In Which Our Hero comes Face to Face with Arronax

April 30th, 1885 Ashbury, the United Kingdom

The sea salt and fresh wind off the coast mixed with the scent of fish, of tar, of sailcloth, of unwashed sailors, and of sewage to create a pungent mixture in my nose – but it was all worth it to see the wide eyed expression on Cynthia Boggs’ face as she walked off the gangplank of the Gypsy Queen and onto the mainland of Arcanum for the first time. I watched her, turning to look at Captain Teach, who was fingering the stem of his long pipe, narrowing one eye fiercely as he eyed the former prisoner.

“You’ll be sure to find her a place?” I asked.

“Oh, aye, Mr. Cog,” Captain Teach said, puffing on his pipe. “But why are you so set on heading out. Who put a match to your fuse, eh?”

I sighed, then reached into my pocket and tugged out a pair of emerald spectacles. They caught the light of the morning and glittered luminescently, while my comrades in arms started to get off the ship, Sally giving a few of her bone cracking hugs to several of the sailors she had gotten on with better than the others, while Virginia seemed pleased to be on some land that didn’t pitch beneath her feet. I tucked my glasses back into my pocket and smiled at Captain Teach.

“We’ve got some more dwarves to find, Edward.”

“More?” He scowled. “You already got one dwarf. Not sure what you need with more of ‘em.”

I slapped his shoulder. “If you’re lucky, you’ll find out why by reading the newspapers, Edward. Send Mr. Bates my regards and this...” I held out a small collection of papers. It had taken some practice to get used to writing in the pitching cabin, though my technological writing implement – the ballpoint pen – proved more than able at keeping ink from spilling everywhere. I had transcribed everything that had transpired upon the Isle of Despair. Leaving out, of course, time stopping monsters, rescued women, banished princesses, and ancient constructs of mysterious providence.

So, in honesty, I had actually transcribed very little that happened upon that penal colony. But the important facts were there: We were heading for the Wheel Clan, the highest clan of all the dwarves. If they didn’t know where the Black Mountain dwarves were located, then I was beginning to think that a better place to check would be Madame Toussaunde’s. I smiled at the memory of the exotic, spirit riddled woman, but the smile faded as Gillian’s posh voice called from the dockside: “Sir! Are you quite ready to go now?”

Edward Teach took my hand and pumped it. “I never made much truck with sods who think they can judge a man’s character by his skin,” he said, his voice gruff. “Orcs, full blooded and half, have shipped with me many a time. And you? You can ship with me again. If you ever need a ship...”

I squeezed his hand back. “Of that I am most assured, Edward.”

He released my hand and, together, I and my comrades set out for the Wheel Clan.

The Morbihan Plains were considerably less enjoyable to cross when one was hiking compared to traveling in first class. But I had spent a rather ill founded youth upon them, and I knew the tricks and the stratagems to cover distance in some comfort. Walking during the night, with walking sticks to keep from being caught in sink holes, sticking to the open plains rather than the more dangerous rocky hills that bordered dried up riverbeds. Placing a rope about ones sleeping bag, to dissuade the various forms of snake from seeking out your bodily heat in the cool night. All of these strategies helped to ease our passage as April turned into May and the heat of the day grew only more intense.

But, by the gods, if there was one thing I could not complain of, it was the company and the view. Each of my comrades had settled firmly into our party, and each seemed to shore up the weaknesses and blind spots of the other. Virginia often served as a task-mistress, keeping everyone on track during the camps at night, and managing the supplies. Sally remained her jovial self away from the sea, while Maggie and Gillian both brought their own charms to the conversation – though I did note that Maggie grew more and more withdrawn the closer and closer we came to the Grey Mountains.

And the views! We hiked past the vast, flat topped rock that was rumored to be the lair of the ancient dragon Bellogrim – dead these past two thousand years. While the temptation to divert our course, to see the great bones and the vast cave that the Tarantian Society of Naturalists had been excavating for the past thirty five years, was great ... we remained steadfast. Or, more accurately, Virginia, Sally, Maggie and Gillian all pointed out that while I might have been fascinated, they would have been deadly bored.

