Arcanum - Of Steamwork and Magic Ch. 03

Author's Note: Since I'm a hideous incompetent who should be whipped through town with a leather belt, I have made two unforgivable errors. Firstly, the first chapter of this series erroneously stated that it begins June 3^rd when this adventure begins on January 3^rd! Secondly, I stated that there was a Kingdom of Caladon. Alas! The city of Caladon is the capital of the Kingdom of Arland.

But with these things corrected, on with the adventure.

*****

Standing outside of an inn's back room while two corpses rotted within was not the most opportune moment to have a heart to heart talk with your companion. But as the front of the Shrouded Hill's one and only inn sounded as if it was the center of some attention and the only other route out was through a barred and locked window, I decided that now was a better time than any other. Maybe if we lurked here, the people who were conversing in the front would decide to spend their time out in the sunshine.

"Virginia, old girl," I said, sliding my thumbs underneath my suspenders. They were exposed, as my entirely ratty suit jacket had been shredded most frightfully during my long trip in the wilderness and I had decided to leave the whole sorry thing in the first trash-bin I had noticed in Shrouded Hills. This meant I was only in the rumpled, much stained undershirt and my tie. Feeling choked in the stuffy, close corridor, I reached up and started to adjust the tie.

Sally, though, bulled through the question I had hoped to bring up more diplomatically: "Your friend fucking killed two people with her bare hands." She cracked her neck by twisting her head one way and her chest the other, keeping her palm flat against her expansive, gray-green shoulder to keep herself rooted. "Who the fuck is she?"

I sighed, then spread my hands apologetically. Sally Mead Mug, as could be attested by her conduct during the brawl that served as our introduction, would come to a point with the graceful elegance of a rampaging dread lizard. Virginia sighed. Her normally bright and cheerful eyes grew pensive and she looked out the window as best she could, considering the closed slats and boards. She shook her head. "The Elder Johanna was...she found me..." She shook her head again. "It was a hard time in my life, but I trust her to the ends of Arcanum itself. If she says that we need to be on our guard, if she says we need to get to Tarant, we need to get to Tarant."

"All roads do lead to Tarant after all," I said, nodding.

Sally stuck her finger in her ear, twisting it. "'Innit it Dernholm? I always heard the saying was 'all roads lead to Dernholm?"

"Not anymore," I said.

"Hah!" Sally laughed, then slapped my back. "Lets get a drink!"

We walked together to the front of the inn – and I saw that the barkeep was standing behind the counter, though the rest of the front was still somewhat a shambles. I stepped forward, seeing no one else. But then a soft cough made me turn. Leaning against the wall to the left of the door leading to the back of the tavern was a man in a tweed jacket, a rough leather belt, green dyed leggings, and the most ferociously bristling mustache I had ever seen in my born days. My hand went of its own accord to mine, to check and make sure that it was still neat and trim. The man had no sheriff's star nor constabulary uniform, but he still had a holstered revolver at his hip and a steely look in his eyes that was a mirror opposite of the watery, ever fearful gaze of Constable and Mayor John Owens.

"Well, well, well," he said, his voice holding a thick Cumbrian burr. "What do we have here?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling his suspicious gaze. I beat down the prickly response tingling at the back of my tongue. "The name's Rayburn Cog, sir. And you..."

"I'm the town doctor," he said. "The name is Roberts. Doctor Edward Roberts." He clicked his tongue in his mouth. "Have I seen your face 'afore, boy?"

The bristling came thicker and faster now. There was a reason why I so often crossed my arms over my chest, or slid my hands into pockets. It meant that I wouldn't show the fists I so often clenched. My voice came out low and hard. "I'm new in town, my good sir, and unless you happen to be a master of divination or a spiritualist, I don't rightly see how you could have seen my face."

Doc's eyes flicked up and down my body, from my head to my cussed boots.

"Hm," he said. "Rayburn Cog you said? You sure it wasn't Resh Craig?"

It took a titanic effort of will to look puzzled. "Who?"

Doc made a quiet 'hurm' noise. "See here, boy, the Bowden Gang has been spotted back in this area. I just got word that they're planning to come through the town, since we're all fired up worried about the bandits on the bridge." He stepped over to the bar, leaning a hip against it. Casually, he pulled a small tin carton with PROUDFOOT TOBACCO stenciled on the front and a beaming halfling farmer painted on the top. He popped it open with a finger and tucked a wad of it beneath a lip. He chewed speculatively, then spat in a brass spittoon on the bar, letting me twist in the wind as he enjoyed his self.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you...boy?" he asked.

