The four Dworgs were being held, and I use the term gently, by General Tritsk. He had set them down in a small adjoining sitting room, and was pacing back in forth in front of them like a worried hen. His medals clattered and jangled as he stalked, head panning side to side as he studied each of his detainees.
For their part, the Dworgs sat calmly, quietly, and patiently. They turned to look at me as I entered the room and walked to the General’s side.
Of course, as with all journeys, the will to travel did not aid us in actually getting there. Mr. Porist said so almost immediately: “What shall we do next? We cannot go anywhere for some time, as Lord Pulkwark’s Galaship will not stop until it has reached its berth, as I doubt our host would be willing to lend us a lifeboat. And even then, the coming war will surely cause chartering a new vessel to be quite difficult, if not impossible.
The Galaship Ruskinolam was a mighty vessel, large enough to entertain hundreds of the most exacting and particular lords and ladies from across the Myriad Worlds. Different wings on different decks had their own climates, designed to keep the different races comfortable, or uncomfortable, as their proclivities leaned.
For those who found the average, or should I perhaps say median climate tolerable enough, or perhaps had some method of preventing the worst of their adverse affects to such atmosphere, gathered in the central ballroom.
How glum me and Mr. Porist must have looked, standing on the Docks of the Grand Junction, watching the vessels come and go.
We had tried to return to Lady Quixtactictle’s residence to say goodbye, only to find the way barred by officers of the Anointed Bulwark, who with their badges and truncheons explained in no uncertain detail why we were not allowed re-entry. Now we stood, sullen and sad, aside the docks, waiting for available passage on any of the vessels that traveled to and from the Grand Junction.
The events that spanned our delightful reunion at Lady Quixtactictle’s mansion, and the remarkably less delightful environs of the local Constabulary are not worthy of report. Instead, allow me to explain what happened just before myself and Mr. Porist were released on our own recognizance, as they are far more pertinent to this particular poem.
Once again, my dear Captain Sir Venriki de’Laisey was eager to reacquaint himself with my company.
I must take the opportunity to applaud Lady Quixtactictle’s taste in servants, as not a one behaved anything less than perfectly properly. Indeed, it is difficult to answer the door when it has been blown off its hinges, but the tall butler managed, with her firm back and graceful limbs, to provide some measure of propriety to the sudden and violent assault on our host’s mansion.
The assailants, unfortunately, were not nearly as respectful of her efforts as we were.
Mr Porist and I then followed Lady Quixtactictle to her mansion — a term of endearment in this case, as the Grand Junction was simply not large enough to contain a residence of the size people of Lady Quixtactictle’s status are accustomed to. As such, Lady Quixtactictle’s domicile on the third level of the Grand Junction was merely fifteen rooms large, and somewhat humble in terms of decoration and extravagance.
Oh, how suitably named is the Grand Junction; a place of a thousand wonders and delights. From all across the Myriad Worlds come travelers seeking new lands on which to place their feet, free from the confines of their old lands and cultures. They mix freely with each other like masters of their own destinies. Exotic Foods are exchanged along with foreign coin. Soft steel is traded for hard silk. Songs are sung, and even if the words are all wrong and the tune is not right, the song is clearly the same.
“Oh?” Mr. Porist turned to look at his own shoulder as best he could. “And what manner is that?”
At Mr. Porist’s request, the Twist did leap up into the air, and perform a most magnificent spin before landing once more on the wooden deck of the barge. Darting about like a nervous frog, the Twist did tug at ropes and push at wheels, performing no end of complex navigation that was quite beyond my understanding.
I awoke to the sight of a childish face staring down at me. The face was small, kind, and unashamed. Wound about with colored cloth, the skin was covered with slanted parallel lines, a strange scar or tattoo I had never seen before.
I sat up, most uncomfortably, as my various limbs had chosen to become quite stiff and sore. The face moved backwards, and in motion were the scars made clear: they were no tattoos but breaks in the papery skin, shifting back and forth as the little thing danced away, half like a child and half like a dancing ribbon tied the end of a stick.
