The tunnel opened before me. I could feel my pulse rise and my breath came fast in my throat. There was no light in the distance. No sound. No breeze. Just dead dark. My hands began to shake as the tunnel seemed to close around me and I'm sure I would have fallen if Umberto hadn't wrapped and arm around me.
"Raz? Raz? Are you ok?" he asked me. "Are you sure you wanna do this Raz? It looks kinda dark...."
Something about the stupidity of that remark shook me back on my feet. I pulled out of his grasp and rummaged in my overcoat pocket to find the gem Jules gave me.
"No shit it's dark you idiot," I grumbled, slapping the gem in my hand and watching as it flickered to life, "it's a secret tunnel. What do you think, it's going to have lighting installed?" I strode off in a huff, the eerie blue gem light casting shadows along the tunnel walls. It didn't illuminate far ahead but enough that I could see where I was going. I heard Berto shuffle behind me. When the trap door closed, the darkness fully engulfed us but I refused to let my steps falter. I kept my breathing steady and focused on Jules' gem light. I did, however, set a brisk pace. I wanted to get to the end of this passage and out as soon as possible before panic overwhelmed me.
The tunnel itself rose sightly. The ground was muddy and the sides were rough cut stones. There was enough height to stand comfortably but if I were to stretch out my arms, they would easily touch the sides of the passage. Single file was our best option. With Umberto's hulking footsteps behind me, I lead the way into the darkness. Time is a funny thing. In the dark, without any sounds or outside cues, it's easy to lose track of it. We couldn't have been walking long before I saw a bundle up ahead. I slowed as I approached. In our pathway, crumpled on the ground, was a brown coat. Never one to leave a pocket left unsearched, I knelt down and rifled through the coat. A few pence, a small notebook that was too hard to read in the gem-light, and a round silver watch with the initials ARW engraved on front. I tucked my treasure into my pockets and motioned Umberto to follow. The ground of the tunnel was damp and muddy as if a great flow of water had recently passed through. It made the going slow as our footing was questionable. But still the tunnel traveled up. After an indeterminable amount of time, I could make out a faint glow up ahead. I tapped our gem off and stood for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. The darkness began to settle about me. Again, I could feel my heart starting to seize up and my head began to spin. It was so dark. So dark.
"Raz? Um, why are we stopped?" Umberto whispered into my ear. For once, I didn't care about appearances. I reached back and grabbed his big warm hand. Together, we crept toward the glowing outline of the door before us. When we reached it, the muffled sound of voiced carried into the tunnel. I could hear clinking glasses and laughter. It sounded like a party. I had hoped the entrance to the tunnel would be in a secluded place we could just slip into. That was not going to happen. We were going to have to make a very loud entrance. Loud and fast. I stepped back from the door way to think. I wished there was some way to get a peek on the other side but we were going to have to go in blind and hope for luck. Not the way I like to operate but, truth be told, it was my usual modus operandi.
I stretched myself up on tiptoe to reach Umberto's ear. "OK brother, here's the plan....."
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Write about Lamps and Candles
Finnegan strolled through district after district hoping that his head would clear, the Forthent would take effect and possibly his headache would go away. Near suppertime, his feet aching from the miles he had put down swung by a cart and bought three skewers of bay fish, sauteed over charcoal braziers. The carter wrapped them in newspaper for him and he made his way to a cafe only a few blocks from his apartment.
The sun was low on the horizon. Filtered through the smoggy clouds it loomed large and dark orange, silhouetting the ships in the bay. Finnegan could almost look directly at it without leaving spots in his eyes.
The waiter showed him to a table on the second floor of the cafe, out on the balcony. It was early enough and very few diners had decided to make their way out yet so Finnegan had the balcony nearly to himself. His head had finally cleared, The headache simply an unpleasant memory from the afternoon. He laid out the fish on a plate in front of him and ordered his favorite dish to go with it, roots and vegetables from the southern isles shipped nearly every day to the city. It wasn't quite fresh, but the flavors still transported him away.
He had read that the southern isles had air so fresh you could stay out in it for days. The rains there wouldn't leave gritty residue when it dried. Someday he would travel there and see it for himself. Until then he merely needed to bide his time. And possibly make some headway into the disappearance of the slimes' children.
The waiter brought his salad, two more fingers of Forthent and a large cup of coffee then went about lighting the gas lamps and candles. The tables held small rings of bright cheerful yellow light. The gas lamps showered a larger area with their flickering blue tint.
The sun sank so low under the bay that merely one angry orange tip still shown above the surface, illuminating the undersides of the storm clouds forming over the city. There was going to be another gale hurtling itself at his shutters again tonight.
