OSR: The Mystery of Uriah Shambledrake Session Session 17 & 18 - Marching Towards Doom

In the previous installment, the PCs:

• Raised a mighty iron tower.
• Unleashed a dragon.
• Spawned, and then destroyed, a race of egg-laying butlers. 

The PCs are:

Tom Shambledrake
Electric Wizard and heir to the bankrupt Shambledrake estate. Inventor of the Lightning Accumulator, the Lightning Inverter, and the Iron Spike.

Jonty Earl
Dandy. Assistant Professor at Loxdon College. Deeply enmeshed in stock-jobbery and financial chicanery.

Dr. Augustus Hartwell
Biomancer. A foreign doctor and self-described "quack", currently employed at Blumsworth Hospital. Ally of speaking rats, workers, and other vermin.

Lizzy Ramchander
Potion Wizard, former cook, former brewer, and current secretary to Doyle Wormsby. Can duplicate herself.

Doyle Wormsby
Civic Wizard, Private Investigator. Truth before politics, payment before a case.

Etienne-Louis Boullée

The Coppers arrived at the Iron Spike the morning after the failed burglary of Sir Truckle's mansion. Tom peered through the gate at them, and was gratified to see them flinch. Tom's burning eyes (mutated in a high-powered magic accident into flaming orbs), magnificent hat, and epoch-defining tower had filled him with unshakable confidence.

"We wish to speak with Mr. Doyle Wormsby, sir," one of the Coppers said. "We have reason to believe he is on these pretenses."

Tom sighed theatrically and went to fetch the detective. "Send a signal if you want me to, ah, intervene," Tom said, pointing his finger in the ancient gesture of offensive spellcasting. Doyle gave him a worried glance.

"Mr. Wormsby, we have reason to believe you were present during a burglarious feat on the night of the previous night," the Copper said, with the usual ungrammatical flourishes. "Speak carefully, for you are in the presence of the Hawk of Truth." The Copper gestured to a colleague, who brought forward a birdcage covered in a black cloth. When the cloth was removed, Doyle locked eyes with a sad-looking piebald owl.

"That's not a hawk, it's an owl," Doyle said.

"True," the owl croaked.

"It sounds better if it's a hawk, anyway, it's half hawk half owl or something. Wizards made it. It's the future of policing. Hark ye, suspected miscreant," the Copper said gravely, "the Hawk of Truth will detect your falsehoods."

"Ask away," Doyle said.

"Where were you on the night of last night?"

"Diverse places in Endon," Doyle said.

"True," the owl added. The Copper glared at it.

"Did you participate in the burglary of Sir Truckle's mansion in Grenville Court?"

"I have never been inside this so-called Sir Truckle's mansion," Doyle said. 

"True," the Hawk of Justice said.

"Also," Doyle said, "isn't this a mind-altering effect, and therefore illegal?"

"True," the owl said.

"It's not illegal!" the Copper protested. "Just experimental. You consented when you agreed to speak with me."

The owl considered this for a few moments. "False?" it croaked.

"And does it detect truth based on objective fact or opinion? Can it resolve a paradox? What about ambiguous statements?"

"Oh take the damn owl away," the Copper groaned. "Mister Riggs will speak with you at your office later today."

 

 

"You'll have to go to prison," Michael Riggs said, puffing on his cigar.

Doyle glared at the Deeker. Victus Crane, his usual contact within Endon's semi-secret magical police force, was still recuperating from his wounds, but had suggested Riggs as a reliable and flexible colleague, and arranged this discreet meeting. Doyle didn't think Riggs was flexible or reliable. He thought the Deeker was madder than an alchemist's rat. Apparently Victus had told Riggs all about Sir Truckle's forged currency scheme, and Riggs had a plan to trap the arch-forger.

"You'll meet many interesting people in prison, but the most interesting, for you, is the thief Paul Bant. Have you heard of him? The worst thief in all Endon, and I'm including Nucky No-Fingers the Pickpocket."

Doyle recognized the sound of an approaching anecdote. "Mr. Bant isn't much of a wizard," Riggs continued, "but he does have one spell. It calls like to like. If he holds a coin, he can call coins right out of purse or a chest. They roll towards him like sheep to a shepherd. He calls diamonds from the lapidarist, bills from the banker, and..."

"I see," Doyle said.

"And so do we. Pretty obvious. He's got spell control any wizard might envy - damnably tricky, these fine long-distance spells - but the self control of a magpie on Spacebeans coffee. He calls the coins and before they've stopped bouncing he's in manacles, in a wagon, before a magistrate, and in prison."

"So why isn't he transported or hanged?"

Riggs scoffed. "Why? He'd never had the chance to spend any of his stolen goods. Sometimes people don't even press charges. Usually it's three hot meals and he's out on the streets again, plotting his next caper. But this time, we've got charges that will stick. Transportation, at least three years. He'll jump at a chance to escape."

"So you, a Copper, want to arrest me under false pretenses, throw me in prison, then have me escape along with a notorious criminal? And then you want me to use this notorious criminal to steal from Sir Truckle?"