The weeks passed, and May crawled by as we hunted for our food and drank from watering holes, stretching our supplies whenever we could, in the case of some serious setback. And sometime, when the day was crawling by as we lounged in the shade, Virginia would come to me in my tents, and we would share a slow, sensual time together. If we stuck together – slick and tacky with sweat and other fluids – once we were done, the awkwardness and discomfort never seemed to be noticeable until we were recalled to our senses, usually by one of the other members of our party informing us that they were done pretending to not notice Virginia’s moaning and my grunting. Each, I add, in their own unique way. Maggie would inform us via beginning to talk extremely loudly to one of the others. Gillian would, instead, begin to hem and haw and then begin to cough in as posh a manner as one could.

Sally, meanwhile, simply stuck her head into the tent and asked: “Ey, room for one more?”

But finally, on the 21st of May, we came to the vast, roaring rapids of the Hadrian. The huge river that spanned the entirety of Tarant was even larger and even more powerful here than it was in that great metropolis. The water stretched nearly a mile from bank to bank, and was fed by what seemed to be a dozen waterfalls that thundered from the sides of the Grey Mountains, fed by the immense snowpack that clustered on those mountains after every winter.

“How do we get across?” Virginia asked, frowning as she picked up a smoothed rock and tossed it. She managed six leaps, which provoked a gentle golf clap from Gillian. Virginia shot the orcess a grin and bowed to her, sweeping one arm out wide.

“I could construct a boat of some kind...” I said.

Maggie snorted. “You may be smart, Ray, but I’d want you to go first on any raft you make.”

Sally blew a wad of snot from her nose, then snorted in a breath of air. “There’s gotta be a bridge.”

“We’re hundreds of miles from anywhere,” Virginia said.

“Nah, Stillwater’s around here somewhere,” Sally said, nodding.

My hand dipped to my pocket. I felt the emerald glasses, which had survived this entire trip unscathed.

“I’m sure a human town knows exactly how to find a secret dwarven entrance,” Virginia said, her voice growing wry.

“They might!” Sally said, then hiccuped. “Okay, they ... won’t.”

“Ladies,” I said, cheerfully. “Give me but a moment.”

And with that, I set the glasses upon my nose.

The view through the glasses looked identical to the view without. But then, as I looked out at the Hadrian, I saw a shimmering above the waves ... and then a flux within the air, like the movement of heat rippling off black tarmac road. The ripples coalesced, transforming into a single massive bridge made of perfectly rectangular stones, the edges braced against the water by carved plinths, each one fashioned to look like a stoic dwarven warrior, holding the bride up beneath their stout shoulders, their beards submerged under the water and their mustaches frothing with white rapids. The bridge itself, though, led not to the far side of the Hadrian. Instead, it plunged downward, into a tunnel of stone set in the center of the Hadrian itself, the walls fashioned to keep not a single droplet from going down the tunnel itself. It was like a well, sunk into the middle of the river, and all of it was designed ingeniously to bend light, using what decorated the stone: Cut gemstones. Thousands of them, each one angled in such a way as to keep the entire construction from prying eyes. I was almost positive that at least some measure of magick had to be used to force natural laws to assist with this endeavor – and checking my pocket watch confirmed this, revealing that it was ticking ever so slightly off from its normal cadence.

“What have you found?” Virginia asked.

“Well, old girl,” I said, tucking the glasses away before leaping into the Hadrian. Everyone cried out – but I landed not in the water, but rather upon the bridge. And with my unexpected personage standing in the way of the manifold beams of bent light, the entire illusion seemed to haze out of existence – though I was sure that it would return once we had entered into the Wheel Clan itself. I turned to Virginia, holding a hand out to her. She looked as if she could hardly believe that such a construction had been concealed from her, and stepped only tentatively upon the stone. Maggie looked shocked to her core, and was hastily adjusting her false beard – I would need to begin thinking of her as ‘Magnus’ once more.

“Bugger me sideways,” Sally muttered as we walked along the bridge and to the well that led into the Wheel Clan properly. Setting foot upon the stone top of that well, I heard a low groan, then a series of clicks and clatters. This preceded the floor descending, like some vast elevator. Each of my comrades tensed in alarm, and I admit, even my hand dropped to my acceleration pistol. But as we descended into darkness, I chuckled.

“Some kind of hydraulic mechanism,” I said. “I ... ah! The wheel clan!” I chuckled. “A water wheel!”

“Ah.” Virginia’s voice was clipped.

“I don’t get it,” Sally whispered.

