>><li>[[Lord Bahrami? Admiral Bohr? What could be the connection there?|Bohr Bahrami]]</li>
While we were examining Lord Bahrami's apartments, we noted a set of stationery giving Lord Bahrami’s name and address in a stylish blue script—its usage featured on an assortment of personal letters.
However, we also noted several other papers addressed to an Admiral Bohr, although the envelopes showed delivery to Lord Bahrami's same address. Among the papers was the name <i>Jamal Benamara</i>, Mrs. Benamara’s husband, from his office with the lawyer-priests of Estra. We also noted several missives from the Ossuary Bank detailing the fine points of a contract, and correspondence with a Mr. Iacomo Van der Berg.We review the receipt for the purchase of two dirigible fares—dated this morning, and scheduled to depart today—that we removed from the rooms of Katrina de la Martynière. The ink is badly smudged over the aviator’s signature, and we cannot make it out.
[[Done|Inventory]]There seems to be something curious about this lengthy telegram we found in Garibaldi's rooms...
<center><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Telegram-Ch54.jpg" width="500" /></center>
<blockquote><code>Love, I know the Carcosan business is a worry [stop]. As I’ve said, I need no assistance [stop]. Know I love you, and that I appreciate all you do [stop]. Every day [stop]. Of course, I wish you were working fewer hours [stop]. Forgive me for that vanity [stop]. Still, I suppose that’s what comes of loving a Myrmidon [stop]. Truly, I can hardly hold it against you, knowing the mad hours I keep [stop]. At least we’ll always have an occasional holiday to revel in [stop]. Remember Vedunia? [stop] Sfantvar too—that brunch we had still ranks among my favorites [stop]. Please tell me when next you’re free [stop]. Ask for a weekend off soon? [stop] Call me sentimental, but I miss you [stop]. Kindly tell your supervisor I said so [stop]. At the very least, that may sway him [stop]. Beg, if you must [stop]. A little begging never hurt anyone [stop]. Gracious, the time has quite got away from me, I must sign off for now [stop].
- Kisses [stop].</code></blockquote>
[[Done|Inventory]]We consult the notes we took while seeking advice from the noted sorceress Shaharazad Haas:
<blockquote>"When you discover two versions of the same story, it’s important to remember that they might not be as much in conflict as they appear. History is written from a biased perspective. All stories are. Look at Captain Wyndham."</blockquote>
<blockquote>"Were I you, I should start by finding the official record of events, and then determining why it has become such, and who might benefit from an alternate account...or by its suppression."</blockquote>
<blockquote>"If you can’t understand the message, it might be that you’re not in the correct environment to hear it. Wax cylinders are remarkable substitutions when you can’t use paper and ink. Head for the water, ducklings. And remember, you’ll need a worm."</blockquote>
[[Done|Inventory]]When we visited the home of Francesca Vandegrift-Osbourne, we noted a small cross-stitch hanging beside her door that read:
<blockquote><i>Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.</i></blockquote>
It touched some hidden recess of our memory, but though we've thought on it at length, we cannot recall precisely what we should be remembering.
[[Done|Inventory]]<<if visited("62")>>It's lucky Vasile Kovac memorized this letter's contents, because we had to go back and transcribe it from him after Pennyfeather destroyed all evidence of it before our very eyes.<<else>>We review the letter that we took from Vasile Kovac's collection:<</if>>
<center><img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Sc57-Letter.jpg" width="500" /></center>
<blockquote><i>Dearest friend,
I write this all-too-brief letter not knowing what the future will hold for either of us in this truly desperate hour, but with the hope we shall both survive it.
I have been called away on short notice—our Backwards Scout discovered a time fold that will lead a select few of our battalion, myself included, to an uncertain past at the Rout of Byrnum Pike, which means that I must leave you to face an uncertain future at Tyger’s Thumb.