"That's about the shape of it, yes. You can't really steal forged currency. You'd be recovering evidence, not cracking a safe. Come on, Wormsby. You and your wizard friends must have a dozen ways to whisk you out of an unwarded cell. And in the coming days, who will miss you?"

"What about the coming days?" Doyle asked.

"You're no fool, Wormsby. You know what will happen when those out-of-work miners reach Endon. Thousands, tens of thousands, of angry men, petitioning Parliament. We'll be pulling triple shifts and sleeping on our feet," Riggs said, "and that's if we're lucky. There won't be an empty cell in Endon."

Or an empty grave, thought Doyle. 

"Fine," the private investigator said. "I'll turn myself in at dawn."

"A simple problem," Dr. Hartwell said, after a few moments of quiet contemplation. "I will transform into a rat and enter the prison with two potions of ratform. You and your, err, accomplice drink them, and the three of us make our escape. I will ensure the local rats grant us safe passage."

"Couldn't you ask a rat to bring us the potions?" Doyle said.

Dr. Hartwell winced. "I have sworn never to ask the rats for anything. It is a trait they find most unpleasant in humans. They will not be tools or slaves."

The basement of the group's townhouse was, by night, neutral territory for legions of rats. Dr. Hartwell's experiments in creating a new super-rat, a rat capable of demanding equality from humans and getting it, had not been entirely successful. He'd mutated a handful of volunteers into forms with evil eyes, turned one into a half-lobster, and mutated another into a unicorn rat with opalescent fur and a shimmering aura. 

"What have I done?" he asked himself, as other rats quickly formed a monarchist faction around the unicorn rat. He'd given up trying to track the flow of factions, alliances, and manifestos among the rats. With slogans like "We Are Not Allegorical", "Every Rat His Man; Every Man His Rat", "Votes For Rats and Women", and "Death To Tyrants and Terriers", the rats clearly had an excess of political zeal. "Come with me, and we'll see, a worthy murine magic nation," seemed to be their saccharine hymn.

Meanwhile, Lizzy and Jonty worked out a scheme to ensure Sir Truckle would have plenty of incriminating evidence on hand. Jonty had uncovered that Sir Trucke's minions frequently swapped false currency for stocks not yet sold on the open market, acting as initial investors. Jonty created a false Arcadia Ooze Milk Company (with no real assets, but with some very legitimate paperwork) to compliment the real Arcadia Ooze Milk Company Lizzy was developing, and then, via contacts in Endon's coffee shops, arranged to trade some worthless stock for forged currency.

"If Sir Truckle ends up with this stock, we'll know he's behind the scheme," Jonty explained to Doyle. "And you can use this counterfeit money as part of your burglary."

"Isn't this fraud?" Doyle asked.

"It's double fraud, which cancels out," Jonty explained. "I am a professor of law."

 "A professor of law with a desk full of fake stock and illegal currency," Doyle said.

Jonty sniffed. "Fine talk from a man who will soon be in prison."

"Fine talk from a man who's going to break me out of prison," Doyle retorted.

"That's Dr. Hartwell's task. I'm preparing legal arguments in case the Coppers go back on their word."

The next morning, under the name Michael Conan, Doyle Wormsby was arrested and sent to Pemsing Prison to await trial, on a charge of Mild Loitering With Intent. Doyle breezed through the paperwork but was alarmed by the thaumograph taken by the Coppers, which, according to a very bored clerk, captured the shape of a subject's soul in a burst of octarine light. "Can't polymawf a thaumograph like you can polymawf fingerprints," the Copper explained. 

Doyle feigned bewilderment while trying to work out a way to spoil, steal, or burn the thaumographic print. In the end, he decided it was a problem for another day.

For anyone not charged with murder, treason, or a truly despicable crime, Pemsing Prison was less of a prison and more of an enforced stay at the workhouse. Prisoners could mingle freely, with visitors passing food, letters, books, and liquor through an enchanted iron grate. Metal and magic set off alarms and earned everyone involved fresh criminal charges. Endon's swift criminal justice system (arrest Monday, trial Tuesday, hanging Wednesday, innocent until proven guilty, but no trial unless we can get a conviction) kept the population of the prison low. Most cells were empty. Some long-term residents with convoluted cases had converted their cells into apartments. 

Doyle found Paul Bant walking in the yard. The thief wore an enchanted magic collar designed to impede spellcasting, an old greasy coat, and a downcast expression. Reasoning that the best lies were made from the truth, Doyle sidled up and pitched his scheme. Escape, then spell-assisted burglary of a noble's manor, and taking forged currency so the owner wouldn't call the Coppers. Doyle neglected to mention that the Coppers would be waiting to make a fortuitous arrest, collect the evidence, and whisk Bant back to prison.

"You're mad," Bant whispered, with just a hint of awe. 

"I'd be mad to stay, and you'd be mad too. Transportation is a waste of your talents," Doyle said.

"But how're you going to get us out? Broomsticks? Ghost juice?"

"Let's just say I've got small friends in low places," Doyle said mysteriously.

