#consorting with devils

Your Restless Saker Falcon returns with a message. The paper is wrapped around a tiny phial. A number of souls rattle angrily inside - philosophers', by their glassy ring. And the paper - tiny transcriptions of infernal contracts. You note the names, in letters small enough to fit under your nail. And what's that in your falcon's other talon? Ah. A devil's brassy eyeball, still hot from its blood. That explains the bird's smug expression. The Brass Embassy may not be pleased about this.

'Well, I used to 'ave a burrow in the building wot eventually became the Brass Embassy. Afore they set the demons into our nests, I heard a few juicy things. I saw which way the cat was turnin' so I legged it. I reckons it's safest to hang around with him these days. Those devils don't half hold a grudge.'

The brass horn sounds. A cry, a desperate flight. A half-sobbed appeal for mercy. And then they're onto him and it's over.

The Duchess puts her tea cup down very slowly and turns her yellow, slit-pupilled eyes on you. 'I have always been taught, since I was a little girl, that it is ill-mannered to speak of infernal influences at formal occasions.' A Siamese sitting on a sideboard hisses at you.

Mr Huffam sits heavily on a park bench and takes out a cigar. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. 'I'm aware of the Bishop of Southwark's plan. I... Well... You understand, it is not my place to publicly comment on it. It would not be in the interest of the city. Who would concern themselves with such a story? Who, indeed? It would be better to draw a cloak over the whole proceedings. A black cloak. Black as the Bazaar's own midnight.

The Obdurate Stallion...

Although you are a sinning wretch, I have need of your skills. Find me in the Fourth Coil of the Labyrinth of Tigers, before BEELZEBUB CLAIMS YOUR SOUL.