Magic World and the Warhammer Old World (21.05.24)

At the end of the last session, the party was split, with some inside the caves the others hidden outside. Due to player absence, and after discussion with the player, I ruled that the missing character had run through the woods as a distraction, leading the Orcs on a chase, so the rest of the party could deal with the Ogre threat.

So how did this pan out?

The characters holed-up in the caves spent some time searching the Ogres' loot and came away with some useful items.

Alone in the tunnels, another PC, Eckbert, heard chanting coming from another cave. Upon investigation, he saw an Ogre performing some sort of summoning ritual. Some good stealth rolls allowed him to retreat and alert the rest of the team.

After some negotiation, the party attacked and killed the Ogre sorcerer. Were the problems over? Of course not!

Three more bad-guys, hench-ogres of the sorcerer, were asleep in a nearby cave. Attempted stealth rolls, to explore deeper into the cave complex, were failed and the Ogres woke up. A large melee broke out and the party were eventually victorious, though somewhat beaten up.

After more looting and negotiation, the players decided go back to their start point, the town of Zvorak, to rest, recuperate and spend some of their loot.

 Magic World and Warhammer Old World

Here's a brief rundown of the characters involved:

• Steve the Cobbler: A skilled craftsman and respected local businessman, known for producing footwear of excellent quality.
• Lady True: A hero of old tales, missing and presumed dead for years, who reappeared in the Border Princes. Modelled on Brienne of Tarth in Game of Thrones. Reputed to be "a bit strange".
• Warrick the War-drummer: A Dwarf bard, who specialises in loud drums and raucous songs. He uses drumsticks topped with Orc heads and a beer barrel as a drum.
• Eckbert Almudsen: An ageing and somewhat absent-minded astrologer who was "directed by the stars" to come to the Border Princes. Has some magical talent and a few spells.
• Aeryn, Keeper of the Light: An Elven sorceress of some skill and lots of ambition.
• Remi the thief: An Estalian rogue, master of the glib tongue, scouting and bargaining.
• Raynor the Barbarian: A Norscan (fantasy Viking) warrior, the sole survivor of a mercenary unit who holds a grudge against Orcs.

Where these characters will end up is beyond me as a GM to predict.

Magic World and Warhammer Old World

OK, here's a brief rundown of the campaign setting and the characters involved.

The Old World of GW's Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay is a pseudo-medieval/renaissance fantasy setting where we have analogues of Europe, among which are:

• The Empire: Late Renaissance Germany
• Bretonnia: High Middle Ages France
• Tilea: Renaissance Italy
• Estalia: Spain in the time of el Cid (and, for giggles, the Inquisition)

Other lands - Kislev, Lustria, Araby, Nihon and Cathay among others - are much further afield but could come into play.

The campaign starts in The Border Princes, a land of largely-lawless petty kingdoms, independent city-states, ruined towns and lots of Orcs and worse creatures. You can find out more here: 

https://warhammerfantasy.fandom.com/wiki/Border_Princes

As a personal note, I'd suggest bookmarking https://warhammerfantasy.fandom.com/ because it's absolutely fascinating.

In the next post, I'll be adding a few details about the characters.

 Magic World meets the Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay Old World

Yep, you read it right. I'm running a campaign set in GW's WFRP Old World using Magic World as the rules. I'll be adding later versions of Warhammer, Stormbringer and Magic World lore and rules as we go along. I have 7 players and we've had two sessions so far.

The first was chaotic as the characters got to know each other, learned of a "legendary hero" who might be able to help with the situation and travelled to the hero's village to ask for her assistance.

Things settled down a bit in session two as the party concentrated on "the mission". It helps that most of the players are experienced wargamers and roleplayers; one has real-life military experience. Between them, they were able to formulate a plan.

It's a military truism that "no plan survives first contact with the enemy." And this proved accurate. They're now holed up in a cave complex, the lair of the Orcs and Ogres who have been causing the local problems, and the party is split, with some inside the caves and some outside.

Would you like to know more? If so, stay tuned and check back here when I update the thread on Reddit.

THE SCHOONER PART 1

THE SCHOONER PART 1

Based upon a story suggestion from Harris Burdick

Written for Tim Wilson's online class in summer 2021

*

He swung his lantern three times and slowly the schooner appeared.

The smell of brine and the stink of pitch were cloying in Lucy's nostrils. Wide-eyed, she watched the schooner ease alongside the rain-slicked quay.  The girl took in the smooth, graceful lines of the ship. The planks of its hull and the deck railings were carved with sea creatures, ancient, modern and legendary. The sails were drawn up the masts, though no crew worked on the deck.

"What is this?" she asked.

Captain Troy smiled down at her. "This, Miss, is your new home."

*

Lucy hefted her valise, a battered, brown leather bag, its brass lock engraved with the initials RC, and struggled to maintain her balance against the weight. All her worldly possessions had been packed, at great speed and with little care, into the case before she had left her home under the guardianship of Captain Troy. She remembered waving goodbye to the family home, blinking back unladylike tears, as the Hansom cab rattled over the cobblestone streets. No-one had been standing on the steps to return her farewell.

"I can take that, if you like," offered Troy.

"That would be very kind of you, Captain," replied Lucy. Her eyes widened as Troy took the valise in a hand the size of a frying pan and she looked up at this giant of a man. Head and shoulders taller than she, the breadth of his chest and shoulders magnified by the heavy, woollen, brass-buttoned coat. Sitting squarely on his head was a matching cap, the brass badge of HMS Cornelius shining like gold, even in the gloom of the evening.

"We can dispense with the pleasantries, if you like." Troy's voice rumbled from his broad chest, like a storm rehearsing its opening cacophony of thunder.

Manners, etiquette, decorum and deportment had been drummed into Lucy from a very early age. Her mother's and governesses' lessons, reinforced with a wooden ruler rapped across her knuckles or legs, were as natural to her as breathing. She could not turn her back on a decade of training. 

"I think that would be unseemly, Captain. Do you not?"

"As you wish, Miss Collingwood. If you will follow me, I'll show you to your cabin."

*

The gangplank swayed as they walked from the quay, across the dark water, to the deck of the ship. Lucy, despite her memories of stinging calves, handled the precarious walk with confident steps and a straight back. 

She caught a strange expression on the Captain's bearded face. It was somewhere between pride and contentment. He raised his arm and Lucy grasped it as she took the last step down to the deck.

"Your cabin is in the fo'c'sle. That's the front of the ship, Miss," he added as Lucy began to walk towards the rear.

"Oh," Lucy said. "I suppose I shall have to learn all this maritime terminology if this is to be my home." She walked towards the forecastle of the ship. "Tell me, Captain, what is her name? I assume you refer to the ship as a female."

"You're learning already," said Troy with a smile. "Indeed, I do call the ship 'her' or 'she'."

He fumbled under his heavy coat for a key and went to the door of the central cabin of the three built under the fo'c'sle. The lock clicked and he pushed open the heavy oak door. "Welcome, Miss, to The Lady Catherine."

Lucy had a glimpse of the room beyond before the Captain, with the slow, dangerous grace of an iceberg, drifted inside and dropped her valise onto the bunk. Then he turned and handed her the key.

"I would most strongly suggest, Miss, that you get into the habit of locking your door every night."

Lucy stared up at the hulking Captain, her brow furrowed with the unspoken question of "Why?"

Troy noticed the girl's quizzical expression but the time for answers would come later. He changed the subject. "You'll find water, soap and towels in your cabin. Feel free to refresh yourself and change if you wish. Dinner will be at eight bells. That's about an hour from now. My cabin is in the sterncastle." He smiled down at the girl and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You can't miss it."

*

The door clicked shut and Lucy could hear the Captain's footsteps recede as he strode across the deck.

She leaned with her back against the door and examined the key. About three inches long and made of blackened iron, the bow was circular and modelled the Moon, cast with pits and ridges, representing the lunar seas, mountains and those supposed cities the scientists of the age had identified. She wondered if mankind would ever visit those cities. Lucy traced the stem of the key with her fingertip and reached the bit. Chillingly, this was shaped like a skull, with hollow orbits and uneven teeth.

Lucy stared into the skull's eyes, lost in thought as she considered the Captain's advice. Why? she wondered. What was so dangerous on the ship that necessitated such precautions? Tapping the key against the palm of her hand, Lucy began pacing the length of her cabin.

There was little room and an uncomfortable lack of headspace. She narrowly missed her head striking a ceiling beam and had to deftly dodge the lantern hanging there. Lucy sat down on her bunk - a far cry from the four-poster she was used to - and stared at the bare wooden walls. Aside from the cot, there was a small table which was hinged to fold up flat against the wall, a dresser with a curious lip around the edge, and a chest of dark wood, banded with iron.

Her vision blurred as tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Lucy drew a shuddering breath, her chin trembling as a wave of helplessness washed over her. The enormity of her situation hit Lucy as she struggled against the sobs building in her throat.

Her life - comfortable, sociable and genteel - was gone. She was an orphan, now, left in the care of an enigmatic, and frankly frightening, sea captain whose motives she could not fathom. Home was a ship that had likely been built before the turn of the century, cramped, unsanitary and reeking of brine and tar. And her possible destination? Unknown.

A single tear rolled down Lucy's cheek.

BANG! 

CATHERINE PART 1

 CATHERINE PART 1

Lady Catherine Fox, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of a small, independent nation, is one of my favourite role-playing game characters ever. I played her in a Vampire: Dark Ages campaign many years ago. She strives towards good behaviour but often fails due to her own temperament, temptation and the actions of others. Catherine learns her lessons, however, sometimes the hard way.

***

The bedchamber door, as ever, creaked as it opened.