"Corr," Bant replied, clutching Doyle's arm and goggling. "You mean the... the Small Business Owners? I don't think they exist."

Doyle simply smiled. Bant was hooked, and they both knew it.

 

Late that night, outside the imposing grey walls of Pemsing Prison, Dr. Hartwell downed a potion of ratform, slipped into the special potion-carrying vest Lizzy had sewn for him, and crept into the drains and pipes of the prison. He was alarmed to find other rats hard at work. Teams of rodents carried saws, awls, and even barrels of gunpowder along chalk-marked routes. Many rats recognized the doctor by scent and squeaked respectfully as he passed. 

"What's all this?" Dr. Hartwell asked a passing team of rats.

"Sabotage," one replied. "On the 27th, the prison falls. Rats with humans. No chains! No traps!"

"Do the humans know about this?" Dr. Hartwell said, slightly alarmed. "The ones marching on Endon, I mean."

The rat scrunched up in the equivalent of a shrug. "No. Just us. I think. A big surprise."

Revolutions start with an uprising of the lower orders, Dr. Hartwell thought, but this is new. In Foreign Parts, Dr. Hartwell had seen and even participated in an attempted revolution or two. They usually started with grand ideals and ended with a massacre and the status quo. I've seen philosophy without a revolution and a revolution with philosophy, but Endon is about to have a revolution without philosophy. All hell will break loose when the prisons of Endon collapse.

Following Doyle's distinctive smell, Dr. Hartwell eventually found the detective and his newly recruited acomplice. A moment later, three rats stood in the cell, and a moment after that, the cell was empty. Two hours later, Doyle, Paul Bant, and a heavily bribed cab driver arrived outside Sir Truckle's mansion. The bricks were still stained with smoke from the group's previous burglary attempt.

"Do your thing, magic man," Doyle said, passing Paul Bant a forged bill. Paul squinted, cracked his knuckles, and cast a spell. He hummed a brisk march while waving the bill like a baton.

"Give it a second," he said. "Ah! Here we are. Come to me, my pretties." 

A long bouncing arc of white paper leapt out of the mansion's mail slot, bouncing across the cobbles and into the open window of the cab. 

"Fucking hell, this is a lot of money," Bant said, awestruck, as he sunk deeper in the drifts of paper. 

"Is that all of it?" Doyle said, spitting a bill out of his mouth. A very angry butler appeared in the courtyard of the mansion, staring at the cab with blistering fury.

"Fucking hope so. CABBY! Go!" 

They made it a block and a half before the Coppers, closing in from all directions, stopped the cab and hauled everyone out. "Traitor!" Bant snarled, as Doyle was conspicously not clapped in manacles. "Squealer! I was framed! Entrapped! It's a fucking set-up, I say! A conspiracy! I demand justice!"

"Put a cork in it, Bant," Michael Riggs said.

"So you've got enough to prosecute Sir Truckle, right?" Doyle said, as he watched a pair of Copper argue with the cabby over who was paying the fare. "All this forged money. Witnesses. Seems like an open-and-shut case."

"Cases in Endon have sticky hinges when the nobility are concerened, but this is... well it's a start."

"A start?" Doyle said, agahast.

"Thank you for assisting the police with our inquiries," Riggs said smugly. 

"What inquiries? You didn't have a damn thing without..."

"Thank you and goodbye, Mr. Wormsby."

Richard Tennant Cooper

"And so, Sir Truckle is destroyed?" Balchezazar the Azure whistled. The dragon had transformed itself into an ambiguously aged, ostensibly male, and elaborately dressed human, the better to sample Endon's offerings. In shimmering blue and purple robes, the dragon had attended the theatre (and pronounced it tiresome), dined at the finest eateries (disgusting) and even enjoyed the company of ladies of negotiable virtue (amusing and baffling). The group subsidized the dragon's adventures, reasoning that a distracted dragon was better than a murderously focused dragon. 

Doyle shrugged. "Probably. If the Coppers can get the charges to stick, and if the papers publish the story."

"Insufficient!" Balchezazar shouted.

"These things take time. After all, we are only human," Dr. Hartwell added.

"Sir Truckle kept me in a cage! He and his family must die!"

"Yes, well, they will. Probably." A thought occured to Doyle. "Balchezazar the Azure, you surely must have knowledge of many things. Have you ever heard of oil of azide?" Doyle described the mysterious explosive liquid which he'd seen Benjamin Fits and his Mechanics' Society associates carry, and which, mixed with foot ointment, may have caused the death of Uriah Shambledrake Senior.

Balchezazar was amused. "Oh my. I recognize this liquid. It's usually the last thing a civilization invents. Rocks, fire, agriculture, writing, enchanting, oil of azide... rocks. If I were you," the dragon said, "which is a dreadful thought, I'd consider fleeing the city sometime within the next ten... years? Months? Something like that."

The group considered this revelation somberly. "Is doom inevitable?" Dr. Hartwell finally asked.

The dragon considered this, then raised one hand theatrically. "I shall cast a spell of prognostication: prophesize doom, or, as it is sometimes called, doom or no doom. Watch and learn, mortals." With a shimmer of extraordinarily subtle magic, Balchezazar summoned a sphere of purple-black fog, which spun gently in his hand before puffing into a mushroom cloud of sizzling vapour.

