Shadow - Monsters, Machines and Mad Scientists!: Episode LXXVI

The Former Baron sighed and lifted his top hat to scratch his head. Things were not going well. They were really not going well. They were not going well at all and he wasn’t entirely sure what needed to be done to get things back in shape once more.

Firstly there was their overall predicament. He had never particularly liked Searingsands very much, not even when he had visited it with his father as a boy. It was too hot and all the food tasted like pins and needles on your tongue. And the colours! He could never understand why the people this close to the equator always seemed to insist on painting everything in as many conflicting shades as possible. Everything clashed! Everything! What was wrong with a little black, now and then? Or a rich purple? Or perhaps maroon? He would even have tolerated a deep mauve. Those were entirely respectable hues. If the people of Searingsands and all the districts like it could not see that then he would really rather spend his time somewhere else, thank you very much!

He had other reasons for disliking Searingsands as well, like its aversion to Hypostatick Philosophy in general and Northern Philosophers in particular, and the way in which the Searingsands militia had of staring at you when you thought you were doing something completely innocent – it was a look that could make you turn yourself in, even if the punishment was often more gruesome than anywhere else in Shadow. And there was a third other reason, one he tried very hard not to think about.

But regardless of how much he might dislike the place, they were stuck there having been abandoned by their main source of transport, the Ebon Crest, whilst all other forms of transport North seemed forbidden thanks to the brewing war with the neighbouring district of Shadedstream and Broken Hope was in no fit state to teleport them anywhere.

Which brought him to problem number two. Broken Hope. With nothing else to do, Franck had spent the better part of the last month and a half scouring the shelves of the local apothecaries, trying to find a way to restore the ailing Fallen to his former condition, but nothing seemed to be working and, without access to a proper laboratory, something it was almost impossible to find in this part of Shadow, his options were limited. He had treated it as something of a challenge, however, and despite his lack of success he was doing his best to keep smiling, to raise the spirits of those around him. Broken Hope was far too weak to be cheery and Gulliver and Ellis had seemed to be teetering on the brink of deep depression, so someone had to try being positive.

But now a third problem had arisen. Ellis had not returned from his trip out into the streets the evening before, and all efforts made by Franck and Gulliver to scour the district that morning had failed miserably. It seemed like there really was no point in pretending to be happy anymore.

"I'm at a loose end," he announced, placing the hat back on his head, "I truly do not know what to do!" He shook his head. "Searingsands is enormous and Shadow even more so and we have no leads whatsoever on the whereabouts of young Ellis." He didn't even notice the rare correct usage of the boy's name.

"I have failed him," he continued miserably, "finally, I have failed. It's like that incident with my third cousin Gemimah and her pet Cnidoceros all over again, only without the bloated body and the aroma of rose petals. Oh," he collapsed into a nearby soft chair, "it's all over bar the wailing!"

"Surely it can't be all that bad," Gulliver replied from across the room, and the Former Baron was forced to open one eye in surprise, "I mean, I know it's bad,” he continued more gloomily, “but surely there's some 'ope that we can find 'im."

Gulliver looked even more depressed than usual, so it was wrong to read his words as optimism. Instead, Franck was more inclined to think the lad desperae. For all of their differences, the lanky pirate and the boy from the other world had become friends of a sort.

"If you have any ideas, Gulliver my lad, then you fire away with them, but for myself... I am depleted like the cupboards of my old housekeeper Mrs. Souter on the night I lured a gang of Gutterjacks into her pantry." The memory was an amusing one, even after the spanking he had received when his father found out, but he found he had no humour for it now. "Oh, Ellis," he sighed.

"If I were...," mumbled Broken-Hope, collapsed, as always, on the mouldy chaise, "If I were anything... other than I am... right now... I could... I could find him."

"But I've been trying to find a way to restore you for six weeks, my Fallen friend and I have met with no success. No success at all!"

"But you haven't... haven't really been trying... have you?"

That hurt. It stung like the tentacles of one of the three-legged hunting plants of Western Greatvine, and Franck knew exactly what that felt like after one particulary ill-fated expedition to that jungle district in search of... well some artefact or other. Who could remember these things? It was difficult enough to remember the names of those he had travelled with, even after a night of terror that most might have described as unforgettable. It was certainly true that one did not forget entrails landing in your porridge, especially when you were unable to sit down to a proper breakfast in the first place thanks to the inconvenient placement of said sting. In this instance, however, the most painful aspect of Broken-Hope's statement was that it was true.

“I have done my best under the circumstances,” he replied defensively, “which I’m sure we’re all aware are not ideal.”

“You’ve been to a few… apothecaries, but otherwise you’ve… barely left the apartment. You’re more… resourceful… than that…”

“Searingsands is just not a good place for Hypostatick Philosophy. There are no Philosophical societies in this district, no colleges or academies, not to mention the fact the militia would be as likely to run me through on the spot for dabbling in such things, rather than give me the pleasure of due process with a trial leading inevitably to execution by burning at the stake. And worst of all there are no proper laboratories!”

Broken-Hope let his mouth twitch into a very slight, very sad smile. “Then what,” he croaked, “is that?”

He was pointing, with what energy he had, out the window, across the city and towards another hill on the peninsula on the far side of the harbour, on top of which stood the palace of the Khan. From their high vantage point it was possible to see the grand plaza before the palace, where a great circus tent was being pitched, but it was also possible to see some of the landscaped gardens behind the palace and it was to there that Broken-Hope’s finger pointed, for at the highest point of the garden, in a pipe-encrusted, steam shrouded gazebo all of its own, stood the Khan’s laboratory, renowned across Shadow as one of the best in the city and the only place within Searingsands where Hypostatick Philosophy was sanctioned. And to Franck’s great shame, everyone knew about it.

“I had not… mentioned it before,” Broken-Hope continued, “because I was sure… you had your reasons… for ignoring it,” he took a deep, shuddering breath, “but now I think… it is time… to face this particular… demon,” that smile returned, “take it from… one who knows.”

Franck closed his eyes. He really didn’t want to do this, had vowed that he never would, but of course the failing Fallen was quite correct. His powers were the best way to Ellis, possibly the only way now available to them, and the Khan’s laboratory was the only place where they would be have the resources to restore them to full strength so long as they were trapped in Searingsands.

“Very well then,” Franck conceded with a long sigh, “will you be okay here if Gulliver and I pay a visit on my old friend, the Kahn?”

Gulliver gulped loudly, but Franck ignored him, focussed as he was on the Fallen on the chaise.

“I will be fine… for now,” Broken-Hope replied, “it’s not like… I’m going anywhere.”