Lady Catherine Fox stared at the brocaded, heavy velvet canopy of her four-poster bed. The curtains surrounding the bed were drawn and prevented her seeing her visitor but Catherine knew who was there. Her lady in waiting, Dame Mella Kalsten. Catherine heard a silver tray being placed on the low table at the foot of her bed. The delicate chink of fine china and the rattle of obscenely expensive silverware were as familiar to Catherine as her own heartbeat.

Soft footsteps padded around the room and Catherine could follow, almost predict, their path from the door, to the table, to the window. The next sound was the metallic screech as the brass-ringed curtains covering the window – correction, arrow slit, Catherine reminded herself – slid along the wrought iron rail as the curtains were opened. There was a polite cough, followed by “Good morning, milady.” The young woman sighed inwardly as her day began in the same way as it had for the last ten years of her life.

“Good morning to you, Dame Mella,” Catherine answered, as politely as she could manage. Which, the young woman conceded, was not very polite. Her head ached and something else, a feeling of guilt, gnawed in her heart.

She had pushed herself too hard the previous night, reading by candlelight until the late moonrise had peeked through the arrow slit and brought a silvery glow to her work. Catherine had dusted her vanity table with salt and drawn a stylised picture of a fractured heart in the pure white crystals. Into one half of the heart she had written “E”, for Erik, while in the other half she had scattered shredded rose petals, representing, of course, herself. The petals had been insanely expensive as roses were not flowering at this time of year and she had had them secretly imported from the southern lands where Summer still blossomed.

Catherine remembered reading and rereading the book she had borrowed from her mother's collection. It had called for the blood of the unrequited lover to be spilled onto the petals. She tested the edge of the knife against her thumb and balked as the steel scraped against her skin. Catherine had gasped as she pressed the blade harder but could not bring herself to draw her own blood. Instead, she had spat in a most unladylike fashion and mixed her spittle into the petals. She had tried to clear her mind and meditate on the thought of Erik, the tall, strong, red-haired Kal-Pyrran trader who frequently visited the market. Meditate was a rather flattering term, Catherine realised. Brooded would be more accurate, particularly when her thought strayed to the sight of Erik with one of the town's more costly doxies. She forced the dark thoughts of vengance from her mind and sprinkled more salt over the crack between the two halves of the fractured heart. With the tip of her finger, Catherine traced a spiral out from the centre of the heart, mixing the petals and spit with Erik's rune.

“Make us one,” she had whispered but in the back of her mind the thought had risen unbidden: and poison his whore's heart.

When the spell was complete, Catherine had cleaned her vanity table and retired to bed, perhaps only two hours before cock-crow. She had slept fitfully and nightmares had haunted what little sleep she had.

Now Catherine could hear Dame Mella bustling about her room. She heard her wardrobe being opened and the rustle of silks and velvet as the older woman sorted out clothing for her day. Catherine knew she had the right to order her lady in waiting from her rooms and to take her breakfast, ablutions and dressing in solitude. She had exercised this right just once, three years ago on the day of her sixteenth birthday, and the scolding her father had given her scared Catherine even now.

Lady Catherine Fox swallowed her pride, her fear and her guilt, opened the curtains and swung herself out of bed.

CAREER CHANGE PART 1

 CAREER CHANGE PART 1

A piece on the theme of work

From Tim Wilson's Wednesday class in 2021

 

The train rattled, squeaked and juddered, metal wheels on steel rails, through the oldest part of the already ancient underground network, racing along the tunnels as if being hunted by some ravenous predator. Only two passengers were in this car, unsurprising given the lateness of the hour, and one of those was unconscious in a puddle of vomit

It had been a tough week and Max was glad it was Friday. Not that the weekend meant much in this day and age: he still had a metric fuck-tonne of out of hours work to do by Monday or his boss would go batshit crazy. While Max's degrees in Data Science and Machine Learning were first class in all ways, his boss was a Taskmaster, a limited-function Artificial Intelligence program, that generated projects and work-orders. Max half-smiled, half-grimaced at the irony. He had considered hacking the Taskmaster and giving it a nicer personality but decided that would be noticed too easily by other staffers who took their orders from the machine. 

"Hi, Max," said the advertising plasma-screen in front of him. Something, probably his phone, had pinged the advert his location and recent CyberNet search history. "What can I do for you this evening?" the advert burbled. "Maybe a nice bottle of wine? Or I could send you a masseuse. It would be very discreet." Pictures of merlot, chianti and smiling Thai girls in skimpy white towels scrolled across the screen.

"Off," said Max.

"Well, if you're sure," replied the advertising screen in hurt tones. "Or maybe, I can arrange a test drive of this." The image of a Ferrari 900, one of the last petrol-driven supercars on the streets today, and the subject of one of Max's Virtual Reality games, roared into view.

"Off," Max repeated, growing testy with the smart-system behind the screen.

The advert blitzed static for an instant then faded to a little white dot before powering off. Its red standby LED indicated it was waiting for Max to change his mind and order something, literally anything was available for delivery, from one of the thousands of online shopping portals connected to the CyberNet. Max was left with a strange feeling that he'd upset the AI. If so, that was a new feature, one he might have to replicate in his own projects.

Garish neon displays - advertising girls, drink, semi-legal drugs and dubious Virtual Reality experiences - greeted Max as he left the station. He dashed through the rain and neon to the taxi rank, picked a pale blue, driverless ride, paid by thumbprint linked to his bank account, and settled in for the drive to his single-room apartment.

"Off," he grunted at the advertising screen set in the dashboard. The words 'Suit Yourself' flashed onto the screen then faded away.

***

"You could make a living doing that kind of thing," said Bo. 

Max thought about it. "I suppose I could," he replied, "but it would be illegal."

"There's a lot of illegal stuff going on in the world right now. It's not as if you'd be making things worse." Bo paused a moment. "You might even make things a bit better."

Max finished the last of his beer, grimaced - it was warm and flat - then went to the fridge to retrieve a couple more bottles. He handed one to Bo and thumped down in front of his computer. Three more headlines scrolled across his newsfeed, like an old-style ticker tape:

 ++ A joint project between NASA Inc and ESA GmbH revealed plans to colonise Mars. ++ Amazon rainforest has been depleted by 10% area since the start of the millennium. ++ Apex Sciences report trials of three new anti-cancer and anti-viral treatments to begin in 2035. ++

While Max liked to stay informed, he knew that those three reports had been sanitised by the news outlets and, statistically, contained only about 33% truth.

Bo downed half of her beer and peered over Max's shoulder. "See," she said. "Run your algorithm over the Apex and Amazon stories."

Max clicked a few links and typed

./connect --source="Apex" --source="Amazon" --scan --collate

in a window made to look like an old-school green-on-black computer terminal. Max liked the old stuff. He whistled at the screen as the download time started ticking down from an estimated eight hours. "This is gonna take a while," he said. "What do you want to do for eight hours?"

Bo wrapped her arms around Max, popped a couple of buttons on his shirt, and let her hands wander into interesting places.

Max felt giddy as Bo's genetically tailored perfume, keyed to her oestrogen level, boosted his testosterone. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Hook us up, lover," Bo whispered into Max's ear.

***

Seven hours later, Max stood in the kitchen area of his cramped apartment, inhaling the brewing coffee and trying to stifle the erection in his shorts. Theoretically and technically, Scions of Sorcery was a massively-multiplayer online roleplaying game. With the advent of virtual reality, cranial electrodes and full-body haptic suits, the game had become - with specific and largely illegal mods and patches - an online sex extravaganza. Yes, it was possible to slay the dragon, butcher the orcs and rescue the princess, but the 'quest' was now a sideline compared to online pimps and virtual hookers.

Bo stalked from the bed, clad only in the thong she had been wearing. She slipped her arms around Max's chest and snuggled close. "Coffee smells good," she rasped. "Don't suppose you could add something a little stronger?"

"You'll find a bottle of Bushmills in the back of the TV cabinet. That's the real stuff, not some cheap knock-off." Max watched as Bo bent to retrieve the bottle, unsurprised at her flexibility and grace.

As she straightened, Bo blew the dust off the bottle. "You've had this for how long and never told me? And we spent all last night drinking that yellow water you called beer!"

"Not all of last night," Max defended himself as he poured the coffee into china mugs. "Besides, you know the prohibition rules. Anything imported is strictly off limits."

Bo splashed generous measures of the golden liquid into the mugs and corked the bottle. They clinked mugs and Bo raised hers to her lips. She paused, inhaling the whiskey-enriched coffee scent. "You keep a fifty-year-old bottle of illegal whiskey hidden where any agent could find it even if they were asleep," she murmured, "yet you won't publish what you find with that program of yours."

Max gazed at Bo with the same longing he had when he first saw her, up on stage, rivulets of perspiration glistening on her body, deft fingers flying along the fret-board of her guitar, an angel given voice as she sang the songs she had been writing since her teens. Two years into their relationship, Max still couldn't fathom what she saw in him, a lowly data analyst for Frontier Technology. "Five years for possession of contraband liquor versus twenty-to-life for sedition? You know how they'll inflate the charges. It's a no-brainer, babe."

Bo sipped her drink, silky smooth coffee with a kick, before replying. "Sometimes you have to take a stand."

Max was about to answer when his computer pinged. "That'll be the connect finished."

***

The connect program had sifted through nearly three terabytes of data on Apex Sciences, deforestation of the Amazon jungle, and the overlap between the two, presented on screen as a Venn diagram with clickable links to view more information. Half a dozen incidents and coincidences had gone unreported by the official news outlets.

Two indigenous Amazonian tribes had been forcibly relocated from their homelands to other tracts of land. Other data suggested they had been moved across the borders to Bolivia and Peru or eliminated entirely. The genocide data was strengthened by the presence 'in country' of a security team from Moscow Heavy Engineering, widely known to be hired out as private military contractors to other companies. Comprised of ex-Spetznas commandos, this particular team had been implicated in a number of sweep and clear operations in the former Soviet republics and acquitted in two courts martial on charges of brutality and murder.