"Doom!" Balchezazar pronounced. "I knew it."

"Does the spell say when the doom will occur?" Doyle asked.

"It's doom or no doom, not doom and when doom," Balchezazar said smugly. "But it's doom all 'round. The spell is never wrong."

Aleksandr Nikonov

Doyle spent the next week investigating the frayed edges of his yarn and thumbtack conspiracy board. If doom was coming to Endon, he expected the fatal stroke to fall on the 27th, when the legions of out-of-work miners would arrive in the city to present their petition to an indifferent Parliament... and, coincidentally, the Speaking Rats planned to open every prison in Endon.

Angelica Hopewell, the intrepid reporter, told him the Coppers were suppressing stories of the march, as well as anything else that might "disturb the peace" or "lead to unrest." Doyle suggested that Angelica temporarily move to the group's lightly fortified compound in Needle Circus. "if there is a riot, Tom's iron tower is the safest place to be."

"Yes, the miners whose livelihoods were destroyed by magic iron mining will surely ignore the giant iron tower raised by magic," Angelica said. "Every artisan and architect in Endon knows that tower means unemployment."

"If the unionized workers of Endon want to remain the un-ionized workers of Endon, they'll leave that tower alone."

"You're saying it's safe?"

"Safer than anywhere else."

Doyle also spent his evenings mingling with workers and idealists at the Mechanics' Socities. He learned that teams of young men and women were preparing for something, and had colour-coded handkerchiefs, secret codes, and meeting spots. He wasn't invited to any of them; apparently everyone somehow knew what to do, while he, and plenty of others, were left out. Just in case, Doyle purchased blue, green, and red handkerchiefs.

He also purchased a special "drain cleaning machine" from a disreputable dealer in Hasselby Court. He'd gone in to buy an enhanted truncheon, and was very satisfied with one that could turn into a pair of manacles on command, but his detective's insincts had alerted him to a few missing crates. Mild interrogation and moderate bribes revealed the recent sale of dozens of "things that were not weapons."

The "not-a-weapon" consisted of a stock, drum, barrel, and 60' length of fine chain. When assembled and activated with the convenient trigger, the chain spun out of the barrel, then looped back into the drum. The shopkeeper demonstrated its power on a stack of scrap wood in the back yard.

"It's a rifle that continously fires!" Doyle said, astonished.

"It is not!" the salesman protested. "It's a drain cleaning device. You can also use it to get rid of rats. But it's not a weapon."

Doyle examined the device. It somehow felt... right. It fit snugly under his long coat. The thought of rioters armed with identical devices worried him. A wand of fireball cost more than an artisan would earn in a lifetime; this device could be alarmingly affordable. This "Toby Gunne" might trigger a revolution in crime.

 

Heavily armed rioters were one concern. Rioters with heavy arms were another. Doyle's investigations lead him to Doctor Potts, the unofficial medical advisor to the Mechanics' Societies. He offered common-sense advice, tooth extractions, basic surgery (at least as competent as any surgeon in Blumsworth Hospital), and, for serious cases or "for the 27th" vials of stabilized troll blood. "Use with caution," Doctor Potts said.

"Don't use at all!" was Lizzy's response, when Doyle turned over a vial for her expert potion wizard opinion. Dr. Hartwell concurred. Troll blood was a dreadful cure, and this stabilized version seemed to turn the side-effect (becoming a troll) into the main feature. Lizzy wasn't sure if the effects were permanent, temporary, or mutable. She sketched out a plan to potentially reverse the effects. "It's like a newt centrifuge," she explained, "but bigger. We should end up with a layer of troll blood and a layer of human. The trick will be..."

By the 25th of Malbrogia, Tom was clearly in the early stages of Tower Madness. He'd had the group's workshops in Needle Circus lightly fortified and connected. He'd purchased stacks of raw iron and distributed them around the neighbourhood, to raise a wall or a golem if required.

Chastity Flintwich, the bad-tempered thaumaturgist hired (though 'lured' might be more accurate) by the group, walked the workshop floor with a gravity hammer on her shoulder. The weapon seemed to store and release momentum, turning a lazy swing into a boulder-cracking blow. Chastity also developed and tested a primitive acceleration-based cannon.

"Splendid!" said Tom, examining the crater in the brick wall of the loading yard. 

"No," Chastity replied. "We were aiming at that." The painted target on the wall was untouched. "The rock exited the cannon at 90 degrees to the expected direction of travel."

"So we'll turn the cannon sideways!" Tom said gleefully.

Chastity shook her head and pointed at the remains of the cannon. The shot had exited the barrel halfway along its length, as if it had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment and swerved to cross the street. "More tests," Chastity said. "And fewer cowardly assistants."

