The Return of Daud Read online

2nd Day, Month of Timber, 1841, Eleven Years before the Dunwall Coup

  “It was suddenly obvious to me that at this rate of attrition we would not only fail to sufficiently research the continent, but we might soon lack enough crew to make the return voyage! Something had to be done to save the venture! And so I immediately declared myself Captain. On my orders the remaining crew kept to the relative safety of the beach for the duration of the week.”

  —A REFLECTION ON MY JOURNEY TO THE PANDYSSIAN CONTINENT

  Anton Sokolov, excerpt from the Introduction to the second edition, 1822

  The two men lay on the couches while Sokolov fussed around the machinery between them.

  Finally, thought Stilton. Sokolov’s lecture had been far too long but, perhaps sensing the restlessness of the audience, the natural philosopher had finally ended his talk and called for two volunteers.

  The man on the couch farthest from Stilton was an older gentleman in a gray suit with long tails, the ends of which he now clutched with white-gloved hands as he lay back and stared into the high ceiling of the Royal Conservatory’s entrance hall. On the other couch was a much younger volunteer, a dandy of perhaps twenty, his evening attire a far more flamboyant affair of green-and-red velvets. This man was grinning, his attention torn between watching Sokolov at the machine and someone he clearly knew down in the front of the audience, whom he kept waving to.

  Stilton’s head buzzed a little with the drink, and he swayed as he sat on the tall stool. As he looked at the young volunteer, admiring his handsome features—not to mention his elegant fashion sense—he smiled, feeling his heart kick up just a little. The way the man’s skin glowed with sweat in the spotlights made a chill run up Stilton’s spine. Ah, if only he were ten years younger. He took a swig of his drink. No, make it twenty years younger. A youth like that would see nothing but an overweight oaf with ruddy skin from too much drink.

  Ah, but once upon a time.

  The youthful volunteer waved again. Stilton frowned and slipped off the stool, somehow managing to stop it from tipping over as he did so, and peered around the edge of the wings, trying not to be seen by the audience but desperate to see who the young man’s friend was.

  Ah, there. Second row, near the aisle. A young woman with dark skin and dark hair wound tightly on her head and held in place with a wide-brimmed bonnet—much to the clear inconvenience of the gentleman sitting behind her, who was leaning out into the aisle to see around her elaborate headgear.

  Stilton settled back into the wings. Well, there you are. Another lost cause. He went to take a swig of his hipflask and was surprised to discover it was empty.

  Out on the stage, Sokolov rose from the machine and nodded, apparently to himself, then turned to the audience.

  “As I have already related, my investigations into the electro-potential properties of the Pandyssian minerals—” he paused, tugged at his beard, and laughed to himself “—let us call them sokolites, for the sake of convenience—the electro-potential properties of the sokolites, came to a head when they were cut into twenty-sided polyhedra and subjected to a concentrated charge delivered by the standard whale oil transformer.” He gestured at the base of the machine where the tank—the machine’s power source—glowed.

  “Now, as magnets have poles described as north and south, so the crystal structure of the sokolites have two additional dimensions, which I describe as east and west. When these linearities are aligned with the negative and positive terminals of the electro-potential source, so the crystal structure itself becomes permeable to other kinds of force entirely.”

  Stilton swayed on his feet. He didn’t understand a word of it, and neither did the audience. This evening of natural philosophy was a mistake. He would be a laughing stock, his folly at the Royal Conservatory would be the talk of the season. Back into the mines, they’ll say. He was amazed the audience hadn’t gotten up and left already.

  Sokolov slipped the two stones—sokolites, was it? Really, the sheer ego of the man!—into the claws on the end of the machine’s articulated arms, then he gently pressed the young volunteer back onto the couch.

  “Try to relax and close your eyes. You will be able to see your good lady friend very soon, don’t worry.”

  The audience tittered, but Stilton only frowned again. They were bored. Maybe he should have booked some dancers to open for the lecture. Let them get an eyeful of Churners from Morley, maybe.