The smooth clicking and clattering came to a sudden, juddering stop. My arms flung out and Virginia grabbed onto my shoulders, trying to keep me from toppling over. We both regained our balance – though it was trickier than I expected. Within the unlit elevator shaft leading down into the Wheel Clan’s domains, the floor had stopped at a slightly canted angle. As if, for some reason, the mechanisms that had been working so perfectly had suddenly ... seized up. My pistol quivered in my holster, like a restive beast, and my hand darted to my pocket watch. I drew it and held it to my ear in the near total blackness. I could hear the wild whirring of a second arm going around and around at a dizzying speed.

“Virginia, I-”

A wave of orange light exploded from Virginia’s mouth and eyes. She clutched at her head – and so did each of my comrades. Each glowed and each fell to the ground, sprawling about me. I gaped, totally stunned, then dropped to my knee. Immediately, my finger sought for Virginia’s pulse, my heart hammering – and only when I felt her slow, steady heart beat (a familiar pulse, one I had felt many times as she slept in my arms) did I breathe out ... and look up. For standing before me, as if he had always been there, was a man.

Tall and robed in blood red, the man’s face was concealed by a hood – his hands, though, made it quite clear that there was no reason to look beneath the hood. In the dim light cast down the shaft of this stone elevator, I could see that his hands were naught but shadows. Rippling, crackling bundles of dark energy, coalesced into the forms of humanoid fingers – but not nearly as comforting as that might sound. For those fingers were not the gentle digits of a human, nor the rough, calloused ones of a hard working dwarf. Rather, they were elongated. An extra joint or two seemed to be positioned within them, giving them an eerie way of moving. The obsidian black shadow that was the fingernail on each appeared to be nearly an inch long – giving the individual wicked, raking claws to match any beast. And beneath the hood glowed two coal-bright pinpricks.

Red eyes.

I immediately sprang to my feet, drew my pistol, and discharged it. The bullet struck the wall behind the apparition and I felt a momentary tightening of my chest: This fiend could clearly strike at me and mine, while I was unable to do more than rattle his hearing, if that.

The robed figure chuckled – a sound as dark as the shadows beneath the hood. “Greetings, Resh Craig,” his voice rumbled out, as deep and echoing as this well we stood in. “It seems to me that you’re looking for answers, when you’re not too busy shooting at things you do not understand.” Those eyes gleamed, flaring brighter. “Perhaps it is time that I answered them for you...”

I lowered my pistol. “And...” I paused, about to ask who he was. But the name sprang to mind, recalling a stone statuette within the dubious museum of H. T. Parnell. It had been easy to laugh, then, in the bright lights of a warm April day, at the thought that such a malformed visage might be the face of my supposed enemy. Presuming, of course, I was indeed the reincarnation of Nasrudin. My teeth clenched and I growled. “Arronax.”

“I sense doubt,” the figure said. “Perhaps you are not the Living One. Perhaps Nasrudin, the coward that he is, will not heed Fate’s call and face me in the final battle. It would be so like him to do so...”

My neck prickled and my hands tightened as I glared at Arronax. “Well? Are you? Or aren’t you?”

The dark figure held his hands outwards. A pale red light began to pulse about his body – a reminder of the red energies of the necromancers I had faced before. But where those had been unto a candle, this growing dark luminescence hearkened to an arc light in a vaudeville stage. His fingers curled inwards and he spoke – his voice beginning as a hiss, then growing louder and louder: “I am he of the dark, the rightful ruler of this land, the vengeful god of Arcanum and its races. I am Arronax and I have come to give you a message...”

I licked my lips. “Did you ever think to send a telegram?” I asked.

A force clenched around my throat, then slammed me into the wall. I grunted at the impact, stars flaring through my eyes. Arronax floated closer to me.

“The message is this.” He drew closer. And closer. With every word, I could smell the rot and decay roiling from his body, like a physical wall of miasmamatic foulness. “Whether you are the Living One or not. Whether or not the coward Nasrudin hides in your bones or still rots in his grave, the inevitable will still come to pass. I am returning. It has already been set in motion, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I am returning and all will fall before me. Everyone you know ... everyone you love...”

The tightnenss around my throat grew fiercer. I gritted my teeth. “You ... bastard.”