We both know the losses at Byrnum were staggering on many fronts, and the odds of my survival are slim. I will run headlong into what I fear is a hopeless endeavor with my eyes wide open, but know I do it willingly, friend. If there is any hope we might change the tide at Byrnum, might stem the now-inevitable fall of the Undulant Valley into Her dreadful hands, we must take it, or all our sacrifices will come to nothing. If the Valley falls, we all do, and the hopes of the universe with us. While I will not be at your side on the lines at Tyger, I shall hold out the slimmest hope that my joining the fight at Byrnum three weeks previous will provide you with the advantage you will need to carry the day today.
Time is short—we are called to take our positions while the window remains open—there are not enough words to express to you what an honor it has been to fight by your side, what a joy knowing you has been.
Fight bravely, my heart. Know I am with you in spirit, and fighting like the devil for all of us, but most of all, for you.
Your brother in arms always,
Samuel Pennyfeather</i></blockquote>
[[Done|Inventory]]Surfeiting Worms! This marvelous creature can be swallowed aid in underwater translation and respiration. However, they should always be purchased from a licensed wormerer and disposed of in good time, lest they creep into one’s thoughts and gain control over one’s faculties. We recall the excellent advice of Saltpetre:
"Just remember—these things have a time limit—you swallow one for too long and it starts getting ideas about taking over."
[[Done|Inventory]]Every time we close our eyes, in the one uncertain half-second between one blink and the next, we could swear we see the flicker of yellow robes.
Do we wake or sleep?
[[Done|Inventory]] <<if visited("25")>>Although the device itself was almost confiscated due to the overly-prosecutorial ministrations of Augur Extraordinary Joy-in-Sorrow Standfast at the Sorcerous Crimes Unit, we did get some useful insights from our interaction with the woman. In her own words:
<blockquote>"This weapon may have been disabled to prevent fatalities, but it is still dangerous, and impossible to obtain through legal means."</blockquote><</if>>
Per our original notes from Second Augur Lawson's original briefing, the device is an artifact of a type we have never encountered before, although we noticed that Captain Wyndham frowned upon seeing it. In Lawson's own words:
<blockquote>"We don’t know much about the device that was employed, but everyone at the scene reported a sense of fear and existential horror, enough to cause them all to flee blindly from the house, chased by ‘unnamable terror’."</blockquote>
<<if visited("18")>>And after consulting with our esteemed mentor, Captain John Wyndham, we were able to add his preliminary findings to our notes:
<blockquote>"It’s been deactivated, so it is quite safe to handle. It’s an unusual piece of machinery—I recognize it due to my and Ms. Haas’ occasional encounters with the criminal underworld."</blockquote>
<blockquote>"It looks as though it’s been intentionally modified to be less potent—some versions of this particular device can open rifts into the void and drive a soul to madness, or worse, I’m sorry to say. It requires manual activation, and cannot be detonated remotely or using a timer—which can be quite a double-edged sword, as whoever activates it suffers the same ill effects as those they’re intending to target. The individual who used this device could have intended merely to frighten those attending the salon, or was not aware that the device had been altered, and was thwarted from causing greater harm."</blockquote><</if>>
[[Done|Inventory]]<center><a href="https://archive.org/details/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/00b-Chapter+00b+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" rel="nofollow">[MP3 at Archive.org]</a>
<iframe src="https://archive.org/embed/eldritch-detective-the-case-of-the-startled-salon/00b-Chapter+00b+Eldritch+Detective.mp3#" width="500" height="40" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>
<img src="https://archive.org/download/eldritch-detective-art/Khelathra-Ven_map.jpg" width="600" /></center>
The city of Khelathra-Ven consists of three districts: Khel is where the University and most municipal buildings are located, along with the upscale homes of the city’s wealthy, Athra is a primarily residential district for the middle and working class, and Ven is the city’s underwater district—it sank beneath the waves centuries ago as a result of a battle between ancient God-like beings who originally founded Ven and the Empress of Nothing. Some of those ancient beings still reside there, although their powers are diminished, and Ven is also known as the home of the city’s criminal underworld. The Myrmidons are the local law enforcement led by Augurs. They attempt to keep the city safe, and mostly succeed, but every now and then, even the most competent Augur is in need of a consulting detective.
