Novels

“Well then,” Mx. Image shuffled about, looking to and fro. “We are, indeed, in the Sibilants, yes? And yet I have heard countless tales of its nature. Indeed, entering the Sibilants is as easy as opening the door, but leaving again, well…”

“There is no escape,” Sir Juhrooz nodded. “Bound about by sinew and custom, once you have entered the Sibilants, it is here that you will die.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” I assured my companions. “Why, there are at least seven poems regarding the Sibilants in the Guild’s libraries, and how could those poems exist if their creators had not left again? I myself have met several people in the course of my life who have detailed the internals of this macabre domicile, and I am certain I didn’t meet them here. One might as well say that Gnatted Hollow truly is invisible. True, there way out may not be as obvious as the way in, but I am certain some method exists. We must simply find it.”

I hope you have never seen the Sibilants. I hope you have never lived in nor traveled past the Sibilants and its darkened halls and empty rooms. I have no doubt that there are those who love living among the bones of the long dead, but I cannot imagine what kind of beings they might be. They are certainly not of my ilk.

I, for my part, had never set foot behind the ivory doors that lead to the hollow bones of the Underheel, and so I was quite excited, perhaps even eager, to walk the horrid hallways of the Sibilants and meet the dark denizens therein. Foolish? Perhaps. Reckless? Most certainly.

So we returned to the Grand Junction, reveling all the while. The Dworgs were delivered to the local authorities without delay once the Galaship had docked once more. They marched in single file with their stone faces held high, their twig-beards clattering as they walked. They were met by a contingent of the Anointed Bulwark along with a veritable garment-rack of shackles, irons, chains, and cuffs.

At the front of the vanguard was the chiseled nose of my dear Captain de’Laisey.

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. “Forgive me, General,” I began most politely, “but I would like to speak with these gentlefolk alone, for a moment.”

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. The room was taller than most trees I have seen, and wide enough to require two chamber-orchestras at either end to ensure that the reveling attendees did not miss the subtle overtones of the chosen music. The skill required for both orchestras to play in perfect unison was worthy of note. I am always impressed by such displays of devotion to ones’ passion and craft.

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 could only imagine how long he had searched for me, after realizing he had let me slip through his fingers once before without so much as a nightcap.

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. Smoke and light poured into the dining hall, the sound of metal and gunpowder filled my ears. There was a great shouting of many different voices, and it was only after I gripped Mr. Porist about the middle that I managed to shake him from his shocked stupor and drag him underneath the table.

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.