Connect had found a link. Through a series of fronts, blinds and shell corporations, a small Brazilian company, Dynologistics, had been contracted to arrange security for an Apex Sciences research expedition. Dynologistics hired the Russian commando team and Apex footed the bill.

Three weeks after the tribes had disappeared, literally or figuratively, Apex Sciences had announced the discovery of new plant and animal species in the former tribal areas, which would be instrumental in the production of new drugs. The Apex stock price sky-rocketed.

Max's results were close to 85% accurate.

***

The coffee was long gone. The whiskey, however, was flowing freely and fuelling Max's fulmination. "Apex paid to have over two hundred people displaced or disappeared," he ranted, "then stood back and raked in the profits!"

Bo, from where she was lounging on the sofa, watched as Max paced the apartment. She had never seen him so agitated. Maybe it was the drink, she thought, or, like millions around the world, life in the 2030's was starting to grate on his nerves. "It's been like that for decades. Centuries, even."

"But it's wrong!" Max stopped pacing and drained his glass. "You said I might be able to make things better. I'm just a tiny cog in a huge machine, bossed by a bloody AI. Nobody'll listen to the little guy."

"Hey!" Bo snapped. "I don't like it when you run yourself down." She got to her feet and slinked across to where Max stood with a look of bewilderment and frustration on his face. Stroking his cheek, she leaned in close. "The truth will come out."

Max savoured her body heat and the warmth and whiskey-scent of her breath on his face. He snaked one arm around her waist.

Bo began to move, a slow, sinuous motion tight up against him. Her right hand moved down. "And you're not a little guy to me."

***

Max rolled over and made to get out of bed. Bo had other ideas. She moulded herself to him and began kissing the scratches she had left on his back. Punctuated by warm, wet smooches, Bo murmured, "What if ... I ... could find you ... a voice?"

A shiver ran down Max's spine. He squirmed around and turned to face Bo. "What do you mean?"

"My job is to send a message through my songs. Yours could be to connect an audience to the real story."

"I already have a job, baby." Max nuzzled against the side of Bo's neck. "I can't risk that. There are close to seven million unemployed right now and jobs are disappearing like mist in the morning."

"Your job makes you hit the bottle as soon as you're off duty. And you're rarely off duty because you work unpaid overtime for a bloody robot. We should be having times like this every weekend, not once every other month."

"It's not a ro ..." Max shut his mouth at Bo's glare.

"Don't start that techno-babble with me," she hissed. "I'm talking about taking a stand against a system that has you working like a slave for a machine." Her voice softened, the same tone she used in her love songs. "It's a system that'll have you in an early grave."

Max kissed the tip of her nose, a gesture that elicited her girlish grin. "I'll give it some thought, I promise. But I have to get busy, honey." He got out of bed and slipped into his shorts. 

The Door - Part 1

 THE DOOR PART 1

Inspired by a story prompt from Tim Wilson's 2020 class, held during the first UK lockdown.

***

I watched as the battered yellow taxi roared away to a new call, leaving me choking on its exhaust fumes. Back home, with modern fuel, catalytic converters and hybrids, such asthmatic wheezing was a thing of the past. Here, they'd barely discovered unleaded, and emissions reduction technology was regarded as witchcraft. The stink of dirty diesel would need to be dry-cleaned out of my suit. If I could find a dry cleaner in this hell hole.

I mopped my forehead with an already-damp handkerchief and slicked back my hair. The trickle of a shower in my hotel room would have a difficult time ridding me of the sweat and grime a short trip across the city had inflicted upon me. It was only ten a.m., local time, and set to get hotter as the day wore on.

I turned on the spot, surveying the street. It seemed I was alone, apart from the rats, insects and the dead dog on which they were feasting. One thing I had learned in my brief time in this city was that 'seemingly alone' meant little. There were eyes on me, I could feel them, and they didn't belong to the rats.

The instructions were in my jacket pocket. Scribbled on the back of a beer mat they read 'Calle de la Fatalidad. Box. Blue door'. My Spanish was rusty but 'Street of Doom' didn't seem very inviting.

Come to think of it, the blue door didn't seem very inviting either. Half-hidden in shadow on the east side of the street, the paint was fading, chipped and peeling, exposing earlier layers of greyish-white, lime green and puce. At least the door seemed solid, unlike the surrounding walls, where the mould-stained beige plaster had been torn away, exposing the red brick beneath. What had caused such damage? I wondered. Subsidence? Poor construction? Age? Or bullets? The little I knew of the history of this place meant that bullets, rockets or heavier ordnance were the likely culprits of the damage.

At least the box was there, placed on the ground in front of the door. Who had placed it there was uncertain. My contact had just said it would be waiting.

Could my contact, met through a cut-out and paid in used notes, be trusted? Had she just taken the money and run? What if she was doubling for the other side? One of the many 'other sides' in this place. The box could easily be a booby trap. 

Keeping my distance, I examined the box from all angles. About the size of my clenched fist, it was made of cardboard, stained with damp patches, the corners worn and battered as if it had been used in a kick-about.

I could see no obvious signs that the box was 'rigged' in any way. Of course, tilt-switches, triggers and explosives could be inside the box, to be detonated by opening or even the slightest movement. Scarier still were proximity sensors, like passive infrared security lights: if I got too close, BOOM!

I took a cautious step towards the box. Nothing happened.

Three more steps took me to within arms length of the box. I crouched down and examined it in more detail. It was one of those types where the lid covered the top and all the sides down to the base. A semi-circle on the bottom edge of the long side was where a thumb could be used to ease off the lid.

With all the care of a child building a tower of alphabet blocks, I reached for the box and eased up the lid, millimetre-by-millimetre. As the lid separated from the rest, I checked for wires or other sensors that might react to the removal of the cover. Nothing.

I flipped the lid upside down, expecting a note to flutter to the ground. Or to see the stylised cartoon of a bomb just before an explosion spread me across the street. Instead, printed in the same neat hand as the instructions on the beer mat, were the words 'Look in the box, dummy.'

I looked in the box. I mean, how could I refuse?

Nestled on blue tissue paper was a small brass key. The edge was bright and shiny, as if the key was newly cut. I could see no markings, not even a brand name, on the disc-shaped head.

Not one to throw caution to the wind, I took a pen from my pocket and gently levered the key up from its bed of tissue. There were no wires restraining the key and no obvious trigger mechanism.

I took the key and stood up, still breathing and not splattered across the walls. Good.

What next? I wondered. The most obvious course of action would be to find a lock for the mystery key. More tempting, to me, would be to ditch the key and hail a cab for the airport. But then, I'd return home with my tail between my legs, having accomplished precisely zip.

I turned to the door. Now that I was closer, I could see a small brass key hole in the black door knob. It was begging me to enter.

With an inward shrug, I slotted the key in the lock. It turned smoothly with a quiet click. Still no explosion, which I took as a good sign.

I stepped through the door and into another world.

***

Well, not really another world. In fact this one was disturbingly similar to the world I had left behind, less than a week ago. Dim light was provided by state-of-the-art 50-inch TV screens, showing news channels from around the world, computer monitors and angle-poise lamps. A bank of servers and disk arrays flashed their red, green and blue LEDs. Half a dozen operators were scattered about the desks. A far cry from the brick-sized mobile phones, bakelite light fittings, rampant overcrowding and general dilapidation of the city outside.

"Ah. Good. You made it at last."

It was a voice I recognised. My contact from the night before. 

"What is this place? Who are you?"

She stepped into a pool of light and ignored my questions. "We were impressed by your caution. You lost a few points because you left the box outside but that can be overlooked for now. A solid seven out of ten. Not bad for a newbie. Most don't score more than three."

I repeated my questions while studying the woman in front of me. Gone were the street clothes, unkempt hair, acrid sweat and a week's worth of grime from last night. Now she was dressed in Prada and Manolo's, with a perfume that made Chanel 5 smell like hippie juice.

"This is the nerve centre of our operation. You can call me Rebecca."

"That's not your real name," I said.

"And Robert Adams isn't yours."

"How did you know that?"

"Who do you think provided your passport and tickets?" Rebecca replied with a smug smile.

I had wondered, I admitted to myself. Clearly, there was something going on here. They wouldn't have flown me half way round the world on some sort of mystery tour if I wasn't useful to them. "Why? What do you want from me?" I asked.

Rebecca pointed a remote control at the central TV screen. A man's face took up the left half of the display while his bio scrolled down the right hand side. "We have a job for you," Rebecca replied.

SOME NOTES ON

HARRY HARRISON'S DEATHWORLD 1

After two forays into classic fantasy, I set out for the stars in the first of Harry Harrison's Deathworld trilogy. Described on the back cover as "A coldly thrilling piece of science fiction" (The Spectator) and "Hard to put down" (New Scientist), we embark on a deadly adventure.

On the planet Cassylia we are introduced to Jason dinAlt, an interplanetary gambler of some reputation. Such is his 'fame' that he resorts to changing his name every time he moves to a different planet. Jason is not a cheat, per se, but he does have an 'edge': he has mild psychic, or psi, talent, which manifests as telekinetic ability, which he can use to manipulate dice on the craps table.

He is approached by Kerk Pyrrus a man who, at Jason's first glance, looks like a "retired wrestler". Kerk has a proposition: take a bankroll of 27 million and turn it into 3000 million. Anything in excess of that, Jason can keep. It's a challenge Jason can't turn down.

The game is played and Jason uses his psi power to control the dice. His winnings steadily accumulate. Of course, the house doesn't like to lose and have a cheat of their own. They switch out the dice but Jason suspects something is afoot. Inspecting the new dice, he realises five of the faces are normal, while the sixth is painted with an iron-based compound, making it susceptible to magnetic fields, allowing the house to skew the dice rolls. Jason exposes the cheat and wins big: 3000 million for Kerk, plus almost 16 million for himself.

