Occasional Misadventures in Fallen London

Over breakfast, after they had once more discussed maintenance, the topic turned to the matter of remains.

“Have you, ah… discarded it?”

“Never!” Mlle Lily squeaked indignantly. “I kept e-everything I had to take, I thought you… Miss S____, could you get the box?”

The box which Inspector R____-H______ retrieved was, at a first glance, reassuringly light; further thought rendered this, in fact, concerning.

Nevertheless, it was satisfactory to the Inspector. “It is only proper,” he pronounced, though in a low voice, “that sixty-one years of service should be concluded with some manner of recognition.” Yet here he fell into thought, mechanically stretching his fingers. For what was the proper way to proceed?

“Madame l’Inspecteur,” he began after some time, “have you not the contacts at the University? Perhaps this might serve to further science.”

Inspector R____-H______ sipped her tea rather hurriedly. “Sir… all they’ll learn from that is that you shouldn’t do that again.” After another, more thoughtful sip, she spoke once more. “Do you… should it be buried?”

“The regulations, they concern themselves primarily with the unlawful interment of the living. As to spiritual matters… I doubt there is the soil that is proper in this wretched cave regardless.”

“We could-”

Here a familiar knock interrupted the discussion. “Enter,” called the Inspector.

Yet the sight that met him was unexpected. The lanky, pale young woman in the still too large overcoat that formed the vanguard of the group was within the ordinary (though the sling in which her arm was fixed was not), but the three others accompanying her seemed quite out of place on solid ground, let alone below it, and they appeared to wait for her word..

“Shouldn’t have missed,” began Lieutenant Lucie, in place of a greeting. “Almost got it. Then they got my arm.” A grimace illustrated what her words could not.

“You have recovered?” It was concern for a capable officer, no doubt, that drove the Inspector to reply so quickly.

“Stable.” She gestured somewhat aimlessly, revealing in the process an additional joint in the wounded arm. “Inconvenient.”

“Had you come only to apologize, you would have done so alone. What is it that is the matter?”

Here Lieutenant Lucie remained silent not out of efficiency, but an evident lack of words. Behind her, the others - Gaider’s Mourn’s hardiest - shuffled; the heavyset brawler who’d been first to meet any boarders now busied himself examining his pale, cracked knuckles, while the wiry gun-captain who’d cheerfully competed with Lieutenant Lucie for precision ran their dark hand over their close-shaved head. It was the fourth who finally found words - the Airborne Bosun, late of the Hecuba. “There's something we thought you'd want to see, Sir.” Her voice was steady, yet she held her cap so tightly her knuckles shone pale against her dark skin.

Inspector R____-H______ walked with them to the Wastes; by some silent agreement, she bore a spade, while the Inspector carried the small box with him.

They spoke little as they made their way, and they moved at an efficient pace. When the bosun, her face bright with a smile, turned to the Inspector and announced they had arrived, he found himself briefly obligated to turn away, until his breathing had steadied.

"It took us a while to find her," said the Bosun. "But we knew she'd be here."

She needed to say no more; though little was left of the Revolveress, he knew the ship in an instant. The prow was splintered and gone, the remainder charred; and yet it seemed to the Inspector that the bridge was as he had left it.

As he surveyed the ship one final time, Inspector R____-H______broke away from the group, striding deeper into the graveyard of airships; only when his assessment was concluded did she return, her hands streaked with soot and crushed glim.

“A most exemplary ship,” the Inspector pronounced. “Solidly built, with a capable crew.”

They stood in silence for another moment; then, the four turned to leave.

“Un moment.” He measured out the paces until he stood where the Revolveress’ prow once had been, then exchanged a nod with Inspector R____-H______. With archaeological precision, she began to dig.

“Sir?” inquired Lieutenant Lucie when, after a brief prayer, he had laid the box to rest.

At last, he was greeted no longer by searing brightness, but the warm glow of beeswax candles, and the rather agitated voice of Mlle Lily.

“Oh, thank goodness, finally- stop doing that to yourself!” Here he expected the speech to be punctuated by the sharp press of a paw, but no such thing occurred. “You could have- you could have- I worked all night to put you together-”

“Day,” interjected Inspector R____-H______ quietly. “You worked the day too.”

This seemed to break the rat’s thread of thought entirely, and the Inspector took the opportunity to ascertain her state. Her white fur yet betrayed small specks of blood, but save for a bandage on her tail, no obvious source was to be seen. “You are well?”

