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.