His red eyes bored into mine. “Do you see my power? Do you yet understand? Perhaps I need to be more clear. No one is safe, Resh. No one. Not even you.”

Darkness swirled around my eyes.

And then I dropped to the ground. The grip around my throat had lessened. I rubbed at my throat, letting out a hoarse cough. A voice echoed in my mind. Arronax’s last words – ringing like the tolling of a black bell: Remember what I have shown you. Remember and tell the world. Arronax is returning to Arcanum and nothing – nothing – will ever be the same. Farewell

Darkness grew thicker.

I knew no more.

I woke with the echoing sound of distant laughter in my mind. I sat up, clutching at my chest, dragging in deep gasps. I nearly struck my head against the jaw of a dwarf clad in bright blue robes, who stepped away from me. I took quick, almost panicky stock, of the room. It was a well made, dwarven room – so similar to the rooms within the Black Mountain Mines. But where those rooms had been dusty and disused and abandoned, this chamber shone with life, care, and attention. Torches flickered in their sconces, while the air smelled faintly of spice and freshly cleaned linen. I looked down and saw that I had been stripped to my loincloth – but my clothing had been gathered up in a bundled pile on a small table in the corner of the room. My pistol was set in a place of honor on a table beside it, with my bullets arranged in neat rows.

That struck me powerfully in that frantic moment: The dwarves had clearly been tending to my wounds, and yet, they had taken the time to not only examine my pistol, but to also arrange it as if it was the weapon of a hero.

I clutched at my breast, then slowly relaxed, looking at the dwarven doctor. “My apologies, sir,” I said, grinning. “Or should I say, Doctor?”

The dwarf chuckled, his hand going to his beard. Unlike the beard of ‘Magnus’, this beard was a great deal larger and more fancifully decorated. I could have wagered that this dwarf hadn’t trimmed his beard a single time in the multiple centuries of his life – hence why it had been tucked into the sash of his robes. But the edges of the beard impressed as well: They had been carefully braided into geometric patterns that looked nearly carved – so straight were their lines, so perfect was the mathematics of their construction.

“You should, half-orc,” the doctor said, his voice prim. “I’m Doctor Tegharan Lightning Rock, of the Wheel Clan. Of which you are currently a guest of.” He frowned. “Your friend, Magnus Shale Fist-”

My worry released. ‘Magnus’ was not only alive, her deception was also being carried off with enough aplomb to convince these dwarves.

“-awoke first and set to repairing the elevator. He has explained your purposes for coming here – but has not yet told us exactly what happened. According to the guard, a magick field unlike any we’ve seen in these parts appeared within the elevator...”

“It is quite a long story,” I said, my voice tired. “But I must speak with your King. Immediately. It is a matter that concerns the future of Arcanum itself.”

Doctor Lightning Rock pursed his lips behind his beard, eyeing me. But whatever he saw, it convinced him. He nodded. “Get dressed. The King-In-Waiting shall see you in the throne room.”

I dressed quickly, then tucked my bullets into my belt pouch, checked my pistol to ensure it was not damaged, then holstered it. When I emerged from the doctor’s room, feeling more fit than I believed possible, I found Virginia waiting for me. She was clad in her chain mail and had her magick blade strapped to her hip – though I noted that the scabbard had a small lock placed upon it. I wondered if the dwarves mistrusted her more, or simply saw the sword as a bigger danger than my pistol. Either way, I embraced Virginia without a second thought, startling her. She jerked, wriggled, then hugged me back – before pushing me away.

“Sir,” she said, her voice deadly serious. “That was-”

“Arronax, I know,” I said.

“What do we do?” she asked. “If he can strike at us at any time...”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe he actually can,” I said, frowning.

Her brow furrowed. “Sir, he knocked each of us out...”

“That he did,” I said, nodding as I stepped back, then started to walk down the corridor. Two dwarven guards waited at the end of the corridor, and both started to march ahead of us, clearly leading us towards the throne room. I spared them barely a thought, too focused on what I was working on with Virginia. “But think: Arronax is an ancient, extremely powerful elf. Does that imply stupidity?”

“No,” Virginia said.

“And thus, with the assumption of the intelligence the gods gave a chimpanzee,” I said, my voice becoming lower. “What would possibly prevent Arronax from simply snuffing my heart out the instant he set his mind to it, if he could reach across such vast distances to strike with impunity?”