“You,” Mlle Lily snapped, “aren’t listening. You were supposed to- it wasn’t supposed to make it worse- you were supposed to be harder to hurt but all it does is make you get hurt more-”

Here Inspector R____-H______ broke in again. “Tea’s ready soon, Miss Lily, and I’ll need someone to carry the cups if I’m to get the mushroom broth as well. Do you want to, or…?”

The rat promptly hopped down from the bed to accompany the other officer, and the Inspector could hear them speak in low voices.

As he shifted to take in his surroundings, his body protested, yet his pulse remained steady. Doubtless, then, he was healing. He had been brought to his lodgings in Old Newgate - proximity to the site of the battle, then, must have been crucial, for the choice of beeswax over foxfire suggested a need for truer light, and thus more complex procedures, ill suited for the darkness of the prison. The cell bore the signs of continued presence; his colleague’s estimate of the time, then, must have been correct.

Further deductions were interrupted by a muffled bark by the door, and the Inspector had only half attempted to rise when there came a call of “One moment!” and Inspector R____-H______, bearing a teapot and a bowl of broth, bounded out of the adjacent cell that served as a kitchen. It could not have been so great an exertion, the dull ache in his ribs notwithstanding, yet the single look she shot him brooked no argument.

No sooner had she opened the door than Chiot charged into the room, depositing a basket of provisions with great care before proceeding to the Inspector’s bedside. The bloodhound’s wagging tail and searching glances served to demonstrate his admirable restraint in not leaping upon the bed, yet as the Inspector was about to remind Chiot no order to this effect had been given, he was presented with a cup of green tea and a bowl of strong mushroom broth.

Both tea and broth were excellent, and the Inspector ate and drank slowly so as to savor the taste. Yet Mlle Lily’s attempts to aid him must have distracted him, for it was only when he was close to finishing the second bowl of broth when he realized it had been refilled.

“Madame l’Inspecteur, you-”

“- didn’t make too much after all, did I? You know how it is, sir, dreadful hard to judge when you’re cooking for guests.” She raised her own bowl, as if submitting it as evidence.

“More tea?” Mlle Lily skittered off without waiting for the response. Scarcely a moment later, there came a flash of viric light from the kitchen, then a yelp. “This… this… it’s lovely they’re sending cherries, but can’t you tell them to knock?” The rat returned, bearing the offending item, and hastily scrambled up on the Inspector’s bed once more. “Later.”

The tea’s reviving properties notwithstanding, the Inspector felt his eyelids grow heavy. Finding his pocket watch (as well as his remaining attire save for a nightshirt) absent, he cast a glance about the room to determine whether this was appropriate.

Inspector R____-H______ caught his gaze. “I suppose that’s a bit too many candles if you need to sleep, sir.”

“Hardly. I am merely resting my eyes. …There was the sunlight.” He turned towards the wall. “They make it far too bright these days.”

“I’ll douse some of the candles, then. So your eyes can get some rest.”

The room dimmed. Soon, there were no further sounds beyond his companions’ even breaths and the steady ticking of what no doubt was his watch somewhere nearby, and at last the Inspector found sleep.

He was much restored in the morning: the dull ache had dulled further, and he could once more make out the contours of the room even in the darkness of Old Newgate. There was no light save for a faint blue shine, emanating from what seemed to be a point upon the silhouette of Inspector R____-H______ by the desk. She was not in the habit of glowing; he should inquire as to the cause later. Yet as he had evidently been the first to wake, he resolved first to prepare breakfast. It was only proper.

He rose, noiselessly as he could, noting in the process with some satisfaction that the leg that had begun to trouble him since the Horticultural Exhibition no longer did so - it had, he reasoned, been an excellent opportunity to set it anew, and it had healed cleanly on this occasion.

The room had swayed but briefly, and the Inspector’s pulse had remained steady, so he decided he was fit to attend matters of propriety. He found his uniform neatly folded on a chair - the shirt had evidently been a lost cause, but the coat and trousers had been salvaged -, gathered all that was necessary and stepped into the kitchen to set to changing and shaving.

He had come no further than lighting a foxfire candle and removing his nightshirt, the latter once more to the complaint of his ribs, when his attention was arrested by a peculiar sight: sutures, following the path the splinter of the Revolveress must have torn - a path that, if the Inspector was any judge of his own vitality, should have healed unaided. He had hardly begun to examine them when his eyes fastened upon a silver gleam in the center of his chest.