Khelathra-Ven is known for its interplanetary commerce and banking, and is a hub of travel, trade, and culture. Many different people call Khelathra-Ven their home—there are the Khelish, Athran, and Vennish citizens of the city, of course, but many expatriates, refugees, artists, scholars, and tradespeople from other realms are drawn to the opportunities and freedoms the city provides—some from as far away as the distant planets of Carcosa and Marvos. We ourselves are University students who hail from Ey, a country with very different notions of propriety and decorum, and have found our time in Khelathra-Ven thus far to be equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
Those of you interested in learning more may read one of the serialized adventures of our mentor, Captain John Wyndham, fellow citizen of Ey and veteran of the Unending Wars, and his companion, the consulting detective and noted sorceress Shaharazad Haas, in <i>The Affair of the Mysterious Letter.</i> It is a rousing adventure of magic, mad gods, vampires, sky-pirates, blackmail, and time travel, and we found it a most entertaining tale.
If you're ready to start the case, <<set $leads to 0>>[[onward.|News]]
<<if visited("Us") gt 1>>[[Consult the directory.|Directory]]
[[Review the news.|News]]
[[Turn out our pockets.|Inventory]]
[[I think I know what's going on!|Q and A]]<</if>>
<script>$('html').addClass('cellhome');</script><br /><br /><h3>1. News broadcast</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Colossus Missing: Kess
Dirigible Race: ellejabell
Crime Syndicates in Conflict: ondine
Price Over Squid Ink: AirgiodSLV
Fine Dining Complaint: kitkat50311
Alchemical Evidence Accepted in the Temple Court: epaulettes
Music Controversy: elle_dubs
Who's Who Literary Guide: CompassRose
Parakeets Declared an Invasive Species: sisi_rambles
Valentino's Good Rough Shag: minnabird
<br /><br /><h3>2. Introduction</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
John Wyndham: Kess
Shaharazad Haas: CompassRose
Gabriel Lawson: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>3. Hippocrene</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: kitkat50311
Blessing Ngoie: ellejabell
<br /><br /><h3>4. Ossuary Bank</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Jeremiah Donne: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>5. Docks at Ecet's Cove</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Artist: CompassRose
Audio Engineer: ondine
Narrator: epaulettes
Bargee: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>6. Docks at Shattered Point</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Saltpetre: ellejabell
Watery Voice: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>7. Embassy of the Commonwealth of Ey</h3>
Writer: minnabird
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: ondine
Secretary: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>8. Embassy of the Hagiography of Pesh</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Secretary at Pesh: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>9. Embassy of the Hundred Kingdoms</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: kitkat50311
Narrator: kitkat50311
<br /><br /><h3>10. Embassy of Marvos</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Secretary at Marvos: epaulettes
<br /><br /><h3>11. Embassy of Mircalla</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>12. Embassy of the People's Republic of Carcosa</h3>
Writer: epaulettes
Audio Engineer: ellejabell
Narrator: ellejabell
<br /><br /><h3>13. Embassy of the Uthmani Sultanate</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: kitkat50311
Narrator: kitkat50311
<br /><br /><h3>14. Ubiquitous Company of Dyers</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>15. Ubiquitous Company of Fishers</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: Kess
Narrator: Kess
<br /><br /><h3>16. Ubiquitous Company of Printers & Typesetters</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>17. Ubiquitous Company of Skinners</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: epaulettes
Narrator: epaulettes
<br /><br /><h3>18. Little Sisters of Thotek the Devourer</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: epaulettes
Narrator: epaulettes
John Wyndham: Kess
<br /><br /><h3>19. Pearl Farms</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
John Watson: Kess
Sherlock Holmes: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>20. Lawyer-priests of Estra</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: kitkat50311
Jamal Benamara: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>21. Shah, Shah, and Puppinghorn</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: ondine
Narrator: ondine
Gwendolyn Puppinghorn: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>22. Fata Morgana</h3>
Writer: minnabird
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: kitkat50311
Books: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>23. Council of Interested Parties</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>24. New Arcadia Yard</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Gabriel Lawson: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>25. Sorcerous Crimes Unit</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: ondine
Narrator: kitkat50311
