In Which Our Hero is Caught Betwixt Two Fortune Tellers

Once we were safely ensconced in the inn, with a room to ourselves and a chance to wipe off blood and bits of muck, the young dwarven lass who had become a part of our little party took a chance and explained herself. She had put the false beard back onto her face for the trip from the basement of the nightmarish P. Schuyler and Son’s to the inn, but now that we were safe from prying eyes, Maggie Shalefist removed her false beard. Beneath, I got a chance to really contemplate the features of a female dwarf. It is well known that female dwarves are kept quite safe and secure from the outside world – though the reasons why are often left mysterious. Some claim that female dwarves are simply indistinguishable from male dwarves, with beards and muscles and fairly modest breasts and that all the talk of female dwarves being kept hidden away is just so much smoke and oakum. Others wagered that dwarven women were some kind of hideous, or inhuman, or strange in yet another way, and thus required to be kept far from sight or mind. But all that I could see on the features of Maggie – which might have been short for Margaret or Magnolia or even Magdalena – was the same echoes of the feminine one could see on the female of any race, dwarf, elf, human or orc.

“I wager you all want to hear the long of this, eh?” Maggie asked, her voice having risen in pitch to a charming contralto from the artificial tenor that she had used before. Her hands went to the still faintly sticky patches of skin where her artificial adhesive had kept her equally artificial beard in place. “Well, where to begin ... well, I might as well begin with the curious nature of my condition. Dwarven women are, I’m told, fragile beasts; outnumbered between one in four to one in two by the men of our clans and families. More, actually having the, ah...” Here, her face colored and she waved her hand around her midsection in a vague way. “ ... it takes time, you see? And is as likely to not bring forth, um, any issue, if you take my meaning. And so, it became tradition among our people to keep the females of a family or clan locked up tight and protected. Thus, I spent my first century of life; in the second story of our home.” She shook her head. “Well, I knew that I wasn’t cut out for this by the second decade. The world outside the window was changing fast, and I knew in my heart that it was to be my destiny to find out where my clan is. We...” She paused. “My family does not know precisely where our mines are...”

Her hands went to the bracelet she carried. She started to fondle it in her hands, looking down at it with the tender affection that I would bestow to an electric light bulb or some other fragile piece of technological ephemera. Her sigh was soft. “And I’ve been hunting for clues ever since.”

Virginia shook her head. “A century locked up in the second story of a house?” she asked, her former tones of irritation with ‘Magnus’ airs transformed instantly to tones of sympathy.

“It’s dwarven tradition!” Maggie bristled. “And maybe it is fit for many of my kind. I say it’s not for me. Not until I find my people.” She nodded. “But...” She paused. “I haven’t had any luck with it for quite some time. Pelonious Schuyler was my last lead for this bracelet.” She looked up at me. “But enough about my tale. What brought you to that house of horrors? You said something about a ring, and Gilbert Bates?”

I nodded. “My story begins with the first lighter than air flying machine, the IFS Zephyr...” I said. I continued on, leaving only a few erotic details from my adventures out of the retelling. I told of the assassins, the mysterious notes left behind by Virginia’s mentor, of the bandit attack on Shrouded Hills, even of Bessie Toonie’s exceedingly valuable boot and how giving it over to the eccentric Ristezze had brought us here. “Now,” I finished. “We need only figure out how to get a half-ogre wearing a burlap sack, a cross-dressing dwarf, a priestess in ratty robes, and a half-orc dressed far above his station into the mansion of the world’s richest, most influential genius.” I smiled. “A piece of cake!”

Virginia and Sally headed out, leaving me in the smoking room of the Wellington with a once more properly attired ‘Magnus.’ Virginia had taken the burly half-ogre off to find a clothier who would see fit to get her into some proper servant’s clothes. Humans and half-orcs were not so different, and so finding a fine suit for myself was easy. But no one had ever thought to make frilly dresses for anyone with ogreish blood, even those of the fairer sex. And so, we had agreed that Sally would be best served if she was dressed like a body-guard for someone rich and famous. ‘Magnus’ could clean up nicely and serve as a dwarven assistant – or attache or ambassador if the position of fake assistant proved too lowly for our prickly dwarfess. Virginia too would be seeking out an armory, to find something more in keeping with her new lifestyle as bodyguard to reincarnated holy prophet.

And what was I doing?

I was thinking.

We had to find some way to introduce ourselves to Mr. Bates. Some method that would not have us simply thrown out on our ear. Virginia was a woman and not a wealthy one, so trying to pass her off as the head of our party would run into significant issues. I was a half-orc, and not a wealthy one, and while I had some technological aptitude, it was nothing next to the genius who had almost single handed ushered in an entirely new era of progress. I stroked my mustache while ‘Magnus’ read through a newspaper that some former visitor to the Wellington had left behind.