Finnegan read his paper as more and more diners joined him on the balcony. He was immersed in a detailed exposition on the benefits of opening trade with Tarn-across-the-sea that he hadn't noticed that the din of the cafe had dwindled to nothing.
He wasn't sure if it was the lack of sound, the sure footsteps on the slate or perhaps the first drop of rain blotting his shirt sleeve that broke his revelry, but he looked up from his paper and noticed the cafe-goers
starting behind him.
Turning, his breath caught in throat. A Runner's runner was methodically making its way towards his table. Its dark green glowing eyes starting directly at him behind its clockwork mask of a face.
It halted before him spewing a little cloud of steam into the air that smelled vaguely of cloves and ash. Finnegan could hear its boiler popping with heat in its chest. The air around the thing shimmered with the stink of heat and thaumaturge.
When it spoke, it spoke in an even cadence, its voice sounding like a chruch organ crossed with a train whistle. Hard consonnents vibrating on its wooden lips. Its voice was at beautiful odds with its function.
"Rumor Jorgen Finnegan?" It asked. Finnegan knew more than to attempt to lie. Behind that passivly ornate metal and wood face, magics and science, the likes of which he could barely comprehend were watching, listening and analyizing everything about him.
"You know this to be true Runner's runner."
"You are to come to the Citadel with me regarding your inquiries vis a vi Cuttle and Lemurian offspring non-location."
"The disappearances?" Finnegan breathed a slight sigh. At least it wanted him work related. He'd heard horror stories of those under interrogation never coming back the same to their families.
"You are to come to the Citadel with me regarding your inquiries vis a vi Cuttle and Lemurian offspring non-location. Section 14 article 6 clause 19 of the City charter requires you to comply with my request. You have one minute to settle your affairs at this place of commerce."
Finnegan's heart raced again. The runner's runners could make even the act of paying a check sound sinister. He looked over to the waiter who was simply standing in the corner trying not to attract the automaton's notice. Finnegan made an imaginary check mark in the air. The waiter mouthed "Its on the house." to him.
"It appears that my affairs are in order at this location. Shall we be off?"
The runner's runner didn't move for a long minute, then turned and began walking.
"You will escort me to the Citadel."
"Right, on our way then." He picked up his bowler and overcoat from the chair next to him. Finnegan saw each and every eye in the cafe follow him out. He hadn't been to the Citadel in years, decades actually. How long had it been? 5? No, 25 years. When Artimus had become commissioner, his first wife's cousin. That had been something, all pomp and circumstance. But that had also been 4 commissioners ago. He wondered if there would be any familiar faces there when he arrived.
The sun was low on the horizon. Filtered through the smoggy clouds it loomed large and dark orange, silhouetting the ships in the bay. Finnegan could almost look directly at it without leaving spots in his eyes.
The waiter showed him to a table on the second floor of the cafe, out on the balcony. It was early enough and very few diners had decided to make their way out yet so Finnegan had the balcony nearly to himself. His head had finally cleared, The headache simply an unpleasant memory from the afternoon. He laid out the fish on a plate in front of him and ordered his favorite dish to go with it, roots and vegetables from the southern isles shipped nearly every day to the city. It wasn't quite fresh, but the flavors still transported him away.
He had read that the southern isles had air so fresh you could stay out in it for days. The rains there wouldn't leave gritty residue when it dried. Someday he would travel there and see it for himself. Until then he merely needed to bide his time. And possibly make some headway into the disappearance of the slimes' children.
The waiter brought his salad, two more fingers of Forthent and a large cup of coffee then went about lighting the gas lamps and candles. The tables held small rings of bright cheerful yellow light. The gas lamps showered a larger area with their flickering blue tint.
The sun sank so low under the bay that merely one angry orange tip still shown above the surface, illuminating the undersides of the storm clouds forming over the city. There was going to be another gale hurtling itself at his shutters again tonight.
Finnegan read his paper as more and more diners joined him on the balcony. He was immersed in a detailed exposition on the benefits of opening trade with Tarn-across-the-sea that he hadn't noticed that the din of the cafe had dwindled to nothing.
He wasn't sure if it was the lack of sound, the sure footsteps on the slate or perhaps the first drop of rain blotting his shirt sleeve that broke his revelry, but he looked up from his paper and noticed the cafe-goers
starting behind him.
Turning, his breath caught in throat. A Runner's runner was methodically making its way towards his table. Its dark green glowing eyes starting directly at him behind its clockwork mask of a face.
It halted before him spewing a little cloud of steam into the air that smelled vaguely of cloves and ash. Finnegan could hear its boiler popping with heat in its chest. The air around the thing shimmered with the stink of heat and thaumaturge.
When it spoke, it spoke in an even cadence, its voice sounding like a chruch organ crossed with a train whistle. Hard consonnents vibrating on its wooden lips. Its voice was at beautiful odds with its function.