"I'll be in my Insulated Sanctum if you need me," Tom said. The Insulated Sanctum, or the Rubber Room, was near the top of the Iron Spike and commanded an exceptional view of Endon. Tom could plot in safety, insulated by thick ceramic plates, rubber seals, and wax earplugs (to block the sound of thunder). Clear and dire warning signs banned anyone from entering... but Lizzy ignored them. Someone had to restock the sandwich cupboard and refill the tea urn.

The air in the city felt tense and unsettled. The first groups of out-of-work miners had arrived, singing traditional songs like "She Was Only A Sorcerer's Daughter" and "Marching To Shibboleth", weeping and wailing at Endon's prices, and sleeping on every horizontal surface not currently exposed to the weather.

Parliament proclaimed a curfew. Anyone on the streets between sunset and sunrise, unless on urgent business, could be subject to arrest and trial. Endoners, many of whom exclusively conducted business between those hours, were moderately outraged. 

"The riot is starting early," Dr. Hartwell observed, as a group of four nervous Coppers read the proclamation to crowd near the base of the Iron Spike. Someone in the crowd threw half a brick at one of the Coppers. The crowd gasped as the Copper popped like a soap bubble.

"Illusionary Coppers!" Tom whistled. "They looked very real, even to me."

"Bulking up their numbers with fake Coppers," Doyle said. "Works well until they pop. And then, everyone will be going around throwing half-bricks at Coppers. I wonder what kind of genius came up with this plan?"

"Someone who wants people to throw half-bricks at Coppers?" Lizzy suggested. "We should do something. I'm going down there. I'm not going to let a little riot interfere with my provisioning plans."

Lizzy was an agreeable person. Her habit of agreeing out loud with complaints about the price of food, duplicitous shopkeeper, and the peculiar taste of whale meat may not have helped the mob, but it did steer it away from the Coppers and towards the nearest greengrocer's. Half an hour later, Lizzy was running an impromptu soup kitchen in the remains of the shop, serving bowls of nutritious well-seasoned soup to anyone with a container. Yes, it's a crime, Lizzy rationalized, but the real crime is that some of these people look like they haven't eaten in days. And this grocer always called me "Sweetie" which I did not appreciate.

Outside, unbeknownst to Lizzy, the Coppers were massing for a push down the street. A line of non-illusionary Coppers with truncheons and shields faced a mass of irritated but not actively murderous Endoners. 

"I'm putting a stop to this," Tom said, and raised both hands. Dr. Hartwell, Doyle, and Chastity all tried to shout over each other. "I didn't mean with lighting," he said apologetically. "I meant with a mild stormcaller spell. A bit of rain will keep people off the streets."

"That is... a surprisingly good idea." Dr. Hartwell admitted. Rain had stalled many a revolution in Foreign Parts. "But we should try and rescue Lizzy. It takes some time for your storm to arrive."

"I'll go with you," Doyle said. 

From the tower, the crowd looked easily navigable. On the ground, it was pandemonium. Doyle and Dr. Hartwell quickly lost sight of each other. In the midst of the chaos, Doyle leapt upon an overturned cart and, with his furled umbrella, calmly directed the crowd, as if the riot around him were merely another snarl in the constant chaos of Endon's traffic.

Many citizens remembered the iconic image from the illustrated papers of an Endoner in a long coat calmly directing people away from a ravening river-beast. The image had become a cultural touchstone, reprinted, parodied, and remembered fondly as an example of Endon fortitude. "Looks just like 'im," someone in the crowd remarked. 

Dr. Hartwell, meanwhile, found that foreigners were not safe on the streets of Endon. "Get him!" a particularly cowardly bigot said. Dr. Hartwell goggled at the man. 

"I am a doctor!" he protested.

"And a foreign spy no doubt," the Endoner retorted. "In league with the Rat Witches and women in trousers!"

"How can I be foreign if I am you?" Dr. Hartwell said dramatically, using alter self to mirror the demagogue. "Oooh! Fleee! Fleeee at once!" 

As the rain began to fall and the Coppers closed in on those Endoners too angry, tired, or injured to run, Doyle and Dr. Hartwell managed to grab Lizzy and get her back into the Iron Spike compound. On the way, Lizzy spotted a Copper discreetly removing his uniform in an alley. "One moment, gentlemen," she said, slipping away to grab it. 

"If Coppers are quitting, this riot could be worse than we anticipated. We should discuss our plans," Dr. Hartwell said. "Hope for the best. Expect the worst."

"And when in doubt, stand behind the wizard," Doyle added.

OldBookIllustrations.com

"Option one. Parliament accepts the petition of the miners, whatever it is," Jonty said, as the group gathered around a cluttered table in the workshop.

"I think it's votes for most people, guaranteed food, and reformed poverty laws," Doyle added.

"Why would people want to vote anyway?" Lizzy said. "Have you seen some of the people who get elected to Parliament? I wouldn't want to be responsible for them."

"Option one, Parliament accepts. No riots. The miners go home. Things stay the same," Jonty continued.

"Or the workers of Endon realize that Parliament will listen to them and make further, more radical demands," Dr. Hartwell added.

"In which case we get option two, Parliament does not accept the demands. There's a riot. If we're lucky, it'll focus on Parliament. If not, foreigners, wizards, the nobility..."