“Hurm!” ‘Magnus’ said, her voice once more dropped to a deeper tone. It was actually quite convincing when she was not distracted or shocked. She could have done quite well on the stage. I turned to look at her, wondering what it was that had drawn her attention. “It seems,” she said, looking over the newspaper. “Some rich housefrau has lost herself a painting.”

“May I see?” I asked.

“Aye, aye,” ‘Magnus’ said, pulling the newspaper so that she could continue to read whatever story had caught her attention in the later pages. This left me with the front page: GARRINGSBURG HEIST! PAINTING STOLEN.

THIEVES STILL AT LARGE

Late on Tuesday Evening, the mansion of Mr James and Mrs. Evelyn Garringsburg, at 37 Devonshire Way, was broken into by thieves and ransacked, according to sources close to the family. Among the many items stolen was the famed ‘Kerghan and Persephone’ painted by Pizarro. Sold last year at Tenaud’s Auction House for a reputed 50,000 gold pieces, the painting was the showpiece of the Garringsburg gallery.

Mr. Garringsburg, a long standing member of the Wellington’s Gentleman’s Club, had this to say – “You can be assured that the perpetrators of this heinous crime will be brought to justice, and that reparations will be made.” Mrs. Garringburg was unavailable for comment. The Garringsburgs have offered a 300 gold piece reward – which had further been enhanced by 500 coins donated by family friend and long time partner in the art appreciation world of the estimable Mr. Gilbert Bates.

I slowly folded the paper shut, pursing my lips.

“What?” ‘Magnus’ asked, eyeing me over her paper.

“They spelled her name wrong in the second paragraph,” I said. “Oh. Also. That rich housefrau? Happens to be friends enough with Mr. Bates that he’s willing to pitch in for their reward money.” I smiled. “I think I have an idea now, Magnus.”

My idea was quite shattered a few minutes later – not because of any particular flaw inherent in the scheme, but rather because my breath was taken from me quite forcefully by the impactful arrival of one Virginia of the Panarri faith. She and Sally returned attired in their new apparel, but my eyes could not escape the gleam of Virginia as she walked with a jaunty, somewhat cocky attitude through the streets of Tarant and came to a stop before me. She had spent the money I had given her in an armory – and the fitted chain that now rested across her chest glittered in the morning sun. Interlocked chain-links, with supple leather and cloth padding beneath and on the shoulders to assist in mobility. Her belt was cinched tight, to conform the armor to her body and assist in both mobility and comfort. The legs were quite sheer, and daringly revealing – with her ankles and her behind prominently visible beneath the dark leather. But one could hardly notice that, considering the deeply deadly and dangerous air that she produced in the complete ensemble: Chainmail and leather armor, sword at the hip, her rounded cheeks having become somewhat more planed and narrow by our long hike across Arcanum’s broad plains.

She came to a stop before me and then bowed as if she were a knight in some old tale.

For a moment the spellbinding image of Virginia, warrior and woman both, remained utterly fixed. Then Virginia muttered softer than she thought I could hear. “Bugger me if this doesn’t chafe something fierce. I mean, uh!” She coughed, then stood up straighter, flushing a deep scarlet. “I, uh, how does it fit me, uh, sir?”

I shook my head. “Virginia,” I said. “I think if you had worn that to fight those zombies, even they would have run in terror.”

Virginia turned even more red.

Sally, meanwhile, had undergone an equally as striking transformation – and I hope that my shock at Virginia did not do her a disservice. Sally was now attired in the bright crimson of a domestic servant. The cut was more masculine than feminine, with a green undershirt and red jacket, red pants, and red cap. She adjusted the jacket with her large, rough hands, and looked as if she had been named captain of her own seagoing vessel. “Itsh got lots of-” she hiccuped. “-pockets.”

I cocked my head and was certain I could hear a clink and rattle of bottles.

We set out. The mission was to head for 37 Devonshire Way, to announce our intention to rescue the painting to the Garringsburgs. A simple mission, made complex by the confused snarl and tangle that was the Tarantian network of streets. We walked down this street and that, always careful to walk as if we had a destination in mind. This did not serve as well as I had hoped, for the roads that might have led to Devonshire all were within the wealthier, northern parts of the city. Upwind from the factory smoke, the population of half-orcs and half-ogres fell precipitously, while the number of gentlemen and gentlewomen in fine clothing had skyrocketed. They eyed us as we walked by, and my luck did simply run out on the intersection between Tallview and Polton Cross.

