Gulliver was miserable. He wasn’t sure, but it was possible that he had never been so miserable before. Even if he had, however, he was sure that this was in the top five moments of utter misery in his life, although he suspected that it could get pushed further down the rankings at any moment.
“Are you sure about this, Franck?” he asked for what might have been the hundredth time that day. He hadn’t been keeping count.
“Like I said the other fifty-seven times today-” apparently Franck had “-we need all the information on the Ancients that we can get and if, as I suppose, these Liches have even a morsel more than that to which we’ve hitherto had access, then we need to acquire it, through any means necessary.”
“I know all that,” Gulliver replied miserably, “but really: just look at it!”
He was referring to Coldsolace Keep, the mighty edifice of charred stone which rose up to the north out of the barricade of cliffs that hemmed the district of Coldscolace in against the sea. It was not just dark and imposing. Towering over the district and branching like a twisted tree, its many buttressed, mist-shrouded turrets like barbed arrowheads, Coldsolace Keep was what dark and imposing found dark and imposing.
“Oh, it’s really nothing to worry about,” Franck reassured, “it’s only that big and charred and misshapen because of centuries of Lich attempts to escape it. It’s a symbol of their deviousness and malign intellect, but also of the fact that they are almost completely trapped in there.”
“But we need to go inside.”
“Ah, yes,” Franck conceded, “but that won’t be a problem, I’m sure. I have a contact or two in Coldsolace who will be able to help us.”
Gulliver did not feel reassured at all, but they had come all this way from the Colony and, as Coldsolace lay before them, it seemed there was little choice but to step into the dark and gloomy district and have done with it. He didn’t have to like it, however, and, as Franck marched on ahead with his usual confident stride, Gulliver hung back, shook his head and proceeded as if his legs were made of lead.
Even without the Keep overlooking it, Coldsolace was a miserable place. For a start, it was raining, with thunder rolling through the clouds above as lightning struck the hypostatick generators surrounding the Keep. As far as Gulliver could tell, it was always raining in Coldsolace. The buildings had that slimy, stained look of water constantly dripping down their walls.
Then there were the streets, each narrow and squeezed between and beneath the many miles of hypostatick pipework that fed the mechanisms keeping the Liches in check. Buildings towered up to the three or even four storeys above them, but often overhanging the streets or appearing to teeter dangerously towards them. All was lit by a grimy greenish-orange light which struggled to illuminate much through the sporadic clouds of vapour venting from the pipes.
“Why would anyone choose to live here?” Gulliver asked as he and Franck stooped below some pipes to enter another narrow side street.
“These people are the descendants of the Dhampyr dynasty, Gulliver, my boy. They may have lost all traces of their vampiric bloodline by now, but they are a proud people and proud to continue the traditions of their kind. They see their work here as a service to all Shadow and they would have none take it away from them.”
“You say proud. I say bloody stupid.”
“Well, say it a little quieter, at the very least,” Franck replied sharply. “We won’t get very far if we antagonise the locals.”
Gulliver couldn’t see any locals, which was hardly surprising given the weather, but, then again, anyone could be hidden in the sodden gloom if they were mad enough.
“Sorry,” he mumbled and Franck nodded, apparently satisfied, before carrying on into the maze of pipes and buildings.
Eventually, they came to a precarious-looking edifice, in many ways the same as all the others in the district, which had the one dubious distinction of being brightly illuminated, both without and from within, which only seemed to heighten the gloom around it. A sign hung above the doorway depicting a pair of skeletal arms hanging from a set of prison bars. Beneath, it read, ‘The Coldsolace Arms’.
“I see what they did there.”
Franck shook his head. “Let’s just hurry inside!”
Inside was rather different than Gulliver had anticipated. He had assumed that the Coldsolace Arms would be as devoid of life as its signage, maybe with a layer of smoke veiling off the murky corners of the common room, but as soon as he pushed the door open he was assaulted by brightness, noise and colour as vibrant as in any pirate tavern he had ever visited – in fact, possibly even more so.
The common room was packed with people, each as different as the next, their clothing a ragtag mixture of styles from across Shadow, the colours electric. Men and women bantered at tables, leaned against the bar demanding drinks, slipped into secluded corners with more than mischief in their eyes. There was music, a sort of raucous, operatic folk, all uncivilised strings and sopranos, and those not doing anything else danced in twos or threes like marionettes, like ripples of water, like statues.
It was such an astonishing scene of life that Gulliver was completely unaware that he was standing on the cusp of it, mouth agape, until someone barged past him from outside, sending him spinning towards the mirthful gaze of Franck.
“I take it you’ve never enjoyed the last flourishing of Dhampyr culture, then?” the old Philosopher asked as Gulliver’s gaze slipped back around the room as if drawn by a magnet. “It’s all rebellious decadence, militant entitlement a kind of noble anarchy. I’ve always found it rather alluring.
“You see it’s the very bleakness of this existence, combined with their ancient aristocratic heritage and genius for Hypostatick Philosophy and art which leads to such exuberant-“
But Gulliver was no longer paying attention, as his gaze was drawn to a far corner where an older woman, dressed in meticulous rags of black and rainbow hues was swaying uncertainly as she waved enthusiastically in their general direction.
“And that would be the lady we are here to see,” Franck added, following Gulliver’s gaze. “We had best not keep her waiting.”
They wound their way through the living throng towards the corner where Franck’s contact awaited them. As they drew closer, Gulliver was able to see that her face was thickly painted, with rich colours – red, gold, purple - accentuating the details of her lips, eyes and cheekbones over a layer of pale white, which gave her a resemblance to a work of art on a plastered wall. She was still waving wildly and Gulliver feared she might just fall off her chair.
“Franck! Franck!” she called as they drew within earshot, “Oh, it is you, my darling!”
“Pleased to see you, Emesha, my dear, as always,” the Old Philosopher said, taking a little bow before sitting down at the table opposite. “You haven’t aged a day, as always.”
“Oh, now, Franck. You know that isn’t true!” the old woman replied.
“Well, you certainly haven’t aged the several decades since I last saw you!” He reached forward and gently kissed a shaking hand and then they were staring at each other as if there was no one else in the room. Gulliver found himself shuffling awkwardly off to one side until Franck blinked and glanced his way as if just remembering him.
“Oh, my apologies,” he said, “Emesha, this is my companion, Gulliver Blake – he’s a former pirate!.”
“How exhilarating!”
“And Gulliver, please be delighted to meet Countess Emesha Vehrnawp of Coldsolace, Philosopher, Engineer and exquisite lover!”
Gulliver felt his face heating up.
“Oh, Franck! You still say the most ravishing things!”
“Not at all, Emesha. It was always you who were ravishing!”
“Weren’t we ‘ere to talk about Liches?” Gulliver asked, suddenly strangely eager to get to the point of this whole horrible adventure.
“Oh yes!” slurred the Countess, “I got your message and I started looking into it but…,” she slipped into a theatrical whisper which was almost louder than before, “there may be a problem.”
“What sort of problem, my dear?”
“I don’t have the access I used to have. It’s been taken away from me… I’m… I’m no longer trusted by own son!”
“Ah,” Franck said gently and Gulliver suddenly realised why this old woman was quite as drunk as she seemed. “I’m all too aware of familial conflict,” Franck continued, “so you have my sympathies. Please, tell us all about it and perhaps we can help?”
“Well, it all started just after the Lakhma crisis,” Emesha began and Gulliver realised, much too late, that he really needed a seat.
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