The house can't take that loss and chase Jason and Kerk, intending to get their money back. In an escape planned with almost military precision, involving car-swaps and a diplomatic incident, the pair manage to get off-planet in safety.

Kerk describes Pyrrus, with its 2.0G gravity, vicious weather, volcanic activity, twin satellites causing massive tidal fluctuations but the most stirring description is of the flora and fauna:

"Armour-plated, poisonous, claw-tipped and fang-mouthed. That describes everything that walks, flaps or just sits and grows."

Deathworld 1, Harry Harrison

This description has stayed with me in the (over 30) years since I first read the book.

Jason convinces Kerk to take him to Pyrrus, certain that he can beat the challenges of the world. En route to Pyrrus, Jason meets Meta, the pilot, and herself a ferocious warrior. He sees the joy on Kerk and Meta's faces as they open the crates bought with the money Jason won: weapons of every description, needed to fight for survival on Pyrrus.

When the ship arrives on Pyrrus, Jason and all of the crew are sealed in  metallic tubes. This is to protect them from the hazards that have evolved on the planet in the time they have been away. Consider that for a moment: evolution on Pyrrus is in fast-forward, so much so that those plants and animals the crew knew before they left have been out-evolved by more lethal species. All the crew are given reorientation courses to acquaint themselves with the new lifeforms.

Jason, however, has to start at the beginning. First, he is given muscle-building drugs and a series of injections to boost his immunity. Then the training begins. Jason is subjected to the same six-year training regime that native Pyrrans are given. As an adult, he can learn more quickly than a child but it still takes months before he is allowed out of the adaptation clinic. He learns about the native life forms in a series of progressively more dangerous environments. In the first, a facsimile of a plant might generate a nettle-like sting. The same plant in later classes might render Jason unconscious or cause searing pain. The training also covers the Pyrran technology, including the automated medikit and the ever-present forearm-mounted gun, with it's automatic draw mechanism. All in the name of survival.

Throughout it all, Jason is plagued by nightmares of fear and hatred, though the impact is minimised by a cocktail of prescribed drugs.

When he is finally finished with his training and allowed to leave the adaptation clinic, Jason is assigned a bodyguard. To add insult to injury, his protection takes the form of Grif, an eight-year old Pyrran boy, who is faster with a gun than Jason.

Jason's curiosity is piqued. Why are all lifeforms so hostile to humans? He convinces Kerk to let him investigate the planet's history. Assisted by Meta, a young woman who is also a space pilot, he begins work in the Investigations and Research department. Pyrrus has a technical library, fully automated but geared towards maintenance of Pyrran technology. In the basement, however, is a cache of historical documents. Amongst the decaying, rat-chewed books is a sealed log box, dating to the arrival of the first settlers, 300 years ago.

The log is from the Stellar Transport Pollux Victory, a ship which brought 55000 colonists to Pyrrus. It's a hard truth for Meta to bear: the population of Pyrrus is now 30000. After reading the log, Jason comes to a conclusion. Something has turned the animals and plants against humankind and Jason intends to find that something.

An attack on the Pyrran city leads to a number of deaths. Kerk is incandescent with rage and confines Jason to the adaptation clinic, to be deported off-planet when the ship returns. Jason has two weeks to find a solution.

He talks with Poli, old and severely crippled, the librarian and Jason learns of the 'grubbers' and a man called Krannon. Tracking down Krannon adds another piece to the puzzle: 'grubbers' are barbarians, humans who live outside the city. Jason hitches a ride with Krannon on his next meeting with the grubbers. He starts a false firefight with a non-existent creature and uses the confusion to bolt from Krannon. His goal is to contact and befriend the grubbers.

Jason is captured by a grubber, Naxa, and is astonished to see him using a high-tech communicator. He is taken to see Rhes and is further astonished to see that the grubbers have tamed and trained one of the native Pyrran animals to use as a riding beast. He meets Rhes and cures the man's life-threatening illness using the medikit. Jason learns a lot from Rhes.

There is a fragile trading relationship between the grubbers and the city-Pyrrans, whom the wilderness-Pyrrans refer to as 'junkmen'. The grubbers trade farmed food for technological items from the junkmen. Weapons and medicines are on the forbidden list. There are no records of what caused the split between the city and the wilderness.

Naxa is a 'talker'. He has a talent for communicating with the native animals. Jason realises that Naxa has a psi talent and experiments with his own power. He reaches the conclusion that the Pyrran animals, and probably the plants as well, are sensitive to psi radiation. As they approach the city, Jason feels hatred and fear directed at the city.

Naxa and Rhes aid Jason's return to the city and he tells Kerk that psi-radiation is being directed at the city. He convinces the Pyrran leader to let him build a psi-detector, to track back to the source of the hatred. Meta pilots the space ship through Pyrrus' atmosphere, while Jason scans with his psi-detector. Eventually the signal is tracked to a small chain of islands. Jason reports back to Kerk who resolves to destroy the source of the threat once and for all: with an atomic bomb.

An assault team of Pyrrans attacks the cave. Twenty-five men are lost fighting against hordes of beasts. The 'leader beings', huge plant-like lifeforms, are located in a cave. The last surviving Pyrran commando triggers the bomb.

The plan has not worked. The animals near the city renew their attack, the most savage it has ever been. Enraged that the raid has failed, Kerk attacks Jason, blaming him for the dire situation. Jason flees and steals one of the ship's lifeboats. He plummets into the jungle.

It seems all is lost as Jason staggers through the forest, enduring his injuries from the crash landing and a bout of pneumonia. Attacked by a horde of animals, he fights until he is out of ammunition. At the last minute, he is rescued by grubbers.

Eight days later, Jason wakes to find that Rhes has saved him using junkmen's medicine. Rhes had killed Krannon for the man's medikit, an action that would surely bring war between the grubbers and the junkmen. Under pressure to come up with a plan that would avoid a war, Jason's train of thought is derailed when an earthquake warning arrives. It seems the psi talents of the grubbers are not limited to animals: a man called Hananas can detect incoming tremors.

As they flee the quake, Jason notices something. The animals' natural instincts are forgotten as predator and prey flee together. Putting two and two together, Jason concocts a plan.

Mustering the grubbers' talkers, those who have a psi talent with the animals, on one side of the city to launch a ferocious attack. As the attack mounts, Jason leads a team and captures the Pyrrans' space ship. There follows a tense negotiation. Jason says he will destroy the ship, the Pyrrans' only link to the greater galaxy. Without it, the city Pyrrans will be unable to resupply their weapons and equipment. They will be fighting a losing war against the rest of the planet.

Jason explains his reasoning and the history of Pyrrus. Every life form on the planet is psychic, to a greater or lesser degree. Psionic species were genetically selected as survivors. They compete naturally but cooperate when danger threatens. The first human settlers were deemed a threat and the planet fought back. The psi powers triggered rapid mutations, leading to more savage animals. The settlers upgraded their weapons for protection. The whole cycle repeated over 300 years.

A demonstration is arranged. Naxa, the talker, captures a stingwing. Brucco, the city-Pyrran in charge of the adaptation clinic, reaches out and pets the creature, which does not see him as a threat.

Jason's plan, then, is to buy a spaceship of his own, recruit some Pyrran volunteers and go into the business of exploring new planets.

The story ends with Rhes and Kerk shaking hands in a spirit of cooperation in the future.

What have I learned?

Some mechanism of Faster Than Light (FTL) travel exists in the Deathworld series. This is not the almost-instant 'hyperspace' in the Star Wars sense. In Deathworld, such travel might take weeks to reach other planets but it is certainly faster than conventional rockets or even the speed of light itself.

The concept of psionic powers - telepathy, telekinesis, danger senses and so on - is widely used in science fiction and paranormal tales. The 'Force' powers used in Star Wars movies are hugely powerful. Impressive on screen, yes, but could the human mind alone generate such effects, regardless of the user's 'midichlorian' count?

In the Deathworld stories, however, psi is in its infancy. Using his mild telekinetic power at the gaming table drains Jason and leaves him soaked in sweat. Psi also has a side effect: it leaves Jason susceptible to mental attacks, nightmares and severe headaches. Perhaps most interestingly, psi also works better in groups. An entire planet wages war against the human inhabitants. A group of grubber 'talkers' team up to stage an animal attack on the Pyrran city.

Does this concept of groups working together ring any bells? In Swords Against Deviltry, described earlier, Fafhrd's mother, Mor, and lover, Mara, work in a coven of snow witches to magnify their power.

SOME NOTES ON

JACK VANCE'S

THE DYING EARTH

As mentioned in my previous post, I am leaving behind Nehwon (for the time being, at least) and am venturing, not to a different planet, but to the Earth in the far, far future: Jack Vance's The Dying Earth.

Note: I seem to have gone overboard with this post. TL;DR - read The Dying Earth. You'll be amazed.

Untold millennia have passed. Science has vanished and magic has returned to the world. New races of humankind have evolved, alongside new species of beasts and plants.

The ancient Sun has turned red and soars across a dark blue sky. Society has dwindled. Where once there were billions of people, now there are few, separated by vast distances, living in small enclaves, often isolated and insular, with bizarre customs and traditions. The cities, countries and even continents of old are now dust, replaced by Ascolais, Almery, The Land of the Falling Wall, Ampridatvir, Kaiin and Cil, to name a few.

We are introduced to an array of colourful characters - wizards, witches, demons and princes - with equally colourful names: Turjan of Miir, Pandelume, Mazirian the Magician, Liane the Wayfarer, Chun the Unavoidable, Blikdak the Demon. As for the beasts, well, we can list the tiny Twk-men, erbs, Deodands, grue and pelgrane. Some plants are semi-sentient, indeed, one plant in Mazirian's garden can speak, after a fashion.