  The young volunteer complied, shuffling himself to get comfortable on the couch, while over on the other side, the older gentleman first turned to watch, then gave the audience a shrug. The audience laughed again, causing Sokolov to look up, casting a stern glance at his other volunteer.

  “I shan’t keep you a moment, sir.”

  More laughter.

  Sokolov then pulled down the machine arm, adjusting the joints and the claw until the clasped sokolite was about six inches above the young volunteer’s head. Standing back, and apparently satisfied, Sokolov moved to the other couch and made the same arrangements. Then he clapped his hands and walked back to the machine.

  “Now, I shall require the assistance of a third volunteer.” He turned to the wings. “May I request the presence of our most generous host, Mr. Aramis Stilton?”

  Stilton jumped, like he’d got an electric shock. Him? Sokolov laughed and waved him over encouragingly.

  Well, he hadn’t said anything about this. He wanted his help? Stilton shook his head, his jowls flapping.

  Oh, to hang with it.

  Stilton stepped out onto the stage, acknowledging the applause with a wave, trying very hard to walk a straight line toward Sokolov. When he arrived at the machine he realized he had been holding his breath, and he let it out in a great exhalation. If Sokolov noticed, he ignored it. Instead, the natural philosopher reached into his inside pocket and drew out a stack of thin cards. Stilton frowned as they were handed over and he fanned them out in his hand. There were maybe a dozen of them: each card was about six inches by three, one side was blank, and the other featured one of a series of symbols—a square, a five-pointed star, the outline of a stylized fish, a wine glass. Stilton shuffled through them, unsure what he was looking at.

  “When the crystals are charged and aligned with the poles of electro-potential,” said Sokolov, once more addressing the audience, “I have discovered that they exert their own electro-potential field, which acts upon the fields around it—in our demonstration, that field being the human mind itself. The charged crystal will draw the poles of the mind into alignment with its own poles.” He turned to Stilton. “Mr. Stilton, if you would be so kind, please select a card.”

  Stilton pursed his lips and concentrated; suddenly his fingers felt fat and uncooperative. He managed to pull a card before the entire pack slipped from his grasp. Stilton felt his face go red.

  “Now,” said Sokolov, “if you would please show the card to the audience.”

  Stilton moved to the footlights and held the card up. Members of the audience in the front couple of rows leaned forward in their seats to get a better look as Stilton walked from one side of the stage to the other, while farther back, several pairs of opera glasses glinted in the darkness.

  “Thank you,” said Sokolov, moving to the machine. He flicked four switches in sequence, and the whine of power increased in volume, the glow of the whale oil tank becoming slightly brighter. After making a final check of the two crystals in their articulated arms, Sokolov moved to the older volunteer.

  “Now, Mr. Stilton, if you will, please move to my young friend on the other couch, and show him the card. Please ensure that neither I nor my gentleman friend here can see you.”

  Stilton laughed and waved at the machine. “Bit of a contraption for a simple parlor trick!” he said, mostly to the audience. They laughed, and Stilton felt the weight slowly lift from his shoulders. Yes, this was the way to do it. Get the audience on his side, and perhaps they’ll forgive him for the evening of utter boredom for which he was responsi
ble.

  Stilton arranged himself by the couch, his back to Sokolov. With a flourish, he lifted the selected card and adjusted his cuffs, then held it in front of the young man’s deliciously sharp features.

  “Just relax, my boy,” he said, “let old Aramis guide you through the mysteries of the universe!”

  “And… now!”

  Sokolov pulled a lever, and the whine of the machine went up in pitch. The whale oil tank glowed and then, with a crack that made Stilton jump, a tendril of blue energy arced from the silver sphere at the top of the machine to the crystal held over Stilton’s subject. Then there was another crack, and a similar arc snapped to the crystal opposite. Stilton watched over his shoulder, unable to prevent himself from wincing every time the power spat across the air from terminal to terminal.

  “Please pay attention, Mr. Stilton!” called Sokolov. Stilton turned back to the young volunteer.

  “Now,” said Sokolov, gesturing to the audience, “we begin.” He turned to the older man. “Tell me what you can see.”