“You there!”

I turned, Virginia and Sally backing me, while ‘Magnus’ remained concealed by Sally’s legs and broad stance. I saw two constables walking towards me. One had already nearly placed his palm upon the curved handle of his service revolver, while the other was twirling his billy-club upon the strap that it hung from.

“I need to see your citizen identification and work permit, boy,” the constable with his hand near the pistol said, his mustache bristling.

I paused. “I am new in the city, I have neither paper.”

“Hmm...” the constable narrowed his eyes. Then, spotting something, he drew his pistol with a flourish. Virginia tensed and I grabbed her wrist before she might do anything foolish. I held perfectly still then as the constable aimed the gun right between my eyes. “Put your hands upon your head, boy!” I clenched my jaw, then slowly placed my hands onto the back of my head. Virginia remained still, glaring as the constable slowly started to walk forward. Once he was a few paces off – enough that I could not ... what? Simply fly at him and attempt to beat him to death? What did he think I would do with a pistol in my face? - he snarled. “Your pistol. Take it out and drop it on the ground.”

Ah.

He had seen my pistol.

Of course. And now I was trapped betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea. Reach for my pistol and that man with the itchy trigger finger could splatter my brains on the ground and there was not much I could do about it. But if I didn’t reach for my pistol, then he could shoot me for refusing to follow a lawful order from a lawful constable. I was sure that, behind me, Virginia was getting ready to draw her sword and, well that would leave us in an even worse situation. My own mind was working on the snarl of the problem, and the only solution that I had come up to was to extend my own life until a miracle occurred – or the constable decided to not simply gun me down like a dog in the street. I was not particularly hopeful for a miracle. But then a simple solution to this Gordian knot struck me.

And so, I moved my hand with glacial slowness towards the belt. My pistol was holstered to my left hip, and my belt buckle was far closer to the right. I carefully undid the buckle with one hand, my other still pressed to my head. Then, lifting my hands and placing them on my head, I smiled. “Virginia, old girl, would you be so kind as to remove my belt.”

It was only after her face turned beat red that I realized there might have been an unfortunate implication in such a phrase – but no matter, the deed was done and my revolver lay upon the ground and the constable had relaxed fractionally. He still kept his gun drawn, but he no longer aimed it so squarely at my head. Meanwhile, his companion patted me down, frowning as he did not find any coins on my person, as we had purchased everything. He did snap his fingers and point at the luggage that Sally carried, but Sally looked disinclined to give it. Unlike a half-orc, who may be gunned down like a dog with relative ease by a constable whose opinions had been shaped more by Hamilton Demry’s book, The Orcish Question, than by actual interaction with a greenskin ... half-ogres tended to keep moving after the first, second, third and fourth shot from a service revolver. If one was to tussle with a half-ogre one needed either an exceptional shot to place the bullet within the brain.

Or an elephant gun. That could serve as well.

The next half an hour did not reach the same peak of tension. With Sally being intractable and the constables being unwilling to force her to give over the luggage, they simply had to make do with examining my person. They did not remove me to some alleyway or even that far from the sidewalk. They simply patted me down, asked me a great deal of insulting questions about my person, my whereabouts, my reasons for traveling through this particular district of Tarant, and so on, whilst the gnomish, human, and elven pedestrians either watched curiously, or simply walked on by. If I had not already been inured to such things, I might have gotten angry.

I definitely did not imagine blowing the smug faces off those constables with a short range scatter gun and kicking their corpses down the road. I never would have contemplated the savage delight inherent in tying their living bodies to my horse as I galloped through a thistle bush. I certainty never envisaged potential new applications for the wondrous technology of electricity on specific parts of sensitive anatomy.

Only a savage would have done that.

Eventually, the constables left with my revolver and gave me the sage advice of keeping my nose clean.

“Those...” Virginia chewed upon many words, and clearly was caught between which potential invective to use. ‘Magnus’ shook her head and muttered into her beard. The only one who seemed less than shocked or angry was Sally, and I suppose she had seen similar things in her own travels. I patted Virginia’s shoulder, then cinched my belt back on before any undo movement sent my pants about my ankles. However, during the long time where I had been forced to remain calm and steady, an idea had been brewing in my mind and I turned – scanning the street. Polton Cross reminded me ... yes. Yes!

I smirked. “Virginia, old girl, I have an idea.”

