chapter 12
previous chapter
The stagecoach thundered past iron wrought gates, held open by two impassive gate wardens. It passed on through a small driveway lined on both sides by rows of shady trees, and stopped in front of a large mansion. Marble steps led to the main doors, where a butler was patiently awaiting his master's arrival.
All the wealthy people in stories have butlers, or at least a large retinue of servants. It's just one of those things that go without saying. And if there is a murder in the house, cliches dictate that there will be a compulsory joke of "the butler did it". It wasn't very funny, but it always appeared anyway. Nobody knows why. Fortunately, no gruesome murders have occured in this mansion, so there probably won't be any jokes of that sort in this story. Probably. This butler's name was Jeremiah.
Mr Porpoise descended from the stagecoach, his travelling cloak billowing impressively. The two bodyguards reappeared on either side behind him, looking around suspiciously in case there were assassins hidden in the bushes, ready to pounce.
"Glad to have you back, sir," greeted the butler in a voice as polished as diamonds.
Mr Porpoise nodded curtly at Jeremiah. "Has the bounty hunter arrived?" he asked.
"No, sir, the bounty hunter will be here in the morning. In the meantime, there are several gentlemen here to see you. I have directed them to wait in the drawing room, as per your instructions," replied the butler, with all the liveliness and excitement of a pair of used socks.
"Well, let's keep them waiting, shall we? Tell the cook I have returned, and have dinner ready by seven. That will be all for now," said Mr Porpoise, and he waved the butler away. Jeremiah silently vanished.
What he really really wants right now is a nice long bath, thought Mr Porpoise as he went into the mansion. And then... there was a lot of unfinished business to conclude.
* * * * *
Sometimes, especially when you are having a lot of fun, time flies. Wake up in the morning on a nice holiday, have a wonderful cup of coffee, and next thing you know, the sun leaps across the sky, evening settles in like an extremely unwelcome guest, and the day has passed, leaving you sorrowfully nursing a cold coffee cup, wondering where the day went.
But at other times, time crawls slower than a snail moving backwards, and this usually happens just when you wish it would move faster. Right now, time was crawling for Cantrip as he slept. He dreamt of mad old men paying exorbitant sums of money to find him, of psychotic bounty hunters with sharp daggers, of unnatural shadows grinning at him from the shadows, of a blinded metal monster madly searching for him in a deep dark hole...
He woke up drenched in cold sweat. Outside, the first rays of the morning were lazily starting to climb out of bed. Seraph was already awake, decked out in full bounty hunter gear, bristling with sharp and shiny weapons. He had changed his eyepatch into a leather one, and his grey hair had been dyed white, with copious amounts of gel giving it a spiky look, with the rest of his hair tied into a ponytail. He exuded danger and style by the bucketloads.
Penelope looked exactly as before, except that she had evidently found a great big sword lying about somewhere, and had slung it on her back.
"Rise and shine, kid. We're moving soon," announced Seraph cheerfully. "And please don't run away, I really hate it when people do that." He gave Cantrip a cheerful slap on the back.
Right now, Cantrip was feeling anything but cheerful. Being handed over to some stranger who was willing to pay a lot of money for it to happen is seldom a good thing. Usually, it means someone really really wants to see you dead, and those kind of deaths are usually prefered to be methodically slow and painful.
Oh joy, thought Cantrip.
* * * * *
They left around mid-morning. Seraph hailed a yellow and black stagecoach with "TAXI" emblazoned on a flashing yellow sign on its roof. It was drawn by two snorting stallions, one yellow and one black, and each of them had "TAXI" painted across their bodies as well.
"Where to?" asked the stagecoach driver gruffly.
"Upper West Side of Merchant's District, please..." replied Seraph. "And step on it."
"I always do," grinned the driver, and then he stepped on it.
* * * * *
The roads of the City were full of crazy stagecoach drivers, but the taxi drivers were the craziest. An imp sat next to the driver, madly shouting out numbers, and Cantrip realised it was keeping track of how much this little trip was going to cost.
"ONE FIFTY TWO!" yelled the imp as the taxi driver dodged a vegetable cart. The stagecoach rolled along on two wheels for several meters, then crashed back and rattled onwards, leaving the indignant shouts of the cart pusher behind.
Cantrip clung on for dear life as the coach roared on at top speed. Beside him, Penelope had turned a strange shade of green.
"TWO FORTY NINE!" shouted the mad imp as the stagecoach slipped into a powerslide and swung a corner, knocking down a lamp post.
"THHREE SIXTY THREEE!!" as the stagecoach cut madly through traffic, barely squeezing into the smallest of gaps, and cutting across alleyways and pavements, then lurched to a stop in front of a pair of large gates.
"Here we are, sirs and ma'am," said the driver, and turned. "That'll be four dollars and seventy two cents, please."
"Here, take it, and keep the change," replied Seraph as he pushed a five dollar coin towards the driver. He stumbled out of the stagecoach with Cantrip, trying to regain control of their quivering legs. Penelope sort of fell out, and promptly emptied her breakfast into the nearest gutter.