"Then we put up our iron walls and wait out the mob," Tom said, with a grand sweep of his hand.

"What if Benjamin Fits plans to blow up the Iron Spike with oil of azide? What then?" Doyle said. "If he's with the Project..."

"We've been checking for sabotage ever since Snedge tried to spoil the tower-raising ceremony. If Fits wants to blow up anything, he'll want to blow up Parliament," Tom said nervously.

"Or incite the rest of of Endon to riot," Dr. Hartwell added. "Set a few stately homes on fire, sever a bridge. Our dragon might oblige the rioters in any case. I don't think Balchezazar will wait for his vengeance much longer. One way or another, Endon will take to the streets."

"And they'll be drunk," Doyle added. "I've spotted beer wagons parked in alleys tonight. Free beer if you've got a coloured pocket handkerchief, no doubt."

"Or the Coppers could provide drugged beer to the mob," Lizzy said. "Ooh! Or we could drug the beer!"

"Why?"

"I'm just saying we could do it," Lizzy mumbled. 

"The question is not what will happen," Dr. Hartwell said, "it's what, if anything, we should do about it."

"What do the rats think?" Tom asked. "Are they also going to present a petition?"

Dr. Hartwell sighed. "If I knew what the rats planned, I would sleep better at night. I do not know if they have one plan, or many conflicting plans. I do not think they plan to rise up and devour us in our beds... on the 27th, at least."

"If you want to investigate something, Lizzy," Doyle said, "I think I've solved the mystery of the advertisements Edward Konivov puts in the newspapers."

Doyle explained that the Coppers suppressed the newspaper story of a mysterious "magic lump" that had appeared in the basement of a middle-class home in West Cross. The address lined up with the catacomb map Jonty had "borrowed" from the Minister of Trade and with the tiny ciphered advertisements the time-travelling wizard placed in newspapers. 

"Last time we followed this lead," Dr. Hartwell said, "we were nearly eaten by an ooze."

"And now that ooze is in Tank #4 at the Gel Knight Works," Lizzy said cheerfully. "We should investigate this lump tonight!"

"Curfew. Coppers on the streets. Unnatural weather. Mad bomb-wielding colour-coded rioters. A time-travelling fanatic with a secret code. Trolls and worse besides," Jonty said. "It's not a night fit for man or beast."

"I'm neither," Lizzy said, "so I'll be fine."

James Strehle

"We're wizards and we're here to help," Tom said to the baffled owner of 48A Cabbage Lane, West Cross. "You wrote to the Daily Vision about a... lump in your basement."

"Begging your pardon sir but it's two in the bleedin' morning," the man said, his unshaven face scrunched beneath a striped nightcap.

"This is a matter of some urgency, my good man," Tom said cheerfully. "Basement lumps must not be ignored."

"The Coppers said to ignore it," the man muttered.

"No doubt they meant 'ignore it and let the professionals handle it'," Dr. Hartwell added smoothly. "We are professionals."

"You don't look like professionals. You look like a bunch of..."

"Nevertheless," Tom said, deploying the magic word. Few middle-class people in Endon could stand up to a full-power 'nevertheless.'

"Henry! What's going on down there?" a reedy voice said from above.

"Be quiet Minnie, it's the wizards. They want to look at our basement lump."

"Tell them we've already got one."

"I know we've already got one Minnie. They're coming inside."

"Ooh, we'll all be murdered in our beds!"

"As a matter of fact, if you and your wife could wait in the back garden," Dr. Hartwell said. "Our friend Lizzy will accompany you."

"We'll all be murdered in our back gardens!" Minnie protested.

"This lump," Tom said, "is the top of a stasis sphere. Someone, probably Konivov, set off the sphere in the catacombs, not knowing this basement was above it"

"What's inside?" Doyle said, examining the featureless black dome. 

"That's the point of a stasis spell. Nothing on the outside can affect what's inside," Tom said. "The spell could be set to expire in an hour, in ten thousand years, or never."

"So it could, for example, be an oil of azide bomb with the fuse lit," Dr. Hartwell said. "All invulnerable, impossible to defuse, and timed to detonate at once."

"If every advertisement Konivov placed is a map to a stasis sphere, how many of them are under Endon?"

"Dozens. But why would he provide maps to bombs?" Doyle mused. "Is there any way to dispell it right now? We don't have time to buy countermagic."

"I think we can," Tom said. "It's dangerous, but if we dump raw charge into the sphere, the spell will overload and fail. It feeds off ambinet magic. If we overfeed it, it will burst. It's why stasis spells aren't used in high-capacity thaumic batteries. They'd collapse before they stopped the blast."

"So you're going to dump a few kilothaums of raw magic into this basement and hope for the best?" Dr. Hartwell said.

"That's one way to put it," Tom said, rolling up his sleeves. "But I'm sure it will be fine."

Lizzy, in the back garden, saw a brief flash of octarine light, felt the thumb-prickling sensation of inadvisably applied thaumaturgy, and heard the sound of collapsing masonry. "Nothing to worry about," she said automatically. "Wizard business."