And if the lands, characters, beasts and plants are vividly described, the magic is more vibrant still. We note, of the 100 or so spells left to the knowledge of man, incantations such as Phandaal's Gyrator Spell, Phandaal's Critique of the Chill, Felojun's Second Hypnotic Spell, the Excellent Prismatic Spray, The Charm of Untiring Nourishment and the Omnipotent Sphere. Magical items have similar wondrous names: the Expansible Egg, the Scintillant Dagger and the Live Boots are just some of them.

The stories in this book are concerned with the acquisition of knowledge and power. While many of the characters are already powerful, and some may be centuries old, kept young by magic, they all want more.

Turjan of Miir desires to make a perfect, vat-grown creature. His previous experiments have failed, so he uses the spell Call of the Violent Cloud to journey to the world of Embelyon to meet with Pandelume, a great wizard. At Pandelume's request, Turjan performs a task - essentially the theft of a potent magical item - and is taught the correct spells and techniques. With this new knowledge, he creates T'sain, the 'twin sister' of T'sais, one of Pandelume's creations. T'sais is flawed, however, and cannot see beauty in any way: everything is hateful to her.

Things do not go Turjan's way, however. When we next meet him, he has been captured by Mazirian the Magician, and is being held in a miniature maze, chased by a rat. Mazirian craves knowledge, too: who is the strange woman who seems to be spying on him? He questions Turjan who tries to trade capturing the woman for his freedom. Mazirian refuses and chases the woman himself, with Live Boots and a selection of spells. The woman is T'sain who, protected by magic herself, leads Mazirian on a wild chase, eventually and narrowly defeating him in a grove of vampire-weed. The chase has left her at death's door. With the last of her strength, T'sain frees Turjan and dies doing so. But Turjan has the knowledge now, and vows to recreate T'sain anew.

T'sais has her own death-defying adventures in search of 'beauty'. Pandelume gifts her with jewels, enchants her rapier, and a rune so she has some protection, and she travels from Embelyon to Earth. There she encounters Liane the Wayfarer, leaves him for dead, travels across the Modavna Moor and is set upon by ruffians. She, with her enchanted rapier, fights free of them, and flees. At last, she reaches a cottage and is given sanctuary by a man in a black hood. Etarr is his name and he tells his story about how his face was stolen by a witch and replaced with a hideous visage. He intends to retrieve his face from the witch, Javanne. At a hideous ritual on the Black Sabbath, Etarr and T'sais capture Javanne but she cannot return his face, it having been gifted to a demon which has been destroyed in the ritual. Only Pandelume and an ancient god of justice can restore it. The three travel to this god and are judged. T'sais is innocent and is granted the ability to see beauty. Etarr is also innocent and is given his face. Javanne, guilty of wickedness, is transformed and given Etarr's demon-face.

Liane the Wayfarer is given his own story, so we must assume he survived his encounter with T'sais. Liane is boastful, big-headed and full of his own self-importance. This braggadocio increases because he has found a ring which causes him to become invisible. He then journeys to visit Lith, the golden witch, with the intent to become her lover. Lith resists his advances and charges him with a quest: if he is to love her, he must retrieve half of a tapestry from Chun the Unavoidable. He journeys to the city of Kaiin and finds an inn, where he shows off his magical ring and questions some local sorcerers regarding Chun. The sorcerers blanch and go quiet. Liane reckons himself more cunning than these wizards and, equipped with his wits and magic ring, he sets off to find the tapestry. On the way he finds several bodies, each with their eyes gouged out. Liane explores Chun's lair and finds the tapestry, which he steals. Chun is behind him, wearing a cloak of eyeballs sewn with silk. Terrified, Liane flees, hounded by Chun. Thinking himself smarter than Chun, Liane hides with his magical ring. But Chun the Unavoidable cannot be hidden from in this way and Liane is found. The story closes with Chun visiting Lith. He gives her two golden threads for her tapestry, in trade for Liane's golden eyes.

Ulan Dhor is given a quest by Prince Kandive the Golden: travel across the forgotten ocean to the city of Ampridatvir and recover the lost tablets of Rogol Domendonfors, which are said to contain the secrets of lost magicks. Ulan Dhor sails across the Melantine Gulf, after three weeks, and encounters a strange fishing boat. The crew believe him to be a Raider because of his brightly coloured clothes but Ulan Dhor convinces them he is just a traveller. They lead him to the harbour of Ampridatvir where Ulan Dhor finds a civilisation which has two factions - those dressed in green and those in grey - each believing they are the only ones and that the other factions are ghosts to be avoided. He befriends a girl whom he calls Elai. Ulan Dhor captures, and learns how to fly, an aircar and uses this to penetrate the temples of Pansiu and Cazdal, thus stealing each half of the tablet of Rogol Domendonfors. They fly to the Tower of Fate and reassemble the two halves, revealing the words of Rogol Domendonfors. This brings the sleeping god back to life after over 5000 years. He sees the quarrels and riots between the factions and, in a fit of madness, proceeds to tear down and rebuild Ampridatvir. He punishes those who have ignored his teachings and plans for Ulan Dhor and Elai to found a new race. Ulan Dhor skewers the brain with his sword and kills the mad god. In the aircar, Ulan Dhor and Elai fly back to Kaiin.

In the last story, Guyal of Sfere has been born with some defect: an insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge. His father says that Guyal's questions can only be answered by the Curator of the Museum of Man. Guyal embarks on a quest to find the Museum and find the answers he desires. He is protected by the Extensible Egg, the Scintillant Dagger and his father's blessing, which promises safety if he stays on the trail. His first encounter is in a strange village, where the hetman desires Guyal's horse. Which is understandable as these villagers ride oasts, hulking, deformed, humans as horses. The villagers give chase but Guyal evades them. The mountains of Fer Aquila are the next obstacle but, because he stays to the blessed trail, he finds his way through to the almost deserted village of Carchasel. There he meets a girl and her flute-playing uncle. Guyal, an accomplished flautist himself, enters into a contest, of sorts. The music goes from merry to madness and Guyal flees the hall. On the other side of the mountains, he first encounters a ghost, then meets the Saponids, the inhabitants of the town of Saponce. Unfortunately for Guyal, he breaks one of their obscure laws and is given three punishments: to promise he would never again break the laws; that he would judge the upcoming beauty contest; and that the third punishment would be revealed after the contest. The girls of the village are beautiful but are trying very hard not to look so. They are dirty, unkempt and dressed in rags. Guyal chooses the daughter of the Castellan who had arrested him for the crime. The third punishment is then revealed: to travel with the girl, Shierl, to the Museum of Man as an execution or a sacrifice. They walk into the depths of the Museum, seeing wondrous artifacts from the many ages of Earth. At the end, they encounter a huge face, seemingly pushing through the wall. It will not permit them to enter while Guyal has the Scintillant Dagger bringing light and it attacks, with tendrils exuded from its tongue. Guyal and Shierl are saved by an old man, Kerlin the Curator, wielding a powerful magical rod. After some time, Kerlin tells the story of Blikdak, the demon face. With cleverness, and a search of the vast Museum of Man, Guyal, Shierl and Kerlin defeat the demon (no spoilers, here). Sadly, the exertion kills the old man but not before he has told Guyal to look for the index in his chambers. With this he may be able to find the knowledge he seeks. We are left with Guyal and Shierl wondering "What shall we do?"

So, what have I learnt?

Vance is a master of descriptive prose. The way he describes the sky above Embelyon in Turjan of Miir:

"Most strange, however, was the sky, a mesh of vast ripples and cross-ripples, and these refracted a thousand rays of coloured light, rays which in mid-air wove wondrous lace, rainbow nets, in all the jewel hues."

-- From Turjan of Miir by Jack Vance

Many other such passages appear throughout the book. I wish I was that good!

Magic in the Dying Earth is a force to be reckoned with. A number of encounters end peacefully due to the mere threat of being ensorcelled. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I am a roleplayer. In such games, there is usually the concept of a 'saving throw' to ward off magical effects. No such save exists in the Dying Earth. If you are on the receiving end of The Excellent Prismatic Spray, you can expect to be blasted by dozens of multicoloured laser beams, with little hope of surviving. However, runes, items and countermagicks can negate these effects but these are most jealously guarded and even harder to find than the spells themselves.

Magic is colourful in name and devastating in effect. Phandaal's Gyrator spell, for instance, lifts the affected target up in the air, to any height and at any speed. It is used by Mazirian to destroy a Deodand by making the creature spin so fast that the centrifugal force tears it limb from limb. No saving throw.

Magicians are men and women of huge ego. Witness the number of spells named after their creators, for instance. This ego drives them to compete against each other for the recognition of their peers, a classic case of 'oneupmanship'.

For my next post, I'll be leaving Earth entirely, and not by using the Call of the Violent Cloud. My next adventure will be to the far future, science fiction setting of Harry Harrison: Deathworld 1.

SOME NOTES ON

FRITZ LEIBER'S

SWORDS AGAINST DEVILTRY

As I said in an earlier FB post, I intend to read more this year and I'd start with the 'classics'. I begin with the stories of Fafhrd and the Mouser, by Fritz Leiber. This is not a book review, just some notes on the happenings in these tales, written in the hope that it might attract new readers to these excellent stories, and some of what I have learnt from them.

We travel to the world of Nehwon. The characters of Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser, and their wizardly patrons Ningauble of the Seven Eyes and Sheelba of the Eyeless Face, were created by Harry Otto Fischer. Fritz Leiber then wrote most of the duo's actual adventures.

In Swords Against Deviltry, we have three stories.

The Snow Women introduces us to Fafhrd (pronounced faf-erd) and his barbarous clan in Cold Corner. As it says in the opening paragraph "the women of the Snow Clan were waging a cold war against the men." They do this with powerful enchantments to ensure their men do not wander, that they remain faithful and, should any step out of line, inflict a nose-dripping cold, the Great Cough or Winter Fever. Where magic was unsuitable, the women would snowball their men and they sometimes froze their snowballs. This was not a laughing matter.