I stepped into the offices at 44 Polton Cross with my comrades following in kind. The interior of the room was loud with whirring machines, shouting men, and thick with the smell of ink. IN the center of the room was a terrifying monster of a machine – nearly ten yards tall, with rickety wood and metal ladders leading up to the sides, where conveyor belts fed in thick reams of paper, which were sliced and stamped with a furious din. Men – no older than twenty, most of them – worked frantically at the machine, adjusting levers, knobs, and other bits of technological ephemera. Meanwhile, other men clattered away at type writers with a furious pace at various desks situated along the far wall. Electric lights burned and a man in a tweed jacket glared biliously down from a catwalk that ringed the upper level of the building. It seemed there was an office there, reachable only by small elevator. Glass windows were set into the side of the office and even from the ground, I could see that it was far nicer than the rest of the building. Carpeting, drapes, even what appeared to be a whiskey cabinet.

A man stepped up to me – a newspaper man, without a doubt. Ink stained hands, pale face, smudged with sweat from running hither and yo. He pointed at me and shouted over the din: “You there, boy! What are you doing here?”

I smiled.

And I reached the editorial offices of Mr. Victor Wright, the head editor of The Tarantian, with but a single word.

“The IFS Zephyr!?” Victor Wright boomed from behind his desk. He was clean shaven, narrow faced, and had features that seemed like they should have been perpetually sallow ... and yet, his face seemed to never loose its ruddy red tinge. He also seemed to be unable to lower the volume of his voice, despite his offices thick walls being remarkably good at soundproofing, rendering the din of the newspaper machines downstairs into a mere drone, rather than an ear consuming screech. “How the bloody hell do you know a damn thing about that ship? It’s been missing for weeks, the whole city is on pins and needles, telegrams from Arland claim that it left their territory safely, we haven’t heard hide nor hair of the bloody thing. Go on! Spill the beans!”

I inclined my head. “Gladly, Mr. Weight. For you see ... I am the sole survivor of ill fated IFS Zephyr.”

And I began to spill those beans. I told in great detail of the last hours of the unsinkable airship. I told of the heavier than air flying machines that had soared around. I told him of the machined guns that tore through the ship’s hull and perforated the flight balloon. I told him of the brave crew who did their best to secure the passengers. I told him of how I had reached my room and only been saved by the slenderest of threads, the smallest quirk of fate. I told him of how every other person upon the blimp was dead.

When I was done, Mr. Wright’s eyes shone, though I am ashamed to say that it was not with tears.

“This is the story of the decade, boy!” he said, pulling out a cigar. He sliced the end off, lit it with a match, then immediately began to fill his office with the smoke, puffing quickly as he thought. “No, the century. Not only did someone, possibly Arland, shoot down the Zephyr, they did it with heavier than air flying machines. Every scientist on the Industrial Council says that providing the engine power for that is impossible.” His eyes gleamed and then he spread his hands, as if gesturing to a broadsheet’s front page. “Arland Mystery Weapon Devastates Tarantian Progress!”

“I, uh, never said that the flying machines came from Caladon,” I said – though I did feel a twinge, remembering the plaque upon one of the flying machines.

“Listen, boy,” Mr. Wright said, puffing on his cigar. “Let me move the newspapers. In Tarant, danger sells. A sob story about some half-orc that crawled out of the wreckage won’t move papers. War brewing with Arland? Now that is a story.”

“But I thought the United Kingdom and Arland were at peace,” I said, my brow furrowing.

“They won’t be when I finish running this story!” Mr. Wright chuckled.

This was not what I had intended when I came here. To be blunt, I wanted the story to focus on my own self, Rayburn Cog. I wanted to walk away with my face in the papers, so that every constable who saw me would realize that shooting the sole survivor of Tarant’s greatest disaster would not be an exceptional way to continue their careers. But I could see that appealing to Mr. Wright’s finely honed senses of humanity wouldn’t get me what I wanted. Fortunately, there was an ace up my sleeve. “Well,” I said. “That is ... one story. But you did not let me get to the half-ogre in the wreckage.”

His brows rose. “An ogre?”

“Nor the medallion around their neck,” I said. “The medallion bearing the five pointed star and closed eye of a mysterious sect of assassins. A mysterious sect that has been hunting me, the last survivor of the Zephyr, from the very moment it crashed.” And at Mr. Wright’s incredulous look, I snapped my fingers. Sally brought over our luggage and I rummaged about until I found what I had been seeking. Three medallions – one from the half-ogre, and two from the corpses at the Shrouded Hills inn. I had taken them and kept them, never knowing when they might be useful. But now, I was vindicated for my somewhat macabre habit of stealing from slain enemies.

Mr. Wright picked one up, his brow furrowing. “This isn’t fake...” he said, turning it about. “This is hand crafted – I’ve never seen anything the like.” His brow furrowed further. “Assassins, you say?”