  The volunteer screwed his eyes tight, and wrinkled his nose. He shook his head slightly, and then the power snapped again and he seemed to relax.

  “Oh, a… water. Something small. A… fish. A fish!”

  Stilton met his own subject’s wide-eyed glance, then turned the card over to double-check. He held it up again for the audience.

  “It is a fish!”

  The audience made an appreciative noise, and there was another smattering of applause, but the increasing crackling of the contraption drowned it out and there was another murmur, this time of unease.

  “Relax, ladies and gentlemen, relax,” said Sokolov. “The power flow is quite safe. Now, again, Mr. Stilton.”

  Stilton complied, as did his subject. The fish card was followed by the wine glass, an open book, a square. Each time the volunteer on Sokolov’s side got it right, and with increasing speed, his hesitations replaced by merely a tight breath and a nod as he listed the symbols almost as soon as Stilton had presented them to his subject.

  The power crackled. Stilton was enjoying himself. He was part of the show, part of the spectacle, and while it was a neat trick, using the impressive equipment, there was a simplicity to it that was a kind of strange relief after the tedium of the lecture.

  Perhaps the evening was not yet lost.

  The power cracked again. Stilton could feel the hairs on the back of his neck go up. He was standing very near to the device, after all.

  “A… light. A … a blue light.”

  Stilton turned as Sokolov’s subject spoke. Sokolov was looking down at the man, who was still reposed, apparently relaxed, his fingers curled around the tails of his coat.

  With his back to the audience, Stilton saw Sokolov’s eyes narrow, one hand smoothing down his moustache.

  “Ah… no, that’s not right,” said the older volunteer. He frowned, his eyes tightly shut. “It’s… a… I can’t quite… there’s something—”

  “There’s something in the way.”

  Stilton spun on his heel, his head suddenly clear, the dank air of the theatre suddenly cold. His young subject now had his eyes closed, his forehead creased in concentration as he struggled to see something with his mind’s eye.

  “There’s something… I can’t see it… there’s a light, but there’s a shadow. Something is in the way. A… man…”

  Stilton looked down at the cards in his hand. The next one was a simple triangle. He shuffled through them. Spoked wheel. Knife. Square. Circle. Horse. Another fish. Another wheel. There wasn’t anything that looked like a man.

  “The blue light,” said Sokolov’s subject. “It’s too bright.” And then the two subjects spoke as one.

  “The blue glow is bright. I feel cold.”

  The steady murmuring of the audience was growing in volume. Stilton glanced over his shoulder at Sokolov, but the natural philosopher still had his back to the audience, his attention on the crystal held in the claw over his subject’s head. Power arced from the silver sphere to the crystal, Sokolov’s beard illuminated in bright blue flashes. But still he didn’t move.

  “A man… I see a man… he’s… he’s…”

  Stilton’s subject gasped, his eyes still shut, his chest rising and falling as he gulped for breath. His hands were clenched fists by his sides, and as Stilton watched, he started hammering the couch.

  A few people in the audience rose from their seats. Stilton summoned up the voice he used to address his mine crews, and quickly moved to the front of the stage.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, please, do not be alarmed. As our illustrious guest has already told us, the power flow is quite safe. What you are witnessing is merely a wonder of our natural world, harnessed by the amazing intellect of Anton Sokolov, renowned thinker and—”

  “A knife! I see a knife! There is a man holding a knife! A knife!”

  Sokolov’s subject sat up, knocking his head against the crystal frame above him. His eyes were still closed, but his upper body shook. He reached out with his hands, still holding onto the tails of his coat.

  “No! No!”

  He screamed in terror. Stilton felt the bile rise in his throat as a sizeable portion of the audience also cried out, the sound of the crackling machine this time drowned out by the thunderous roar of feet on wood as the audience panicked and started for the exit.

  “The blue light burns, the blue light burns!”

  Stilton ignored the ravings of the subject on his couch, and rushed across to Sokolov. He grabbed the natural philosopher by the shoulders, spinning the man around. Sokolov didn’t resist, his expression one of curious bewilderment rather than fear.

  “Sokolov! What’s happening? Stop this! Stop this at once!”