Fafhrd finds himself caught in a triangle of women: his mother, Mor; his lover, and mother-to-be of his child, Mara; and Vlana, an actress with a travelling theatre troupe. Fafhrd longs for adventure and the excitement of 'civilisation' and believes Vlana to be the key to his escape from Cold Corner.

After much double-dealing with Vlana's manager, love-making and squabbles with the womenfolk of his clan, Fafhrd, ski-jumps the Trollstep Canyon (assisted by fireworks from the actors troupe). He avoids the icy magicks of Mor, Mara and the other snow women, slays five men in his pursuit of Vlana, and wins the heart of the actress.

The second story in the book, The Unholy Grail, tells the adventure of Mouse, a wizard's pupil. Mouse returns home after a quest, to find his master's house in ruin and the hedge-wizard Glavas Rho, slain. Mouse suspects Duke Janarrl, the local "lord paramount", a man who hates all magic but "white more than black". To add to Mouse's misery he believes that Ivrian, his first love and the daughter of the Duke, was involved in the murder of his master.

Mouse vows revenge.

After an altercation with the Duke and his men, Mouse hides in the forest and begins working magic against Janarrl. The Duke is afflicted by pains which leave him bed-ridden. Ivrian, in desperation, rides to see Mouse but is followed by the Duke and his men. They capture Mouse and destroy the poppet-image of Janarrl which Mouse was using as a link to direct his magic against the Duke. Things look bleak for Mouse but he is not defeated yet.

Strapped to the rack in the torture chamber, Mouse uses the pain to focus his next spell. Ivrian helps by keeping her attention fixed on Mouse and holding her father's arm. This is another link, sending the magic from Mouse, through Ivrian and to the Duke. As the spell reaches its climax in a howling storm, the Duke "crumpled in defeat and death."

The third story is the classic, Nebula award-winning Ill Met in Lankhmar, where Fafhrd and Mouse (who has now renamed himself the Gray Mouser) finally meet in the greatest city in all of Nehwon.

The two rogues plan to rob two thieves who themselves have just robbed a local gem merchant. By chance, Fafhrd and the Mouser have concocted the same plan and the same location for their ambush. After a brief scuffle, the two face each other over the fallen bodies of the two thieves. They realise there is a connection between them and, indeed, they have seen each other in the past.

Together, they celebrate and meet their girls, Vlana and Ivrian. Over much wine and boastful bragging, the heroes promise to assault the Thieves' House, home of the powerful Guild which oversees all thievery in Lankhmar city and beyond.

Disguised as beggars (the Beggars Guild is allied with the Thieves Guild) the two penetrate Thieves' House, there witnessing some strange sorcery involving magical nooses and are eventually caught by Krovas, the master of the Lankhmar Guild. Mouser flatters Krovas but the sorcerer, Hristomilo, sees through his flattery and the two are unmasked. A daring escape ensues, with the heroes leaping from rooftop to rooftop across the city, to reach the Mouser's home.

They find the place in darkness and disarray. Their girls have been murdered, by strangulation it seems, and a swarm of rats have begun devouring the bodies. In grief and rage, Fafhrd and the Mouser slay many rats then burn down the building, making a funeral pyre for their first loves.

Their rage overtakes them and they attack Thieves' House, armed with sword, dagger and burning oil. The sorcerer defends the House but is slain when Fafhrd throws Vlana's dagger into his eye; Mouser kills the wizard's familiar.

With the death of the wizard, the heroes' rage leaves them and they flee the burning Thieves' House. Their grief is too much to handle and the memories of their lives with their first loves weigh too heavily. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser leave Lankhmar the city of "beloved, unfaceable ghosts".

So, what have I learnt?

Emotion is a powerful motivator for the heroes. Fafhrd's curiosity about "civilisation", coupled with desire for Vlana, pulls him away from his homeland. The Mouser's desire for revenge against the killer of his wizardly teacher drives him down a path of life-threatening black magic. Besotted by their first loves, and not a little wine, the heroes undertake the most audacious raid on the Thieves' House. This proves to be a mistake, as the blackest of magicks kills their lovers. Desire for vengeance takes them back to Thieves' House and a murderous rampage.

But when the dust settles and the smoke clears, there is nothing left but sadness.

I'm a long-time player and GM of roleplaying games, nerdy I know, but one thing I note is that magic in Nehwon is time-consuming, expensive (witness the costly glassware and alembics used in Hristomilo's magic) and as risky to the spellcaster as it is to the target. The Mouser suffers torture to wreak his revenge on Janarrl. It also works best in groups: the Snow Women wield great power in their cabals and covens.

I enjoyed these stories immensely, and can't wait to see what happens to our heroes next. But wait I must, as I turn my attention to another great writer of SciFi and Fantasy: Jack Vance.

Mystery in the Rain

Another little exercise which could be built on. Suggestions welcome.

Colin

===

Iris sat down on the narrow ledge that passed as the bus shelter's bench. Not that there was much bench - it was a beam that would make an Olympic gymnast cautious - and even less shelter from the rain, bouncing like marbles from the shelter's metal roof. All but one of the toughened-glass windows were smashed through and the one that remained was a spider-web of cracked glass. She turned up the collar of her soaking rain coat and cursed the rain, her bitch boss for making her work late and the joker who had pranged her BMW, forcing her to wait for the night bus.

A hot bath and chilled white wine waited for her at home. Perhaps some relaxing music and scented candles, too. Iris could almost smell the jasmine, feel the warm water against her skin, hear the music lulling her to sleep. Her eyelids fluttered ...

She remembered that supposedly romantic weekend in London. The shows, the restaurants, the shopping, the mind-blowing sex. The final, humiliating dumping that still hurt after all these years.

The pistol-cracks of high heels on concrete flagstones interrupted her waking dream. Fragments of that last scene at King's Cross station scattered through her mind like windblown leaves.

Iris squinted up into luminous violet eyes. The woman's head was haloed by the yellow streetlight and Iris couldn't see her face, just those eyes.

"He wasn't worth it, was he?" the stranger asked. She took a seat next to Iris.

Before she could stop herself, Iris replied: "He was married to his job. His schedule and mine would never match up."

"Stop making excuses for him. You knew he was a bastard the moment you met him. Do you even know what his job was?"

Iris looked at her inquisitor. The woman's lustrous brunette hair was perfectly styled. Not a smudge on her lipstick, her mascara nor her eye shadow. Her black leather coat was dry. And her perfume was exotic, without being overpowering. How had she gotten here without getting soaked to the skin? Iris wondered.

"He said he was in sales," Iris said. "But ..."

"... he never said what he was selling," the woman finished Iris's sentence for her.

"He sold me a lie," Iris murmured.

"And you weren't the only one." The woman offered Iris a pink Post-It note with six names on it: hers was at the top. "It seems you were the lucky one."

"Who are these women?" Iris wanted to know. "And what do you mean, lucky?"

"You didn't give him what he really wanted. The others, he took for every penny and even more." The woman stood, towering over Iris, who shrank back, cowed by her sheer presence. "It falls to you to fix the many things he has broken."

"Why me?"

"You're the only one with an ounce of sanity remaining." The woman gazed into Iris's eyes.

The hiss of air-brakes, the smell of diesel and the rumble of a heavy engine disturbed this strange tableau.

"Here, love," said a man's voice. "Are you waiting for this one? It's the last of the night."

Iris, jolted back to her senses, looked up at the bus driver and around the shelter. The woman had vanished; only the faintest trace of her perfume remained.

Iris boarded the bus and looked back over her shoulder at the now-empty shelter. "Did you see another woman at the stop?" she asked.

"No, love. Just you," replied the driver as he sorted out Iris's change. "Long day?" he asked as he handed over the money. "You look done in."

"Yeah. Long day," Iris agreed. Long and weird, she thought.

She took a seat as the bus pulled away and looked vainly in all directions for the mysterious woman. I must have been half asleep, she concluded as she settled back in her seat.

Iris fumbled to find her phone. The next level of her word game was waiting; she had had six 'please come back' text reminders during the day. As she pulled out her phone, a small piece of pink paper landed in her lap.

There were six names on that paper and hers was at the top of the list.

Circuses are weird ...

I've been away for quite some time. Life gets in the way. You know how it is :-)

Anyway, here's another little practise piece from the excellent Writer's Toolbox, by Jamie Cat Callan.

===

After only two months, Emma decided to become an exotic dancer. The employment opportunities were vastly superior, for a start. The chances of her getting a spot in the Ballet Rambert, the English National or the Bolshoi were slim-to-non-existent. So she quit the ballet classes and enrolled at a gym. She knew the moves, she just needed to get toned.

"Why don't you try a circus?" suggested Ralph, her personal trainer. "I don't want you to demean yourself by becoming a glorified stripper, sweet."

Emma grunted, "'Cos I fucking hate clowns," as she struggled through the fifteenth 'rep' on her quads. Only five more to go.

Ralph watched as the perspiration beaded on Emma's brow, soaking through her headband and dampening her short blonde hair. The sweat seeped into her lime green leotard. He could see why the guys, and, it was rumoured, a couple of the girls, liked her.

Emma finished her twentieth 'rep' and collapsed back onto the bench. "Fuck, that hurt," she gasped.

Ralph wished she wouldn't swear so much. It marred her otherwise angelic demeanour. "Go again?" he asked.

"No way," Emma replied. "I've done enough for one night."

Sucking on a plum lollipop, her go-to flavour now that she had (mostly) kicked the cigarettes, Emma left the gym into a riot of colour, music, laughter and blaring horns. A ten-foot tall bloke bent down and handed her a bright orange leaflet. "Rizzo's Circus," proclaimed the flyer, "The Greatest Show On Earth." Times and dates were stamped in the corner, thankfully obscuring the clown's face. The first performance was in an hour.