Behind Doctor Roberts, I saw Virginia clutching her staff, her knuckles white, and her eyes narrowed. Sally was standing next to her and I saw, over the Doctor's shoulder, Sally lifting up her hand. She mimed bringing her fist down in the same way that one would hammer down a piton while climbing a mountain. I subtly shook my head while Doctor Roberts focused on his tobacco.

"I wouldn't," I said, casually. "Though, have you read the latest journal by the physiologist Dr. John Beddos? He says that tobacco is linked to a quite frightful array of deleterious effects on the lungs and heart of all known non-gigantic races."

Doc Roberts paused in his chewing. Slowly, he spat another brown line into the spittoon. "Now isn't that the damnedest thing...an orc with a vo-cabulary," he said, quietly. Seeming to decide that this was all he might gain from this conversation, he stepped away from the bar-top. Glancing back, he saw Sally, who hastily concealed her hand behind her bulk and put on a rather large, simple smile. Doctor Roberts pointed his finger at her. "Mead-Mug, I don't want to see you in this here bar again. Understand?"

"Doc!" Sally squalled.

"If ya do, I'll get the constable to toss you into the jail cell and I will make sure he throws away his key, understand?" Doctor Roberts said.

Sally looked aggrieved. Well, as aggrieved as a seven foot tall half-ogre could.

Doctor Roberts walked out, with one last spit into the spittoon. I sighed, and Virginia strode over, bristling furiously.

"Resh Craig! Resh Craig," she snarled. "To intimate you were some kind of low life bandit."

"Oh, you've heard of him?" I asked, dryly.

"Well, I mean, I've read some of the newspaper stories. The train robbery, the bank job in Black Root, the seduct-uh...t-the other...stuff..." She trailed off, shrugging. "But, well, it's quite awful that he'd think you were anything like that brigand and beast, just because you're a..." She shook her head.

"Come on," I said, slapping her shoulder. "We have a mine to explore."

"Whyzzat?" Sally asked, walking over to look over the two of us.

I smiled up at her. "We're looking for Bessie Toone's boot," I said, cheerfully, reaching up to tweak my mustache into fine points. "As part of an incremental step towards unraveling an increasingly dangerous mystery."

Sally blinked slowly, sticking her tongue into the corner of her mouth, then sliding it back up, creating a distension on the side of her face. Then, beaming, she gave me a great big slap to my back, one fierce enough that I nearly smashed my face into the spittoon. "Wonderful! Who is Bessie Toonie?"

***

The mouth of the Bessie Toonie silver mine yawned before me, Virginia and Sally Mead Mug. I frowned, noting how the bright light of the sun only reinforced the darkness within. A faint echoing sound emerged from the mine – maybe a trick of wind, maybe the scream of distant ghosts. Who could tell? I drew my pistol slowly, then spun the chamber as I considered our options.

"Do you think that will work a ghost?" Virginia asked.

"We're not here to shoot the old coot," I said, grinning at her. "Just to find some bit of her old regalia to appease that madman in the importer's shop. Once he gets the boot, he'll tell us who made the ring, and once we know who made the ring, we can find them and ask them who owns the ring and we might actually get some answers to all this."

"Madman?" Sally asked.

"Tall, skinny, talks a mile a minute?" Virginia offers. "Refers to himself perpetually in the third person?"

"Oh, Ristezze?" Sally asked, comprehension dawning on her bloodshot eyes. "Ah, now this is coming together. That little-" She hiccuped. "Little..." She waved her hand.

Virginia was looking aghast. "Are you drunk again?"

"Mmmmaybe!" Sally wobbled.

"We...I..." Virginia spluttered and hissed like a tea pot while I started into the mine proper. Once within the darkness and the chill, my eyes adjusted. My orcish blood, coming roaring to my rescue. It did so so rarely that I took a moment to simply enjoy being able to see somewhat unimpeded within the mine. The walls bore all the marks of a well run, well managed mine given over quite rapidly to rot and decay. Cobwebs spidered along the struts and supports, and tiny bits of mold had started to bite into the beams and the logs. They looked sturdy enough, but I was sure as we moved further into the mine, the decay would grow more pronounced.