Joy-in-Sorrow Standfast: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>26. Temple-court</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: ellejabell
Attendant: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>27. Winter Palace</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: elle_dubs
Narrator: elle_dubs
<br /><br /><h3>28. Ladies' Aspirational Repository</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: ellejabell
First Reporter: ondine
Second Reporter: epaulettes
Third Reporter: kitkat50311
Fourth Reporter: minnabird
Fifth Reporter: sisi_rambles
Sixth Reporter: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>29. The Esoteric Review</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: ellejabell
Narrator: ellejabell
News Lady: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>30. The Strait</h3>
Writers: kitkat50311 & AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: elle_dubs
Narrator: elle_dubs
Person 1: kitkat50311
Person 2: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>31. Zheng's Travel Guides</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Editor: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>32. Lake of Stars</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: elle_dubs
Narrator: elle_dubs
Vandergrift-Osbourne: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>33. Unremembered Gardens</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Narrator: minnabird
Lord Bahrami: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>34. Coral Towers</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: elle_dubs
Narrator: ellejabell
Walking Upwards Unmaking: elle_dubs
<br /><br /><h3>35. Cordwangle's Superior Pie Emporium</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Cordwangle: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>36. Sea-god's Nipple</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: epaulettes
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Patience Eze: epaulettes
<br /><br /><h3>37. Squamous Fine Dining</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Maitre d': epaulettes
<br /><br /><h3>38. Mise en Abyme</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Charles du Maurier: ondine
Opera Chorus: kitkat50311
<br /><br /><h3>39. Professor Lipquist's Filterless Cigarillos</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Marketer 1: epaulettes
Marketer 2: minnabird
Marketer 3: kitkat50311
Marketer 4: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>40. Valentino's Good Rough Shag</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Jingle Singer: minnabird
<br /><br /><h3>41. Austral Express</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Conductor: Kess
<br /><br /><h3>42. Honoured University of Khel</h3>
Writer: minnabird
Audio Engineer: epaulettes
Narrator: kitkat50311
Clerk: epaulettes
J.R. Donahue-Kishen: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>43. Bahrami, Lord</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Narrator: minnabird
Concierge: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>44. Benamara, Jamal & Yasmine</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Yasmine Benamara: minnabird
<br /><br /><h3>45. de la Martyniere, Katrina</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>46. de Luca, Ambrosia & Domitia</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: elle_dubs
Ambrosia de Luca: kitkat50311
Domitia: ellejabell
<br /><br /><h3>47. de Silver, Evadne</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: ondine
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Evadne de Silver: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>48. Beck, Cora & Delhali, Eirene Viola</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: kitkat50311
Eirene Viola Delhali: ellejabell
Cora Beck: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>49. Donahue-Kishen, J.R.</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>50. Donne, Jeremiah</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: kitkat50311
Narrator: kitkat50311
<br /><br /><h3>51. du Maurier, Charles</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: ondine
Narrator: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>52. Farah</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: ellejabell
Farah: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>53. Fortescue-Blake, Nikolaj</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: epaulettes
Narrator: epaulettes
Nikolaj Fortescue-Blake: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>54. Garibaldi</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Artist: CompassRose
Narrator: kitkat50311
Housekeeper: sisi_rambles
Telegram: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>55. Haas, Shaharazad & Wyndham, John & Hive</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: CompassRose
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Shaharazad Haas: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>56. Khan, Ptolemy </h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: kitkat50311
Ptolemy Khan: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>57. Kovac, Vasile</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Artist: CompassRose
Narrator: minnabird
Vasile Kovac: ellejabell