Virginia pursed her lips. “You think he can’t?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I said.

“Well, sir,” Virginia said. “I don’t exactly think we can guarantee that. What if his plans involve you liberating him from some prison or something, and he seeks to goad you into unwittingly freeing him?”

The dwarven guards peeled off as we entered into a large, vaulted chamber. A throne made of iron and steel sat at a dais that was positioned at the end of almost fifty feet of stairs, though thankfully the stairs were on a gentle incline and quite broad. The throne itself had a dwarven man standing beside it, clad in ornate, gold and silver armor. Standing next to him and looking as terrified as I had ever seen her, was ‘Magnus’, who was speaking quietly to the dwarven King. As I started up the stairs, I whispered to Virginia. “Well, then. If I ever find Arronax in a prison, I won’t free him. Deal?”

Virginia chuckled. “Of course, sir.”

We came to the throne and I bowed as low as I could manage. “Sire,” ‘Magnus’ said, his voice pitched so low I was worried that she’d completely lose control of her ability to speak. “This is my comrade in arms, Rayburn Cog.”

“Mr. Cog,” the dwarven king said. “I am Randver Thunder Stone, son of Longhaire Thunder Stone, King-In-Waiting to the Wheel Clan.” He gestured, his armor clicking and clacking slightly. “Mr. Shale Fist here has told me quite a deal about your adventures. But what he has not said is why you are here.” He frowned, his thick, black beard bristling ever so slightly. AS I stood and looked into his eyes, I could see that Randver was looking deeply concerned. His eyes lacked the steely resolve I had expected from the king of the most grand dwarven clan in the entirety of Arcanum.

But maybe his title explained that: King-In-Waiting. Not King.

“Your majesty,” I said. “I come bearing grave news of the Black Mountain Dwarves.”

Randver’s eyes narrowed and he placed a gauntlet clad hand upon the rest of his iron throne. “Tell on,” he said. Thus prompted, I told him the entire tale – starting with the destruction of the Zephyr and continuing on to Tarant, then from Tarant to Ashbury and the Isle of Despair. Once I had completed with my return and the eerie proclamations of Arronax, Randver put his face into his palms, cupping his head – the most remarkable display of emotion I had ever seen in a dwarf. He breathed out a slow sigh, then dropped his hands. His eyes flashed with anger.

“Damn the elves...” he growled. “Damn them and their assurances.”

“What happened exactly?” I asked. “Why did the elves banish the Black Mountain C-”

“That is the business of my father,” Randver said, pacing back and forth before me, his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes grew distant.

“Well, did he tell you?” I asked. “Please, your majesty-”

“I am not the King!” Randver exclaimed, turning to face me. He shook his head. “My father is not dead.” He paused. “He ... was broken. Broken more completely than any dwarf I had ever seen. You do not know what it was like, outlander, to see Longhaire Thunder Stone on that day.” His voice grew black and bleak, like the most distant peaks of the Grey Mountains. His eyes looked at mine, but they did not see me. They were witnessing the past, I was sure of it. “Longhaire united our people after the Clan Wars. For five centuries, he fought to bring us together. He broke Lorek the Abjurer over his anvil at Gorgoth Pass, and burned him and ten thousand dwarven followers of his alive with phosphorous bombs.” He shook his head. “He did not break then. But the day after those elves came and he consigned that foolish, short sighted, backwards clan to their punishment, he ... he tore his clothes from his body. He threw himself against the stones of this hall, beat his fists against the ground, and ripped his beard into tatters.”

He closed his eyes. “And then he took his ax, Harrower, and ... left.”

I shook my head slowly. “But ... but why?” I shook my head again. “And w-what were those Clan Wars?”

“They happened before humans wrote their histories, in the Age of Legends,” Randver said, shaking his head. “When my father was young, and when the world was rich in magick.” He paced a gain. “And ... you wouldn’t understand.”

I clenched my jaw. “Randver,” I said, quietly. “I believe that I can-”

“You believe?” he turned to face me. “You think you can see to the soul of a dwarf, and grasp what makes him act and think? Hmm?” He narrowed his eyes. “Your kind – all human stock – die before a dwarven child begins to speak. And you think you can understand my father and his will?”