"Come on," I said, starting forward confidently, planning to make this a quick, easy job. Just in. Then out. I came to a corner in the tunnel and stepped around, my pistol held near my hip, and saw several large barrels that contained old mining tools – pick axes and hammers and the like – as well as a pile of timber that looked made to be propped up in a hurry if need be. I looked back to make sure Virginia and Sally had followed me...

And saw that the mine itself had shifted behind me. The corner behind me now led to a different set of darkened corridors entirely, not the bright outside. The distant echoes of the mine rang in my ear – and a faint tick tick tick sounded above my head. I looked up and saw a vast spider, black of hide and red of eyes, crawling along the wall towards me. I sprang away, scowling.

"Ah, that's how this is, then," I said, shaking my head. I leveled my revolver and pulled the trigger. The ambient magick of the mine was not enough to cause my pistol to fail, and the bullet struck the spider in the cephalothorax. The impact jarred the spider off the wall and to the ground, where it curled its legs inwards as it sprawled in a puddle of its own greenish blood. But the faint tick tick sound of more limbs made me spin about. Gunsmoke flurried around me as I brought my pistol to bear on four more of the buggers.

I twisted my face in distaste and fired two times more, striking one spider in its twitching, dripping mandibles, the other in its belly as it flared up, ready to leap. The third sprang on my forearm and the fourth chittered towards my leg. I kicked out and cried out, even as those sharp fangs tried to bite through my shirt and into my flesh. But my twist sent the spider against the wall and the spider on the floor bit harmlessly against the leather of my shoe. I ignored it, leveling my pistol on the spider I had tossed to the wall. My bullet took it in the abdomen. The last spider, I kicked into paste, stomping down with a series of curses that I could unleash without fear of causing Virginia to blush herself into unconsciousness.

In the ringing silence after this little spider skirmish, I breathed in the acrid smell of gunsmoke and perked my ears, listening for more monsters.

Instead...

I heard the slow, elegant sound of a string quartet – so hauntingly similar to the sounds aboard the IFS Zephyr before her fiery death that it gave me goose pimples. I quickly reloaded my revolver, then stepped up to the wall nearest the sound. Creeping to the corner, I peeked about and saw that a narrow mine corridor led to a ruddy glow – the bright white light of gas lanterns, as well as a tinkling sound of cutlery, china, and fine conversation. I crept forward, ready for anything, then sprang around the last corner.

I found myself standing, as if transposed by some kind of conveyance magicks, in the ball room of a great whopping manor house. The floor was wood tiles and the large glass windows looked out on Shrouded Hills – though several of the buildings I could see showed a stark difference. The temple, for instance, had a stone back and no smoking chimney, and the bank had no second story. The ballroom itself was alight with gas lamps and candles, providing a bright illumination in the early evening. What was more, it was filled with people. Humans, specifically, in fine gowns and fine suits at least fifty to sixty years out of date.

"Oh, Mr. Berrywright?"

A husky, female voice made me turn.

A truly beautiful woman with a cascade of brown hair and bright blue eyes was sashaying towards me, dressed in the large bell gown that had been the style of this time. But while the style was more conservative than the modern day of 1885, this woman clearly cut herself of a cloth that was as daring as any modern socialite, considering the altitude of her decolletage and the exposure of her arms. Despite the clear wealth that had been poured into her dress and her silver necklace, her arms and her hands showed the signs of her being a rustic, hard working woman. Muscular and tough, her fingers were calloused and despite clear effort, her fingernails still had a bit of grit here and there beneath them.

"I wasn't sure you'd be able to make it, Mr. Berrywright," she said, holding out a single hand. Then she started. "Or was it sir Berrywright? The King knighted you recently, hadn't he?"

I took a moment and glanced down at my own self. My clothing had changed, but my skin color had not. But the clothing was cut from a fine silk cloth, dyed a somber black, and a small dragon pin had been stuck to my lapel. I puzzled over that, then realized. Shrouded Hills was on the Cumbrian side of the Golga river. Fifty years ago, it had been a part of the Kingdom of Cumbria and would have sent its silver down river to the coast, then from the cost, to Dernholm.

In this bizarre phantasmagoria, I had somehow been given the guise and seeming of a Dragon Knight. The very idea was preposterous. But, as the saying went...

When in Dernholm!

I took her hand, bent forward, and kissed her knuckles . "For a chance to meet you? I'd have braved far worse," I said, my voice a husky purr against her pale skin. Thanks to cut of her dress, I could see the flush traveling to her face as she beamed and giggled all at once.