"He's fallen in the catacombs," Doyle said helpfully.

"We really should have expected part of the floor to collapse," Dr. Hartwell said, peering down. "And we should have brought a lantern."

"I'm fine, thank you for your concern," Tom said from the darkness. "I can't see a thing."

"Actually, I have a lantern," Doyle said, producing it, lighting it, and revealing Tom's dusty face peering up from the passageway below. "Any sign of a bomb?"

"There's nothing down here. Just this tripod with a piece of paper on it. It's writing on it. '9th of Malbrogia'."

"That's the date the advertisement linked to this location appeared in the paper," Doyle said confidently.

"I am relieved it's not a bomb, but why would anyone go to all that effort just to hide a note with a date on it?" Dr. Hartwell said. 

Doyle's mind was racing. "Aha! Edward Konivov said his Time Funnel was like a bucket. When it was activated, it created a bucket, and when you wanted to travel through it, you kicked the bottom out of the bucket and turned it into a tube through time."

"Edward Konivov is madder than a sack of greased stoats," Tom said.

"What if," Doyle continued without pause, "this stasis sphere is a bucket, and he's invented a way to connect his machine to any existent stasis sphere? He could create a time-tunnel back to any date, and, with the aid of his advertisements, anyone at that date could travel into the future, or meet him, or... or something. It's got to involve time travel, I just know it."

"The only way to be sure is to find another stasis sphere, pop it, and see if it's got another date inside. Dr. Hartwell, can you fetch Lizzy? Doyle, can you find another sphere on your map? We're going into the catacombs," Tom declared.

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"Augustus," Tom said politely. "I can't help but notice that there are a great many rats in these catacombs."

"True," Dr. Hartwell said politely.

"That one saluted you," Tom said. "I mention this only to pass the time."

"You seem nervous," Lizzy said. "Is it their little uniforms and weapons?"

"It's the apartment blocks we passed. The wand some of them are wheeling like it's a cannon. And the bunting," Tom said.

"Yes, well, they're coming right along as a civilization," Dr. Hartwell said. "They've lead us to two stasis spheres."

"And two more dates, and no more information than we had before. It's getting late. We should all rest before dawn."

"Just one stop on the way back," Doyle said. "I think we should have a word with Konivov."

"There's something wrong with this workshop," Tom whispered. "It's fake. See? It's not wet from the rain. I think it's an illusion."

"But it's solid," Doyle said, tapping the door to Konivov's workshop. 

"Could be a wall of force underlay," Tom said. 

Lizzy, who was very, very tired, threw half a brick at the workshop. The illusion shimmered, but a second half-brick popped it, revealing a very large stasis sphere where the workshop used to be.

"He's stasised himself!" Lizzy said. "That's clever. He can ride out the riot in safety."

"He can ride out eternity in safety," Tom said. "Should we pop it? A sphere of this size might be trickier... and we've all had a very long evening."

"And this sphere probably contains more than a tripod with a note. It might contain a very angry time wizard. I think we should leave it alone," Dr. Hartwell said.

OldBookIllustrations.com

"Do you hear the people sing?" Doyle said, blearily reaching for the cup of tea Lizzy was pushing in his direction.

"If you can call that singing," Lizzy said. "The four urchins outside our office have reached the second verse of 'Rising Like Yeast'."

"No casualties yet? No explosions?"

"Doyle, you've been asleep for less than an hour."

"Does Tom have a plan yet?"

"He says we're going to wait and see what happens, then try to join the winning side," Lizzy said. "Though how he'll be able to tell from the top of his tower is beyond me."

"The rats?"

"I haven't seen any."

"The dragon?" 

"Balchezazar the Azure said he wanted to see what the humans would do before he destroyed Sir Truckle, but vowed to take to the air by, ah, 'noonish'."

"Wonderful," Doyle sighed. "Any other news?"

"Chastity tested those posters you found last night on your second excursion," Lizzy reported. "They'll turn lampposts into bicycles at sunrise."

"What? Why?"

"And they're not even very good bicycles. Iron wheels, you see. It's a well-crafted enchantment but it's not perfect. Sometimes the gears get muddled."

"Again, why? I suppose the rioters want a mobile force," Doyle said, answering his own question. "What else?"

"Parliament is fortified and warded," Lizzy said. "We've seen Gel Knights on the street. Most sensible people are staying indoors. Oh, and the spire of the Auld Grey Cathedral is glowing blue. I think it's a signal. The revolution will be semaphored."

Doyle sighed, finished his tea, and tried to clear his mind. His natural instinct was to hit the pavement, but it seemed wiser to watch the march from the Iron Spike. "I should tell Tom to invent some sort of magic stair thing," he grumbled, as he began the long climb. "Two broomsticks and an armchair would do it."

 

The blue spire of the Auld Grey Cathedral brought a swarm of blue handkerchiefs to the streets of Endon. "I think they're directing the miners towards Parliament," Tom said, peering through his telescope. "And... handing out food? My goodness there are a lot of them. The streets are full."

"There's a young man near the warehouse entrance who's saying some very rude things about wizards," Dr. Hartwell reported. "He seems harmless."