I felt frustrating bubbling inside of me – and it sprang forth. “I have been across the width and the breadth of Arcanum twice over. I’ve been drowned, stricken with amnesia, attacked by assassins, haunted, hunted, accused of being a criminal simply for being green of skin and long of tooth.” I stepped forward and leaned down, so that my eyes were on the level with this petulant king. “I am done hitting dead ends and I refuse to budge until you explain what you mean, your majesty.”

Randver blew out a frustrated snort. Then, crossing his arms over his mailed chest, he lifted his chin. “Very well,” he said. “A dwarven soul is not like that of an elf or a human. It is comprised of, in our words, the Shape and the Stone. If you understand these two things, you can grasp our morality. Our purpose. How we shape our lives within the context of our world.” He gestured about himself at the great hall. “How we build such greatness...”

I nodded – and out of the corner of my eye, I saw ‘Magnus’ watching with wide, wide eyes. “I follow.”

Randver rubbed his beard, looking as if was struggling to find the words. “The Shape is ... the Stone...” he sighed. “The Stone is unchanging. Gravel is gravel. Flint is flint is flint.” He nodded. “You can craft a great deal from stone, but it must be the right stone. Gemstones for delicacy, granite for sturdiness and the like.” He looked at me, his voice growing more firm. “You cannot carve a Shape without a Stone – and the Stone cannot be a Shape without being itself.”

I nodded again, slowly.

Randver brought his hands together with a clink of metal. “A fire striker must have flint – and flint must be a fire striker. The two concepts are linked, you see?”

“Yes...” I said, quietly. “Go on.”

Randver, looking as if he was warming to his subject, began to speak with more confidence. I had noticed a sense of unease in him on matters of kingship ... but this? This appeared to be what he found to be comforting. No wonder he so missed his father. “There are many Stones, and there are many Shapes for each stone. And thus, our morality is not a choice, as humans see them. One cannot not be their Shape, nor turn against their Stone. Rather, you express what you are. We are dwarves. That is our Stone.” He nodded. “While our Shape...” He trailed off.

“You are a dwarf,” I said. “That is your Stone. But your shape is that of a King.” I smiled. “In Waiting.”

Randver inclined his head, slowly.

“And Lorek the Abjurer,” Randver said. “He was true to his Shape, that of being a great inventor. But he betrayed his Stone – being a dwarf, by believing that he and his Clan were greater than all others.”

“And your father...” I said. “Betrayed his Shape and his Stone. By not protecting his people, he failed at being a king. And by kowtowing to elves over his own people, he failed at being a dwarf.”

“And thus, he was nothing,” Randver said. “You ... follow?”

I nodded. “I do,” I said. “But one thing does not make sense to me.”

Randver frowned. “What?”

“How do you know you’re the King in Waiting and not the King?” I asked, my voice soft. “Where did your father go.”

“To the Dredge.” His voice was grim. “A warren of tunnels and sledge pits and monster dens. We keep it under lock and key – but he could be anywhere within.” His voice caught at that word. Anywhere. My eyes narrowed slightly – and I saw the only logical reason why he would claim to be a King-In-Waiting. For he spoke of his father being in the Dredge not with hope that his father was alive. No. He spoke with resignation that he was there at all.

“Randver,” I said, seriously. “You know he’s alive. Which means you’ve seen him recently.”

Randver let out a slow sigh. “Damn it all,” he rumbled under his breath. “Yes. Yes, Mr. Cog. I know where my father is. I had a tunnel dug to his hide-away, so that I might visit him, tell him of the clan. Beseech him to...” He trailed off.

“You don’t think his self banishment was just?” I asked.

Randver glared at me. “What I think does not matter, Mr. Cog,” he said, seriously. “My father chose what he thought was right-”

“Just as he did when he allowed the elves to banish the Black Mountain Clan, banish them for spreading technology to humans,” I said, stepping closer to him. “But he was wrong to do that – clearly, their banishment has a darker purpose than any we could have imagined. And now, you think he has compounded a failure with his Shape with another failure.”

“I- ... I-” Randver looked caught betwixt the devil and the deepest, bluest sea. He clutched at his chest, then wheezed out, as if he had been struck. “Yes.” He hung his head forward. “The tunnel, it ... it is beneath my throne. Simply push it aside, and you will reach Longhaire. And ... please ... Mr. Cog...” He looked up at me. “Please, make my father see reason.”