She looked back up at the ten-foot guy on stilts. "Coming?" he asked.

It was probably just the strain of her exercise session, Emma reasoned, but her legs were wooden and her mind fogged with exhaustion, as she joined the crowd and followed the circus parade through town to the big top.

===

Colin

Ravenmar's Luck Runs Out

Ravenmar scanned the rapidly darkening sky. The Moon was not yet risen and tatters of grey clouds scudded overhead, driven by a biting Easterly wind. He gathered his heavy, woollen cloak around him and followed the track by the river. His destination was the village of Red Crest, just beyond the hill. With luck, he would make it before the gate closed for the night.

As he approached the bridge, he slowed. You could never be too careful around here as trolls were known to sneak down from the hills and use human structures for shelter. Trolls, while not necessarily evil, were spiteful and malicious creatures, given to tricking unwary travellers with their riddles and wicked magicks. Ravenmar loosened his sword in its scabbard, a precautionary measure, and stepped onto the crumbling stone of the bridge.

"Halt, who goes there?" came the squeaky voice, in heavily-accented Common Speech. A shadow hopped over the bridge's wall and resolved slowly into the short, stooped figure of a troll. It was around three feet tall, of scrawny build, but with a large, mis-shapen head, unevenly pointed ears, one of which looked like it had been bitten in two, and almond-shaped black eyes. Its skin was covered in greyish scales and it was dressed in a loincloth. Ravenmar took in all of this in an instant. His attention was occupied by the short spear which the troll held, aimed squarely at his chest.

"A weary traveller, bound for the village beyond the hill," Ravenmar replied.

"You lie!" spat the troll. "That village is in troll-country. Your kind are not welcome there."

Ravenmar spread his arms wide and looked around. "Since when has this been troll-country? The Earl gave you territories in the hills a decade ago."

"He gave us cold, damp caves, ruins of shacks and worked-out mines!" What followed was what Ravenmar judged to be a string of expletives in troll-tongue. "He tricked us, he did. One day soon, he will pay."

This was not typical trollish bluster, however. Something in the little beggar's stream of invective struck a chord in Ravenmar. "What do you mean, the Earl will pay?" His hand went to his sword hilt.

The troll brandished his spear and gutsily advanced a couple of paces. "Halt!" he screeched. "Keep your hands away from your weapon!" He emitted a shrill whistle.

Ravenmar felt a chill, like icy fingers, run down his spine. He was by no means a wizard but even he could sense when magick was at work. The concealing glamour, which had hidden a dozen trolls, was cancelled and Ravenmar found himself surrounded by wicked spear points.

He might be no wizard, and he was certainly no warrior: he could not fight a dozen armed trolls, not even this diminutive rabble. He raised his hands and the trolls searched him, relieving him of his sword, dagger, coins and food. They bound his hands behind his back and, at spear-point, marched him to the village.

Crazy Cat Lady

I'm back after a short break. This came to me late one night, just after the cat woke me up!

Why do they call me the Crazy Cat Lady? I'm not crazy. If you want crazy, I can introduce you to Lili!

Okay, I do have upwards of a dozen cats in my home. Or their home. Sometimes it seems I'm lodging with them, not the other way round. And let me be clear: they are just lodgers here. I don't own them. They come and go as they please and they don't stay forever. One morning I might wake up with ten cats or twelve or sometimes only three. Of course, Nature has been known to take Her course and a litter of the little darlings suddenly appears.

So, yes. I like cats. Love them to bits, really, even when they leave bits of mice or birds all over the living room floor. But does that make me crazy? I think not.

They speak to me, you see. Every purr, meow, hiss. Every ear-twitch or tail-flick, I can understand. Each disdainful look through slit-pupilled eyes, each lascivious roll-over for a tummy tickle, means something and I know what they are saying.

Before you think I'm mad, just remember that you were young once and couldn't pronounce a single word, let alone string together a sentence. You made your feelings known by crying, gurgling, vomitting or pooing. You made grasping gestures with chubby fingers, struggled to crawl when you wanted something just out of reach and cried more when you couldn't move. Now you take language and movement for granted to get what you want.

Cats have their own language and I understand it. I can't quite read catspeak yet, but I'm working on it. It's something to do with paw prints and how their claws make marks. What they're scratching also means something. The door, obviously, means they want out, or food, if it's a cupboard door. The curtains mean they want to climb. And if they shred the carpet, it means they need the litter tray and, more to the point, why hasn't the litter tray been cleaned? I know these things.

Now I'm sitting in the middle of the garden, surrounded by cats, watching intently as they prowl around, sun themselves, walk along the fence, or sit and wash, looking like furry pretzels. I wish I was that flexible. Some simply watch the world go by with that infinite patience that makes them look like they're planning world domination.

School kids walk past the garden, laughing and joking when they see the "crazy cat lady". Let them laugh. I don't care.

Until one of the little thugs throws a pebble at one of my darlings. Then I get crazy. As the grey and black feline jumps down from the fence, the pebble soaring over its head, I spring into action. I leap from the lawn, hissing, yowling and screaming at the little brat. He and his friends blanche at my fury. My words aren't clear to them, but to the cats it's perfect sense: "Get out of here you little bastards!"

I can feel the perfect "cat-ness" of the moment. I am transformed, not into a cuddly, soft, furry moggy, but into the fierce warrior lioness of ancient times. I roar, bare my claws and let the light gleam from my fangs. The kids flee, calling me names as they run. Their insults patter off my fur like raindrops; sticks and stones and all that. I watch until they have run out of sight but I can still smell them, and their fear, on the breeze.

My darlings come to me. I comfort them, tell them the nasty humans have gone, that they have nothing to fear. They cuddle up against my belly or climb along my back. Their purrs comfort me after that unseemly outburst. I will protect them.

Am I crazy? Perhaps. Am I a cat? Most certainly. Am I a lady? Only when the mood takes me. My name is Bast, warrior and protector through the Ages.

A Rainy Day

It was her birthday, that day we walked in the park. Tipping down rain soaked us to the skin, driven by a biting wind which turned our umbrella inside out. We left the yellow and blue striped brolly in a rubbish bin, flapping in the wind like some drunken dragonfly.

Fortunately, the 'summer season', if it could be called that, had started about a week ago, and the park's cafe was open, having been shuttered during the depths of winter. We ran the last few yards, splashing through inch-deep puddles, their surfaces bouncing chaotically with the falling rain. The cafe's wooden-framed door was mostly glass, showing stickers of the range of drinks and snacks served here: all the big names and half a dozen less-famous brands.

What we wanted, however, was coffee and this cafe made the best in town. This was not some wild fancy: it was based on solid research. Together, we had toured every coffee shop in town, from the multinational franchises, through small 'Mum and Dad' operations, to the greasy spoons at the train and bus stations. Some places had been pretty good but none of them compared to The Liaison Cafe. We laughed about that: just when you needed a little TLC, there was The Liaison Cafe. We'd missed coming here over the winter.

She went to the Ladies' to tidy up. Very appearance conscious, my girl, the slightest hair out of place, or smudge on her lipstick, would send her running for the nearest mirror. At times, this could be a very infuriating habit, particularly if we were running late and she was correcting a very minor fault in her make-up. I told her that she was beautiful, no matter what imperfections she thought she could see.

I dumped my soaking jacket at our favourite table and walked to the counter. Kate, the assistant manager, looked up from her celebrity lifestyle magazine and gave me a somewhat tired smile. It had obviously been a long shift for the old dear.

"What can I get you, sweet?" she asked, as if she needed to know. The order was always the same. Two large cappuccinos, one with a double-shot of espresso (hers, not mine), almond biscotti on the side, and two fingers of dark chocolate.

"And a slice of the Black Forest gateau, please," I added. It was, after all, her birthday. I hadn't brought candles, so made do with a silk rose I had stuffed hastily into my jacket pocket. It was slightly crumpled but, I reasoned, it's the thought that counts.

I sat at our favourite table and waited for her. And waited. And waited.

"She's not coming back, you know," said Kate from behind.

I turned to her, tears streaming down my face. She had passed away a year ago to the day, on what should have been her thirtieth birthday.

"She doesn't need to come back," I replied through barely restrained sobs. "She's always here." I pointed to my heart and cried.

Space Rescue

Space Rescue

This piece is inspired by the story 'Eleven Pipers', written by yours truly, in the book 'Twelve Days', available through Amazon. It forms part of the background to the war between humans and Nisalans.

Background: The war between humans and the Nisalan aliens has been raging for centuries. No-one is sure exactly what started the war but it had something to do with the 'Offside Rule'. It is doubtful anyone on either side knows the origin of the obscure law. The Nisalans look like 1.5m tall, roughly cylindrical amoebae, with locomotory and manipulative appendages, and their internal organs can be seen roiling around in the bluish-greenish protoplasm.

*

Nisalan satellite station Rostov was parked in geosynchronous orbit over the third moon of the planet Quina, fourth planet in the Bellaset system. The moon itself, having no mineral resources or strategic value worth speaking of, had no name, other than its official Terran classification: Bellaset Four Gamma.

Ellis crept along the darkened, frost-coated corridor, lit sporadically by emergency lights and glow panels. The station was deserted, or so intel had indicated, but there were still combat droids and remote sentry guns to avoid. Hence her slow progess. The air would have frozen her lungs by now had it not been for the night-suit that clung to every contour of her body, feeding her body with oxygen scrubbed from the station's atmosphere and warmed to standard temperature.

Her communicator chirped quietly. The arrow on its screen changed direction slightly, indicating a path which followed the curve of the station's corridor. Ellis padded silently for a few more metres, the sounds of her footfalls masked by the night-suit. The communicator beeped, the arrow changed to an exclamation mark and Ellis realised he has reached her goal.