"Is that a fire?" Doyle said. 

"Looks like it. On the other side of the river," Tom replied, squinting through the hazy air. "Hopefully it's accidental."

"And, fortuitously, your rainstorm yesterday should make Endon too soggy to burn," Dr. Hartwell added. 

"It's a pity this telescope doesn't work with thaumic radiation," Tom said. "I'd like to be able to see what's going on with that spire. Wait. I can make a telescope that works with thaumic radiation! I just need, let me think..."

Half an hour later, Tom pointed his crystal-encrusted Thaumic Telescope at the cathedral and whistled in admiration. "If this thing is working correctly, there's some powerful magic in that spire. Wards, possibly. I think that might be a flight or force nodule. Impressive."

"News from Parliament," Lizzy's duplicate reported. "The miners have formally presented their petition."

An hour later, Lizzy, who'd traded stair-climbing duties with her duplicate but had give up on reaching the platform, bellowed, "Parliament has rejected the petition and the Coppers have ordered the crowd to disperse. Also, the Auld Grey Cathedral's spire is green."

"Those damn fools," Dr. Hartwell muttered.

"Well, I suppose we can tell Balchezazar to seek revenge freely. It might distract the mob. A dragon usually does," Tom said.

Balchezazar was watching the crowd with the bright-eyed attitude of a catch hunting sparrows. Lizzy gave the dragon the welcome news (and a watercress and ooze cheese sandwich), then ran as fast as she could for her heavily warded potion laboratory. 

With a thunderclap of unfolding magic, Balchezazar the Azure flew upwards and disappeared into the clouds. Moments later, a beam of purple-white light burst from the sky and vaporized Sir Truckle's mansion. Balcheazar swooped over Endon, firing further beams at, presumably, Sir Truckle's relatives and employees.

As all of Endon looked towards the sky in fear (or, in Tom's case, looked down with alarm), some wizards decided to do something about it. A dragon-like automaton made of wire, canvas, brass pipes, and three terrified undergraduates, rose from Loxdon College and pointed its mechanical head towards Balchezazar and belched a billowing cloud of flame.

"It's a bird!"

"It's insane!"

"It's... oh, that's not good," Tom said, as Balchezazar, with serpentine grace, coiled its head around and fired a blast of light at the construct. The beam neatly severed a wing, and the automaton plunged into the River Burl.

Full of territorial pride and draconic madness, Balchezarar performed another pass over the city, then landed on the Iron Spike, coiled its tail around the spiked top, and roared defiance at the world.

"What now, oh wise wizard?" Doyle said, pointing at the glinting purple scales visible through the window. "There's a dragon on your tower."

"I know," Tom said darkly. 

"What if it decides to stay?"

"I know."

"What a revolution. One dragon, one vote," Dr. Hartwell added helpfully. "Semper fidelis tyrannosaurus," he added in Foreign.

"I'll go have a word with it," Tom said. He opened hatch and stuck his torso out of the tower.

"Um, excuse me? Balchezazar the Azure?" Tom said.

"They are all looking at me," the dragon said. "I can feel it. How wonderful it is to be feared. How splendid it is to rule."

"That was something I was going to mention, your, err, your magnificientness," Tom said. "Most humans are currently gathered around the Parliament of Endon. It's that building over there. You see? It is also full of, uh, of our rulers. So if you wanted to be seen and feared..."

Balchezazar glared at Tom, sniffed the air, and blinked slowly. "I see. I see. Yes!" With a single mighty wingbeat, the dragon leapt off the tower and fell towards Parliament. 

The beam the dragon fired started off purple, flashed into an eye-searing purple, and ended as an an almost invisible fold in the air. The wards around Parliament held for a few seconds, casting orange and green shadows across the city and shedding glyphs like sparks from a forge. Then, with a coronal burst of raw magic, they collapsed, giving Balchezazar a clear and unimpeded path to land on Parliament's roof.

"Oh look," Lizzy said, "the cathedral's spire is red now."

Tom swung the Thaumic Telescope over to the second tallest building in Endon. "Gods and devils! Look at the fields! That looks like a teleport circle."

As Tom spoke, Parliament exploded. Dr. Hartwell saw Balchezazar silhouetted in the blast, but the light, the hideous squirming light of several tons of oil of azide igniting, shredded the dragon, Parliament, the Coppers, the barricades... and carried a wave of dust and noise towards the Iron Spike.

When the dust cleared, pockets of fire dotted the city. The River Burl had burst its banks, rushing around the lip of the crater of fused glass and stone that occupied Parliament's former site. Pemsing Prison gently and neatly collapsed like a puzzle box unfolding, and every other prison in Endon shed walls, bars, and gates. The spire of the Auld Grey Cathedral was no longer tinted.

Endon was wounded, but the city was alive. Angry, confused, not entirely sober, but alive. The noonday sun revealed a city revolving on every axis, and, as is usually the case with such revolutions, not enjoying it. 

Who will rise in this revolution, and who will be flung into darkness by centripetal force? Who blew up Parliament, and why?