Pennyfeather: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>58. Lawson, Gabriel</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Elderly Neighbor: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>59. Lutrell, Percy</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Percy Lutrell: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>60. Mehdiyeva</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: elle_dubs
Narrator: elle_dubs
<br /><br /><h3>61. Ngoie, Blessing</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Booming Voice: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>62. Pennyfeather, Samuel</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Housekeeper: kitkat50311
Samuel Pennyfeather: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>63. Perdita </h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: minnabird
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Perdita: minnabird
<br /><br /><h3>64. Pun, Jacques</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: kitkat50311
Jacques Pun: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>65. Puppinghorn, Gwendolyn</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Gwendolyn Puppinghorn's Husband: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>66. Reef, Asenath</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: ellejabell
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Asenath Reef: ellejabell
<br /><br /><h3>67. Reef, Enoch</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: ellejabell
Narrator: ellejabell
Enoch Reef: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>68. Roberts</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Robert's Roommate, Abe: sisi_rambles
Disheveled individual: kitkat50311
<br /><br /><h3>69. Saltpetre</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: elle_dubs
Narrator: elle_dubs
<br /><br /><h3>70. Standfast, Joy-in-Sorrow</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
<br /><br /><h3>71. Thrumpmusket, Lady Quinella</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: ondine
Narrator: ondine
Lady Quinella Thrumpmusket: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>72. Toksvig, Mia</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: epaulettes
Narrator: kitkat50311
Mia Toksvig: epaulettes
<br /><br /><h3>73. Van der Berg, Iacomo</h3>
Writer: minnabird
Audio Engineer: ondine
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Iacomo Van der Berg: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>74. Vandegrift-Osbourne, Francesca</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: CompassRose
Narrator: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>75. Wilde</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: ellejabell
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Wilde: ellejabell
<br /><br /><h3>76. Wright, Davina</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Davina Wright: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>77. Zheng</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: CompassRose
Narrator: ellejabell
Zheng: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>78. Solution</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Shaharazad Haas: CompassRose
John Wyndham: Kess
Gabriel Lawson: ondine
<br /><br /><h3>79-84. Embassy Sequence</h3>
Writers: epaulettes (79-83) & minnabird (84)
Audio Engineer: ellejabell
Narrator: ellejabell
Secretary: AirgiodSLV
<br /><br /><h3>Rules</h3>
Writer: epaulettes
Audio Engineer: sisi_rambles
Artist: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>Game Introduction</h3>
Writer: kitkat50311
Audio Engineer: kitkat50311
Artist: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>Directory & Informants List</h3>
Writers: AirgiodSLV & kitkat50311
Audio Engineers: AirgiodSLV & kitkat50311
Artist: CompassRose
<br /><br /><h3>Questions & Answers</h3>
Writer: AirgiodSLV
Audio Engineer: AirgiodSLV
[[Done|Credits]]While we did not get much use out of the time we spent with Miss Davina Wright, we do wonder whether we ought to try submitting our notes to <i>The Ladies’ Aspirational Repository</i>, if only to lend some legitimacy to our accidental ruse....
<blockquote>"What challenges will we face, in the Dread Wastes? The biggest one by far is the sand. Anytime you set down—for maintenance, to refuel, to let the engine cool—the sand gets into everything. It’s nasty stuff, and if you’re not careful it can spoil your water and food, and jam up your undercarriage. And when it gets into your clothes, the <i>itching</i>!
"The storms are unlike anything we see here—walls of sand for miles, complete blackout visibility, and if you’re not high enough it will stall out your engine and then you’re in freefall. That’s what cut short most of the attempted flights across the wastes before mine, and for me it was a near thing. You could say I was lucky, but there’s skill involved in being able to read the weather and adjust your course. My parents are from the Uthmani Sultanate, and I grew up hearing their stories of the sandstorms back home.
"Then there’s the demons..."</blockquote>
<blockquote>"You want to know whether the romantic speculation is true, and which contender I’m cozying up to, Nik or Jacques.
"I couldn’t possibly comment. A lady never kisses and tells."</blockquote>
[[Done|Inventory]]