At first, he took it for a button of his ill-used coat, fused to flesh in the haste of healing. Yet surely, he thought, Mlle Lily would not let it remain when she had been so diligent with her needlework? With the aid of his shaving mirror, he deciphered the writing upon what he saw to be a latch: “With Joy, from the Hill.”

“Are you… is everything alright?” came the cautious voice of Mlle Lily. “I told you to be careful, it’s too soon…”

Before he had opportunity to respond, the rat had already skittered to his side.

He fixed her with a level gaze. “Explain.”

“You kept trying to… it kept trying to beat, and it couldn’t, it was just pieces, wearing itself out faster than you could put it together again, and… I had s-something already, it was just a first try, the next one was going to be so much better at winding itself but there wasn’t the time…”

“It is functional.”

He had intended it as a statement, yet she appeared to have taken it as a question. “It’ll keep going for a week without winding, if you’re careful. A few days at least.” Her voice had steadied now she was focused upon explaining her craft. “I wound it just y-yesterday, but… it’s better if I show you how it works before you need it.”

The darkness remained even as his senses returned to him. The boat swayed as though under the weight of dozens. Yet as the Inspector strained to see, all remained dark.

All at once it seemed to lighten, but far beyond what little light there ought to have been on that slow silent river, far beyond what the Inspector could bear. With the light came what must have been the memory of the pain, rolling over and through him like a great wave.

He could not have said when it passed, yet when it did, he found himself alone but for the Boatman.

Then he perceived movement in the corner of the boat. The form was human, yet the same could not quite be said of the movements, and so he recognized at once the Starved Lithologer.

The Inspector’s voice was rough still, and so he managed no other greeting than “The city?”

The Starved Lithologer’s answer came with a weary smile and a voice far clearer than before. “I cannot speak for London. I arrived here slightly before you. I saw your attempt. I cannot yet say whether it achieved anything.”

There was a rattle of a laugh, and then the Boatman spoke, two words alike to the slamming of coffin lids: “I can.”

As the Inspector peered into the pinpricks of the Boatman’s eyes, searching for the meaning of those words, it seemed to him they grew, and grew brighter, until all once more was light and pain. Was this, then, to be the answer? Was this the sun, the laws of nature once again asserting their control? Surely even these might be served by the application of common sense - if anything remained of the city, did he not still have a duty, was he not still required to perform it?

The light receded, and he was once more peering into the Boatman’s face. “I know what it looks like when a city ends. It looks worse than this from here. And better,” the Boatman added after a moment.

Starved Men poured upon the deck of the Revolveress. They seemed a vast mass, raining down upon the airship and tearing through its crew as a great glim-fall would upon the Zee. The Inspector strode through the confusion, prying the boarders from his gunners and flinging them aside, heedless of any peril to himself. It was the duty of an officer of the Law to protect the citizens of this wretched city.

He worked tirelessly. The assault seemed to stretch into eternity, even as time moved all too swiftly upon the Roof. Yet all they required was a single shot, if that shot struck true.

There was a terrible grinding, as of stone on stone. The Starved Men howled in triumph.

The Revolveress’ guns roared in reply. One shell struck near the mark, but before another could follow, a Starved Man had set upon the gunner.

The ship bucked and strained, struggling to gain height. The Starved Men had breached the lower decks, but it mattered little now, if only they had one more shot.

The ceiling parted. A thin thread of light, bright and warm and deadly, pierced through the rock. Yet something - the Inspector could not tell what - blocked its progress for precious moments. The Revolveress might have her shot.

A sharp tear came from above, then a hiss. The gas envelope had been breached. The Revolveress had moments.

The Inspector acted without a thought. It was the duty of an officer of the Law to protect the citizens. He cuffed himself to the helm in one swift motion, so that his body might hold the course even if the sunlight took him. In the moments that remained, he pushed the engine to its limits, and further yet, carrying the ship above the eye. The engines screamed like some great wounded beast, and there was a final snap.

The envelope failed. The ship would not.

The Revolveress descended upon the eye, even as the sunlight tore through her. Bathed in brightness, the Inspector held the course. It was the duty of an officer of the Law to protect.

He felt the impact more than he felt any pain, a hammer-blow to the chest, and he knew not what had struck him - sunlight, or the ship itself in its last throes. Then he tasted salt and copper, and saw the dark silhouette of splintered wood jut out from his chest.