The driver tipped his head, thanked Seraph, and the stagecoach rolled away.
Five minutes later, they had recovered enough to begin walking normally, and Seraph led them to the gates of a large and impressive looking mansion. It was, of course, wrought iron. Seraph had a quiet word with the door wardens, showed them a parchment, and they nodded. The gates swung open, and they moved through a driveway, not surprisingly lined on both sides by shady trees.
A butler met them at the door, while resolutely refusing to make eye contact.
"The master will see you now," he said, staring straight ahead and speaking in a tone that suggested he did not wish to be seen speaking to people of their social status. "Follow me." He stiffly led them through a maze of rooms, and then stopped outside a majestically carved wooden door.
"Inside," barked the butler, and then he turned the door handle.
* * * * *
Inside, the room was dark, and this appeared to be a deliberate effect. Heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, and there was a general absence of a light source of any kind. There was a horrible smell in the air, too. And Cantrip could have sworn he heard the buzzing of flies.
Seraph swore loudly and whipped out a mini lantern. As the lantern flared and lit the room, the butler gasped.
Sitting on a study chair with his back to the windows was a man. He wore expensive jewellery, and he was short, fat and round. He was also very dead, and he appeared to have died from an illness that, if described, would leave a permanent scar on the imaginations of younger readers. Suffice to say, it was a very un-describable disease. And unless the butler was an extremely talented biological weapon developer, he didn't do this. The body lay slumped on the heavy wooden table.
As the butler fainted, Seraph swung the lantern to shine more closely on the dead man. An ink bottle lay shattered on the floor, and the dead man's hand dangled over it. A quill lay in the puddle of ink, soaked to the last feather. Seraph moved across the room, and carefully nudged the dead man's head aside with a dagger.
To his utter horror, the dead man's head crumbled into ashes. At the touch of the dagger, the entire corpse appeared to implode, collapsing into a heap of grey soot. It was then that Seraph noticed a parchment lying under the dead man's head. Or, Seraph reminded himself, what little remained of his head, anyway. He gingerly pulled the sooty parchment away, and dusted off the excess ashes.
Scrawled onto the parchment were the words: "FIND OTHERS" and then what appeared to be a hastily scribbled diagram of a stick man, framed by a square.
next chapter
The stagecoach thundered past iron wrought gates, held open by two impassive gate wardens. It passed on through a small driveway lined on both sides by rows of shady trees, and stopped in front of a large mansion. Marble steps led to the main doors, where a butler was patiently awaiting his master's arrival.
All the wealthy people in stories have butlers, or at least a large retinue of servants. It's just one of those things that go without saying. And if there is a murder in the house, cliches dictate that there will be a compulsory joke of "the butler did it". It wasn't very funny, but it always appeared anyway. Nobody knows why. Fortunately, no gruesome murders have occured in this mansion, so there probably won't be any jokes of that sort in this story. Probably. This butler's name was Jeremiah.
Mr Porpoise descended from the stagecoach, his travelling cloak billowing impressively. The two bodyguards reappeared on either side behind him, looking around suspiciously in case there were assassins hidden in the bushes, ready to pounce.
"Glad to have you back, sir," greeted the butler in a voice as polished as diamonds.
Mr Porpoise nodded curtly at Jeremiah. "Has the bounty hunter arrived?" he asked.
"No, sir, the bounty hunter will be here in the morning. In the meantime, there are several gentlemen here to see you. I have directed them to wait in the drawing room, as per your instructions," replied the butler, with all the liveliness and excitement of a pair of used socks.
"Well, let's keep them waiting, shall we? Tell the cook I have returned, and have dinner ready by seven. That will be all for now," said Mr Porpoise, and he waved the butler away. Jeremiah silently vanished.
What he really really wants right now is a nice long bath, thought Mr Porpoise as he went into the mansion. And then... there was a lot of unfinished business to conclude.
* * * * *
Sometimes, especially when you are having a lot of fun, time flies. Wake up in the morning on a nice holiday, have a wonderful cup of coffee, and next thing you know, the sun leaps across the sky, evening settles in like an extremely unwelcome guest, and the day has passed, leaving you sorrowfully nursing a cold coffee cup, wondering where the day went.
But at other times, time crawls slower than a snail moving backwards, and this usually happens just when you wish it would move faster. Right now, time was crawling for Cantrip as he slept. He dreamt of mad old men paying exorbitant sums of money to find him, of psychotic bounty hunters with sharp daggers, of unnatural shadows grinning at him from the shadows, of a blinded metal monster madly searching for him in a deep dark hole...
He woke up drenched in cold sweat. Outside, the first rays of the morning were lazily starting to climb out of bed. Seraph was already awake, decked out in full bounty hunter gear, bristling with sharp and shiny weapons. He had changed his eyepatch into a leather one, and his grey hair had been dyed white, with copious amounts of gel giving it a spiky look, with the rest of his hair tied into a ponytail. He exuded danger and style by the bucketloads.