The door to the lab was, of course, locked, by triple-layered security systems and requiring two biometric inputs and a ten character hexadecimal passcode. She knew the code, that bit was easy. Terran Federation spies had gathered intel on the station, and the code, purchased at astronomical price, had been downloaded into her night-suit's on-board computer. The biometrics would be trickier but the aluminium flask hitched to her webbing contained what he needed.

The flask was below-zero and divided into two compartments. One contained an optical organ, of sorts, and the other a selection of manipulative cilia which served the Nisalans as fingers. The optical organ was slippery with congealed protoplasm and it took Ellis several attempts to free it from the flask and press it into the optical scanner. One light came on green. The cilia were trickier still. There were eight cilia and they had to be pressed against the scanner in the correct order. A laminated index card provided Ellis with the sequence. The second light glowed green. He had memorised the hex-code and typed ther into the panel. The third light came on and the door to the lab opened.

Like the rest of the deserted station, the lab was in darkness. Ellis didn't need much light. The goggles on her night-suit amplified available light and gave a greenish tinge to everything she saw.

The bio-cell, a coffin-sized prison capsule intended to keep the captive unconscious, alive and mentally 'accessible' (the thought chilled Ellis) to its interrogators, was wired into the centre of the room. Floating in the thick, yellow gunge was the target of ther rescue mission. A young man by the name of Darius Pugh, supposedly a high-level intelligence asset and double-agent working for both the Terrans and the Nisalans. Why she hadn't been ordered to simply shoot the traitor was a question above her pay grade.

She threw the lever that emptied the bio-cell, the ugly yellow fluid draining away to heaven-knew where with an even uglier sound. Once emptied, the capsule's hatch opened and, coughing, choking and vomiting, Darius Pugh fell forward out of his prison.

Ellis did not attempt to catch the agent, who fell and landed with a loud thump on the deckplates. Pugh groaned and Ellis took that as a good sign and hauled him to his feet. Wires that had allowed the Nisalans to probe his brain snapped or were pulled from his scalp, leaving angry red scars on his shaved head.

"Come with me," she ordered, as she almost dragged the agent to the door.

"Who are you?" he asked in a weak voice.

Ellis ignored the question. "I'm here to get you off this crate and back to civilisation."

"Why?"

"Beats me," she admitted. "You're a traitor. I'd just as happily shoot you," she added, chillingly, resting her hand on the butt of her trazer pistol, "but orders are orders."

Together, they staggered to the array of escape capsules on the port side of the station. "Get in," Ellis said.

"This is an escape pod," he protested. "It'll never get us back to a Terran zone."

"Leave that to me," Ellis said, as she forced Pugh into the capsule at gunpoint. Nisalan vessels were not built for Terran-standard body types, so Ellis rigged a cargo web across the capsule, tied the spy into the heavy duty straps and belted herself in. "Going down," she said, and kicked the release lever.

Explosive bolts powered the escape capsule from the station and the little lifeboat began its freefall to Bellaset Four Gamma, where a Terran Federation insertion force was waiting.

The Woman From 3B

I promised elsewhere that I'd try to write a piece per day. This one is a little late but that's what deadlines are for :-)

===

The smell emanating from 3B was not unpleasant. Somewhere between freshly picked vegetables, flowers and that earthy smell left after rain; petrichor, I think they call it. The odd thing was, the scent never dissipated, never weakened in any way. It hung around 3B, a permanent fixture, as if it was leaking through the walls.

I live in 3C, just across the hall. I'd seen the woman from 3B a few times through the little security lens in my own flat's door. In her twenties, I'd guess, she reminded me of an actress from one of those 'Magic School' movies. We on Floor 3 tended to be an insular bunch and kept ourselves to ourselves, unlike the weirdos on Floor 4, who always seemed to be visiting each other. I heard parties just about every weekend, emanating above my head, from 4C.

It had to happen one day, I suppose. I was, admittedly, a bit sloshed and was standing at my door fumbling with my keys. Feeling a little woozy, both from the beer and the ever-present scent from 3B, I was trying to fit the right key into the right keyhole when I heard her voice. It was soft, almost musical, and each syllable was perfectly pronounced.

"Don't suppose you could lend a hand, could you?"

I dropped my keys, cursed and turned. There she was. Or at least, I assumed it was the woman from 3B. I couldn't see her face, or indeed much of her, hidden as she was behind a dozen or more brightly-coloured shopping bags, each one with the logo of one of the city's big department stores. A bunch of shiny silver keys jingled invitingly from the little finger of her left hand.

"Yeah, yeah, of course, no problem," I rambled, as I picked up my own keys and reached for hers. She shuffled to one side and I unlocked her flat. I pushed open the door and immediately the scent from her flat ramped up several notches.

The woman edged past me into the small hall. I had the mirror image on the other side of the hall. Wobbling on one leg, she kicked open the living room door, bustled in and dropped all the bags on the sofa.

She turned to me, a slightly embarrassed look on her pale, delicate face. "A girl has to get new clothes every so often," she said.

"New clothes?" I asked. "It looks like you've bought a whole new wardrobe."

"Seasons change, fashions change," she explained. "I've lost count of how many times I've done this sort of thing."

Her current ensemble of mini-skirt, tight top, calf-high boots and a hair-do to match. I'm no fashion expert but, looking at her, it seemed she had just stepped out of the Sixties.

"Well, don't just stand there. Put the kettle on. I've got to see my babies."

Babies? I thought, as I stepped into the living room. It was then that I realised where 3B's curious, not unpleasant, smell was coming from. The living room was a jungle. The sofa was set in a clearing, of sorts, surrounded on all sides by greenery: palms, ferns, grasses, flowers of every shade, cacti. This was the the sort of vegetation I had only seen on nature documentaries. The smell of loamy soil came from dozens of grow-bags spread around the living room. My head was spinning from the heavily scented air: incense, joss-sticks and various illegal herbs.

"What a clever girl!" she said. "You caught one. Well done. Mama give you a treat."

I looked over, expecting some jungle cat to emerge from the foliage. Instead, she was talking to what looked like a Venus Fly-trap. I swear the thing belched! She reached for a small, green plastic watering can and filled the plant's pot with yellowish coloured water. If, indeed, it was actually water.

"Don't just stand there, looking like a lemon. Go and make the tea."

Whatever was in the air was weakening my will and her voice, her soft, dulcet tones, was guiding me, puppet-like, through the motions of making tea. The kitchen was much like the living room, overgrown with a bewildering array of plants. Was it just me, or were some of them looking at me with small, beady black eyes?

I found her lounging on the sofa. The shopping bags had gone, as had her Sixties fashion sense. Now, she was bang up to date, in a soft green sleeveless dress, sheer stockings, high heels and a hair-do straight from the salon. Her hair had grown six inches in as many minutes.

"Sit with me," she said, as she patted the cushion.

I did as I was told. I couldn't stop myself.

"I've been waiting a very long time to meet you, Adam. You can call me Lili."

===

If you're interested in what Adam and Lili get up to next  (because let's face it, I have no idea!) let me know in the comments section.

At the races

Another little exercise, this one linked to the story Secrets (posted on the blog earlier http://colinabrett.blogspot.co.uk/2017/12/secrets.html ) and describing an incident from the protagonist's (John Armstrong) past.

===

They were drinking champagne and losing their shirts at the races that day. Did they care? Did they heck! The money they were losing wasn't theirs. It wasn't, technically, stolen, either. At least, not stolen by John and his peers.

It was the technicality that made it interesting. John Armstrong had found a 'leak' in the company's finances. Project ARGENT, through a series of fronts and blinds, was funnelling money into the Chief Financial Officer's retirement fund. And a tidy sum it was, too. John had confronted the CFO, blackmailed him into stepping aside, and taken the old man's job. Several thousand Pounds had been routed from ARGENT to John and he had decided to celebrate.

Now they were standing in the VIP marquee on the day of the Grand National. The titled, well-heeled and filthy rich were flowing around John's knot of hangers-on, assistants and part-time lovers. Some of the job descriptions overlapped.

Stephanie Morgan leaned closer to John. She ignored the venomous look she drew from Alexandra Stewart, John's current sweetheart, who, in Steph's opionion, deserved to be replaced. "John," she said, her voice like honey, "I've just met this fabulous gent who has given me the most solid tip for the National." She snuggled closer still and began playing with the white carnation on the lapel of his jacket. Her voice became husky. "I don't suppose I could, you know, place a bet," she wheedled.

John straightened in more ways than one. Stephanie had that sort of effect on him. "Of course you can." He found his credit card and held the glittering Platinum plastic in front of avaricious blue eyes. "Shall we?"

Stephanie linked her arm through John's and looked daggers at her rival. She made sure her hip swayed against his as they walked to the bookmaker.

"How much?" John asked.

"I don't know," Stephanie wondered how much she could get away with. "A couple of hundred, maybe?"

John doubled the stake and took the betting slip for £400 at 66-to-1. If the horse came in, that would be over twenty thousand in winnings.

They watched the race from the VIP stands, sharing John's compact binoculars. Excitement built to unbearable levels. Two horses fell. Another six threw their riders. Their horse, Second Dawn, won by several lengths after a nail-biting finish. Stephanie, ecstatic, threw her arms around John and kissed him hard on the lips. She enjoyed the effect she was having on him.

As they collected their winnings, John said, "You must introduce me to your tipster. Where is he?"

Stephanie looked around. "He was over there," she pointed to the corner of the marquee. "Oh," she said, "he seems to have gone. He was a nice-looking man, well dressed. Little moustache. Couldn't guess his age, though. Anywhere between thirty and fifty. He must have been at the deviled eggs from the buffet, though, because there was such an odd smell around him."

The description, for some reason, triggered an alarm bell in John's mind but, try as he might, he couldn't work out where he had seen the man. John had more pressing things to deal with and currently, she was pressing against him, swaying slowly, her silk dress rustling and her inviting blue eyes locked on his.