"Rumor Jorgen Finnegan?" It asked. Finnegan knew more than to attempt to lie. Behind that passivly ornate metal and wood face, magics and science, the likes of which he could barely comprehend were watching, listening and analyizing everything about him.
"You know this to be true Runner's runner."
"You are to come to the Citadel with me regarding your inquiries vis a vi Cuttle and Lemurian offspring non-location."
"The disappearances?" Finnegan breathed a slight sigh. At least it wanted him work related. He'd heard horror stories of those under interrogation never coming back the same to their families.
"You are to come to the Citadel with me regarding your inquiries vis a vi Cuttle and Lemurian offspring non-location. Section 14 article 6 clause 19 of the City charter requires you to comply with my request. You have one minute to settle your affairs at this place of commerce."
Finnegan's heart raced again. The runner's runners could make even the act of paying a check sound sinister. He looked over to the waiter who was simply standing in the corner trying not to attract the automaton's notice. Finnegan made an imaginary check mark in the air. The waiter mouthed "Its on the house." to him.
"It appears that my affairs are in order at this location. Shall we be off?"
The runner's runner didn't move for a long minute, then turned and began walking.
"You will escort me to the Citadel."
"Right, on our way then." He picked up his bowler and overcoat from the chair next to him. Finnegan saw each and every eye in the cafe follow him out. He hadn't been to the Citadel in years, decades actually. How long had it been? 5? No, 25 years. When Artimus had become commissioner, his first wife's cousin. That had been something, all pomp and circumstance. But that had also been 4 commissioners ago. He wondered if there would be any familiar faces there when he arrived.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
On the Horizon
There are few things you should know about me. I guess now is as good a time as any to fill in some of the details before events start to unfold. First, I am the youngest of nine. At least, at last count it was nine. We all share the same mother and are scattered across the City and even some of the outer Islands. Old mom got around. Second, mom had the gift. She practiced the Dark Arts, had an understanding with the devil or could touch the other side. Whatever you call it, she had the goods. Each of us got a taste of her gifts to varying degrees. Of all of us, I think I take after her most. I was tested at age 12. The results were off the cart and I was quickly bundled up and stowed on-board a ship for a direct journey to the University. Luckily, the masters didn't appreciate my skill with locks and I slipped off that ship before it set sail. Which leads me to the next little quirk I have. I love locks. Mechanical, ethereal, alchemical, or just down right nasty, I adore them all. If I was ever to go straight, I'd open a locksmith shop over on Market Street and spend the rest of my days happily tinkering away. But the straight path just isn't in the cards, as my older sister would say. And she would know. What Elsie can see in her deck would turn you hair. But I digress. Lets see, what else? Ah yes, I suppose I should catalog my weaknesses as well as strengths. The one I'm most branded with is arrogance. Go figure, right? Rashness. Again, totally unjustified. No concept of reality. And fear of the dark. No really, I'm terrified of darkness. It isn't something I'm proud of but there it is. Next break in the actions I'll give you the details but for now, we are out of time. We've reached my sister Imogien's house.
Imogen isn't the oldest of the bunch, that distinctions belongs to Rueben. But she is the oldest female which means she loves to boss us all around. She also insists, as eldest daughter, that she be keeper of the family ring. Arguing with Imogen gets you know where, trust me I've tried, so we've all resigned ourselves to this set up. Imogen did well for herself. She married early and well. But things didn't work out so great for her husband. I guess marriage to my sister isn't conducive to a long life. Suffice to say, she married young, widowed even younger, and has been living large ever since. Her home is in the posh part of town. We've learned to approach by the servants door. As we unlatched the side gate, Umberto's face lit up. He loves Imogens. Thinks she's a fine lady of quality. Just more proof that Berto's mental facilities are a bit on the shaky side. But I was more than willing to use it in my favor.
"Hey, Berto," I began as we rapped on the delivery door," why don't you pop on up and ask Imogen if we can borrow Mother's ring? I know she'd love to see you."
Umberto nodded eagerly and a big grin broke across is broad and homely face. Nellie, the downstairs maid, opened the door and waved us inside. I settled down on the kitchen table and tucked into a nice meat pie while Berto followed Nellie upstairs nattering on happily. Imogen loves Umberto. It's a bit of a bone of contention between us. She would like nothing more than to make him her ward, slick him up, and introduce him into Society. I believe Bertos strengths lie outside of cotillions and high teas. More ont he side of barroom brawls and muscle work. For this reason, I try to steer clear of old Imogen. Our "discussions" usually turn into something much nastier. So I was content with my meat pie and wheat ale. It took about and hour or so before Berto came downstairs. I don't know how Imogen did it but in that time she had managed to wash, trim and oil his hair, fit him with new breeches and a thick woolen overcoat. But no matter how you dress a turkey, it's still a turkey. Berto stood before me, shifting from foot to foot and picking at his sleeve. He managed to work loose a seam thread and I watched the cuff begin to unravel.