Penelope looked exactly as before, except that she had evidently found a great big sword lying about somewhere, and had slung it on her back.
"Rise and shine, kid. We're moving soon," announced Seraph cheerfully. "And please don't run away, I really hate it when people do that." He gave Cantrip a cheerful slap on the back.
Right now, Cantrip was feeling anything but cheerful. Being handed over to some stranger who was willing to pay a lot of money for it to happen is seldom a good thing. Usually, it means someone really really wants to see you dead, and those kind of deaths are usually prefered to be methodically slow and painful.
Oh joy, thought Cantrip.
* * * * *
They left around mid-morning. Seraph hailed a yellow and black stagecoach with "TAXI" emblazoned on a flashing yellow sign on its roof. It was drawn by two snorting stallions, one yellow and one black, and each of them had "TAXI" painted across their bodies as well.
"Where to?" asked the stagecoach driver gruffly.
"Upper West Side of Merchant's District, please..." replied Seraph. "And step on it."
"I always do," grinned the driver, and then he stepped on it.
* * * * *
The roads of the City were full of crazy stagecoach drivers, but the taxi drivers were the craziest. An imp sat next to the driver, madly shouting out numbers, and Cantrip realised it was keeping track of how much this little trip was going to cost.
"ONE FIFTY TWO!" yelled the imp as the taxi driver dodged a vegetable cart. The stagecoach rolled along on two wheels for several meters, then crashed back and rattled onwards, leaving the indignant shouts of the cart pusher behind.
Cantrip clung on for dear life as the coach roared on at top speed. Beside him, Penelope had turned a strange shade of green.
"TWO FORTY NINE!" shouted the mad imp as the stagecoach slipped into a powerslide and swung a corner, knocking down a lamp post.
"THHREE SIXTY THREEE!!" as the stagecoach cut madly through traffic, barely squeezing into the smallest of gaps, and cutting across alleyways and pavements, then lurched to a stop in front of a pair of large gates.
"Here we are, sirs and ma'am," said the driver, and turned. "That'll be four dollars and seventy two cents, please."
"Here, take it, and keep the change," replied Seraph as he pushed a five dollar coin towards the driver. He stumbled out of the stagecoach with Cantrip, trying to regain control of their quivering legs. Penelope sort of fell out, and promptly emptied her breakfast into the nearest gutter.
The driver tipped his head, thanked Seraph, and the stagecoach rolled away.
Five minutes later, they had recovered enough to begin walking normally, and Seraph led them to the gates of a large and impressive looking mansion. It was, of course, wrought iron. Seraph had a quiet word with the door wardens, showed them a parchment, and they nodded. The gates swung open, and they moved through a driveway, not surprisingly lined on both sides by shady trees.
A butler met them at the door, while resolutely refusing to make eye contact.
"The master will see you now," he said, staring straight ahead and speaking in a tone that suggested he did not wish to be seen speaking to people of their social status. "Follow me." He stiffly led them through a maze of rooms, and then stopped outside a majestically carved wooden door.
"Inside," barked the butler, and then he turned the door handle.
* * * * *
Inside, the room was dark, and this appeared to be a deliberate effect. Heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, and there was a general absence of a light source of any kind. There was a horrible smell in the air, too. And Cantrip could have sworn he heard the buzzing of flies.
Seraph swore loudly and whipped out a mini lantern. As the lantern flared and lit the room, the butler gasped.
Sitting on a study chair with his back to the windows was a man. He wore expensive jewellery, and he was short, fat and round. He was also very dead, and he appeared to have died from an illness that, if described, would leave a permanent scar on the imaginations of younger readers. Suffice to say, it was a very un-describable disease. And unless the butler was an extremely talented biological weapon developer, he didn't do this. The body lay slumped on the heavy wooden table.
As the butler fainted, Seraph swung the lantern to shine more closely on the dead man. An ink bottle lay shattered on the floor, and the dead man's hand dangled over it. A quill lay in the puddle of ink, soaked to the last feather. Seraph moved across the room, and carefully nudged the dead man's head aside with a dagger.
To his utter horror, the dead man's head crumbled into ashes. At the touch of the dagger, the entire corpse appeared to implode, collapsing into a heap of grey soot. It was then that Seraph noticed a parchment lying under the dead man's head. Or, Seraph reminded himself, what little remained of his head, anyway. He gingerly pulled the sooty parchment away, and dusted off the excess ashes.
Scrawled onto the parchment were the words: "FIND OTHERS" and then what appeared to be a hastily scribbled diagram of a stick man, framed by a square.
next chapter
posted by nerdook at 2:46 PM
2 Comments:
"... un-describable ..."???
shouldn't it be "indescribable"??
hmmmm..... perhaps.... indescribable if joined together? un-describable with the hyphen, to emphasize that it, uh, cannot be described. :P
haha...
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