  He shook Sokolov by the shoulders until, finally, he seemed to snap out of it. The natural philosopher looked around, as if seeing the theatre for the first time, then nodded.

  “Most fascinating… Oh yes, of course, of course,” he said, moving quickly to the machine. His fingers flew over the switches, and he looked up at the silver sphere at the machine’s apex, but nothing happened. The power still arced, and the two subjects continued to rave about the light, the man, and the knife.

  Sokolov stood back, looking up at his machine. “I don’t understand, if the electro-potential squared equals charge to the third power, then surely it should be—”

  Stilton’s young volunteer screamed. There was blood trickling from the youth’s nose and from under his closed eyelids.

  Stilton shoved Sokolov to one side, sending him tumbling to the boards. Then he ducked down, his fingers closing around something heavy and cold. He stood tall.

  “No! Don’t! What do you think you’re doing?” cried Sokolov from the floor.

  Stilton ignored him. He swung the crowbar sideways with all his might, smashing the gem hanging over his subject. There was a bang and a bright-blue flash that left Stilton with purple spots floating in his vision; he blinked rapidly and saw the brass claw hanging from a broken joint. Of the crystal—the sokolite—there was no sign. He had succeeded in knocking it out of the machine and that was all that mattered. As the ringing in his ears began to clear, the theatre sounded quiet. Glancing down, he saw the whale oil tank in the base of the machine was dark.

  “You stupid, stupid—”

  Sokolov’s eyes went wide as he looked at the crowbar in Stilton’s hand. Stilton dropped it and it hit the stage with a thud.

  The hall was half-empty, but those audience members who remained had turned back to the stage. With the danger apparently over, they were now curious to witness the aftermath of the disastrous performance.

  Yes… a performance. Stilton nodded to himself. A performance. That’s what it was. Parlor tricks in the guise of a lecture. Yes, it was perfect. All he needed to do was pay for the story to run in the newspaper the following morning, celebrating the audacious, nay, scandalous spectacular at the Royal Conservatory. That would cover the real story, and the e
ditor was not only a greedy little man, but he also owed Stilton a favor.

  Stilton glanced at the royal box, and with some relief saw it was empty. The Duke and his entourage had left.

  He moved to the front of the stage—stepping over Sokolov—to address the remnants of the crowd.

  “Of course,” he said, “full refunds will be issued. Please retain your tickets and present them to the box office at your earliest convenience. Thank you!”

  He gave a bow, finishing with a flourish of the arm. When he stood up, he found the crowd just staring at him.

  And then, a single person started clapping. Stilton squinted, standing on his toes as he peered into the back of the hall. A young man, rail-thin with a pencil moustache, was sitting in the center block, a grin plastered on his face. He clapped, either unaware or unconcerned that he was the only one.

  Stilton thought he recognized him, but he wasn’t sure. Was he one of the special invitations? Perhaps. He would have it checked.

  From the Royal Conservatory’s main doors, new arrivals began pushing their way past the exiting crowd. Stilton caught sight of their tall white helmets and blue-green tunics and sighed. The Grand Guard. Precisely what he needed. His pockets were deep, but not limitless, and to avoid any scandal he would have to pay them off. The expense account of the Stilton Mining Corporation was going to need some very creative accounting this month.

  “You, Aramis Stilton, are a fatuous ignoramus.”

  Stilton glanced down at Sokolov, who had propped himself up on his elbow.

  “Oh, do shut up,” said Stilton, as he headed to the wings. He had to gather the Grand Guard up and move them away from the stage. As he passed Toberman, the assistant grabbed his sleeve.

  “The subjects, sir!”

  Stilton hissed in annoyance. “Blast it all, lad, can’t you see I’m busy? I have one of several crises to avert. Now, if you would kindly unhand me—”

  “No, sir, listen! They’re dead. That bloody machine of Sokolov’s has killed them.”

  Stilton felt himself deflate. “Dead? What, both of them?”

  “Dead, sir!” Toberman shivered and swept the cap off his head. “And them things they were saying. Horrible things, sir! Heretical, I’ll wager.”