I sighed. "Did you at least get the ring?" I asked.
"Yeah Raz, I got it!" Umberto stuck out a meat mitt and there on his pinky rested a clouded red ruby set in a silver band.
"Alright, lets get out of here," I said and headed for the door. Berto grabbed two pies for himself and by the time the side gate had latched, his woolen overcoat was decorated with trails of grease and pastry crumb. By the time we reached the street, his coiffed hair had returned to its disheveled state and he was looking more and more like my brother every minute.
The sun was just hitting the horizon when we arrived at the wharf. The seagulls circled and called out in harsh tons above our heads and the smell of salt and raw fish lay think in my mouth. I could just see a large vessel way out on the sea. It shimmered in the suns last rays. More mirage than real as it slipped over the horizon. I lead Berto over to the rock wall I had investigated last night. It looked as solid and substantial as before but a light push on the right spot and..... the hidden door popped open silently. I took a moment to admire the mechanics of it. Very well done and maintained. This close to the sea everything rusted fast but these hinges and bolts were solid and well oiled. This was not a rarely used bolt hole. This door was too well cared for for that. Ahead, the tunnel was a deep black. And remember that fear of the dark? Yeah, that's going to prove problematic in a few moments. Very problematic.
Imogen isn't the oldest of the bunch, that distinctions belongs to Rueben. But she is the oldest female which means she loves to boss us all around. She also insists, as eldest daughter, that she be keeper of the family ring. Arguing with Imogen gets you know where, trust me I've tried, so we've all resigned ourselves to this set up. Imogen did well for herself. She married early and well. But things didn't work out so great for her husband. I guess marriage to my sister isn't conducive to a long life. Suffice to say, she married young, widowed even younger, and has been living large ever since. Her home is in the posh part of town. We've learned to approach by the servants door. As we unlatched the side gate, Umberto's face lit up. He loves Imogens. Thinks she's a fine lady of quality. Just more proof that Berto's mental facilities are a bit on the shaky side. But I was more than willing to use it in my favor.
"Hey, Berto," I began as we rapped on the delivery door," why don't you pop on up and ask Imogen if we can borrow Mother's ring? I know she'd love to see you."
Umberto nodded eagerly and a big grin broke across is broad and homely face. Nellie, the downstairs maid, opened the door and waved us inside. I settled down on the kitchen table and tucked into a nice meat pie while Berto followed Nellie upstairs nattering on happily. Imogen loves Umberto. It's a bit of a bone of contention between us. She would like nothing more than to make him her ward, slick him up, and introduce him into Society. I believe Bertos strengths lie outside of cotillions and high teas. More ont he side of barroom brawls and muscle work. For this reason, I try to steer clear of old Imogen. Our "discussions" usually turn into something much nastier. So I was content with my meat pie and wheat ale. It took about and hour or so before Berto came downstairs. I don't know how Imogen did it but in that time she had managed to wash, trim and oil his hair, fit him with new breeches and a thick woolen overcoat. But no matter how you dress a turkey, it's still a turkey. Berto stood before me, shifting from foot to foot and picking at his sleeve. He managed to work loose a seam thread and I watched the cuff begin to unravel.
I sighed. "Did you at least get the ring?" I asked.
"Yeah Raz, I got it!" Umberto stuck out a meat mitt and there on his pinky rested a clouded red ruby set in a silver band.
"Alright, lets get out of here," I said and headed for the door. Berto grabbed two pies for himself and by the time the side gate had latched, his woolen overcoat was decorated with trails of grease and pastry crumb. By the time we reached the street, his coiffed hair had returned to its disheveled state and he was looking more and more like my brother every minute.
The sun was just hitting the horizon when we arrived at the wharf. The seagulls circled and called out in harsh tons above our heads and the smell of salt and raw fish lay think in my mouth. I could just see a large vessel way out on the sea. It shimmered in the suns last rays. More mirage than real as it slipped over the horizon. I lead Berto over to the rock wall I had investigated last night. It looked as solid and substantial as before but a light push on the right spot and..... the hidden door popped open silently. I took a moment to admire the mechanics of it. Very well done and maintained. This close to the sea everything rusted fast but these hinges and bolts were solid and well oiled. This was not a rarely used bolt hole. This door was too well cared for for that. Ahead, the tunnel was a deep black. And remember that fear of the dark? Yeah, that's going to prove problematic in a few moments. Very problematic.
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