"Oh, Sir Berrywright, you are the living end," she said, then bit her lower lip. "I wasn't aware you were interested in some country bumpkin like little old Bessie Toonie."

I grinned. "Country? Definitely. Bumpkin?" I took her hand, drawing her close as the strings changed their tune to a more jaunty dance. I twirled her onto the dance floor with a casual flourish, enjoying the way her skirts flared daringly. Very nearly, I swore I could see her ankles, a glimpse that set my heart thundering. "Never had I heard a lie I would contest more. I'd challenge you to the field of honor for your honor, but as running you through for an insult you delivered to yourself would be a downright tragedy."

She let out a burst of laughter. "Sir Berrywright," she murmured as I twirled her about. For just a moment, her back pressed to my front. "You would be the death of me!"

I chuckled in her ear. Across the way, I could see several men glaring at the two of us. But unlike the modern day, where the Dragon Knights were a faded memory, this phantasmagoria was a time where bearing the fanned wings of the dragon lapel would be enough to keep these louts off my back. Softly, I whispered in Bessie Toonie's ear.

"Might I be so bold as to ask...if you wish to continue dancing in a more private venue?"

The red flush grew deeper. "Gideon..." She breathed, sounding shocked. But, I note...that was far...far from a no.

***

"Sir Berrywright!" Bessie gasped as her back touched the wall in her chambers. Slipping from the ballroom had taken waiting for a good moment, when neither servant nor fellow suitor was watching us. Harder than it sounded, considering the number of jealous greedy types who had wanted their hand at Bessie Toonie. It seemed fifty years ago, before she had died and her mine had passed to her children, she had been quite the catch.

And now, I was unlacing the several thousand bits of string and wire and the various whalebone clasps that made up every single part of her elaborate clothes. I took great care to not tear anything – not wishing to see what would happen to ghostly clothes if torn apart. But...oh...she felt very warm. Very alive as my hands swept her top down and Bessie lifted her muscular arms over her shoulders and let her full, perky breasts bounce free. Her eyes glittered and she sank her teeth into her lower lip, tensing with a virgin's excitement as I leaned forward and caught her neck with my own teeth. I nipped and kissed and licked at her as, downstairs, her unwitting suitors waited for their chance to dance. My green hands cupped her pale breasts, squeezing her, and the crooning gasp that escaped her throat was tinged deeply with her rustic accent.

"Oh Gideon," she moaned, her eyes closed. It was a mite strange, to be called the name of a man likely long dead and buried. But I simply did not care. My mouth had found the tip of her nipple and I sucked it into my eager lips. My tongue thrust forward, sliding in slow, graceful circles around her nipple, teasing her and drawing out moans as musical as the instruments downstairs. My hands had not remained idle, though. As my mouth and my tongue worked on her chest, my hands pushed what was left of her gown away. She stepped from the mass of cloth and carelessly trampled it beneath her feet, dragging me with her to the bed.

I let her fall there. Her thighs spread as she sat there, her sex damp, though it was hard to tell. As was the fashion of the time, her bush had been left to grow as a wild snarl around her sex. But that had its own deliciousness to it, and I admired her pale, youthful body as I undid the buttons on my own undershirt. She bit her lip harder as I revealed my own muscular chest and broad shoulders. This, I noted, showed that I was clearly in the guise of Gideon Berrywright: There were scars and tattoos that I had never seen before displayed on my chest and arms, including one of the heraldic symbol of the King of Cumbria above my heart.

I stood before her, wondering if this long dead half-orc was...similarly endowed.

I felt a flare of smugness within my breast as I let my pants drop and saw that he was similarly endowed.

But not quite as...

Immense.

My member swayed from side to side as I stepped closer, my hands sliding along Bessie's cheeks, forcing her head up, breaking her eye-contact with my cock. She hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from it. She had been watching and gaping, looking down at my shaft as if she had never seen a member before. And considering her youth and her eligibility...it was entirely likely she hadn't. She whispered. "It's beautiful..." she breathed. Then I kissed her, deeply, my tongue thrusting into her mouth. She mewled into the kiss, her palms pressing slowly to my chest, tracing the sword-scars and the puckered arrow wounds that showed Berrywright's martial prowess. Her finger was tracing the circular hole that had come perilously close to piercing my heart when my own hands slid to her shoulders, to her hips, and then to the bed to either side of her. She lay back with a wanton sigh as I crawled fully atop her. The bed squeaked and I broke the kiss, so we could both pant.