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Authors: Gregory Funaro
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could convince—”
“Out of the question. It is too dangerous for you to even speak of the animus outside the Odditorium.”
“A demonstration, then. Something powered by the animus that I could show our backers—like that small model of the Odditorium you showed me five years ago.”
“Again, out of the question. If my blue energy should fall into the wrong hands—no, it’s too risky. Until everything is ready, until all the security measures are in place, the
utmost secrecy is essential. You know that.”
Lord Dreary sighed and sank back into his chair. “Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice,” he said after a moment.
“No choice?”
“Notwithstanding the calamity that has become our business venture, the rumors about what goes on in here are not kind, old friend. Alistair Grim: inventor, fortune hunter…and some say,
mad sorcerer.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Grim, chuckling. But as he raked his hand through his long black hair, I could tell Lord Dreary’s comment had winged him.
“Perhaps it is nonsense,” said the old man. “But you can hardly blame people for talking. You’ve become nothing short of a recluse. And on the rare occasions when you do
appear in public, well, I needn’t tell you that skulking about the streets in your gloomy black cloak doesn’t help much either.”
Mr. Grim was about to protest, but Lord Dreary raised a hand to stop him.
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “any talk of madness, in sorcery or otherwise, is enough to spook even the heartiest of investors. And therefore I regret to inform you that even
my impeccable reputation isn’t enough to save you now.”
“Save me?”
“Yes, Alistair Grim. I’ve been instructed by our business associates to tell you that, pending the outcome of this meeting, all your accounts at the Central Bank are to be frozen
immediately.”
“What?”
cried Mr. Grim, rising. “They can’t do that!”
“Oh, I’m afraid they can,” said Lord Dreary, and he produced a document from his coat pocket. “Per the agreement you signed five years ago, and I quote: ‘If party
one’—that’s you, Alistair—‘fails to open the Odditorium by the agreed upon date’—that was a year ago yesterday, Alistair—‘at the discretion of
party two’—that’s our backers—‘all liquid assets and material holdings belonging to party one’—that’s you again, Alistair—‘shall be
seized and sold at public auction.’ There’s more in here pertaining to me, but I assure you that my future isn’t nearly as bleak as yours.”
“But we’re so close!”
“Then prove it!” Lord Dreary thundered, rising. “If you won’t allow them inside, give me something I can show them—something to prove that their money has not been
wasted on a madman’s folly.”
Mr. Grim wheeled away and, leaning on the wall behind his desk, hung his head low—his hair in his face, his arms rigid against the pipes. “So it’s proof they want,” he
muttered, caressing the polished steel. “Proof that I’m not a madman?”
“Proof that Alistair Grim is still a man of his word,” Lord Dreary said, his voice tight with emotion.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Grim, stiffening. He raked his hair back and turned to face Lord Dreary. “Tell our backers to gather outside at promptly three o’clock this
afternoon.”
“Outside the Odditorium, you mean?”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Grim, sitting at his desk. He opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper, dipped his pen in his inkwell, and began to write.
“What on earth do you have in mind?” Lord Dreary asked.
Mr. Grim held up a finger, seemed to think for a moment, and then finished writing.
“Here,” he said, passing Lord Dreary the paper. “Have the printer rush off two hundred of these—large type, something dramatic—and return them to me by noon.
I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Hm,” said Lord Dreary, reading. “This had better not be another one of your
“Out of the question. It is too dangerous for you to even speak of the animus outside the Odditorium.”
“A demonstration, then. Something powered by the animus that I could show our backers—like that small model of the Odditorium you showed me five years ago.”
“Again, out of the question. If my blue energy should fall into the wrong hands—no, it’s too risky. Until everything is ready, until all the security measures are in place, the
utmost secrecy is essential. You know that.”
Lord Dreary sighed and sank back into his chair. “Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice,” he said after a moment.
“No choice?”
“Notwithstanding the calamity that has become our business venture, the rumors about what goes on in here are not kind, old friend. Alistair Grim: inventor, fortune hunter…and some say,
mad sorcerer.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Grim, chuckling. But as he raked his hand through his long black hair, I could tell Lord Dreary’s comment had winged him.
“Perhaps it is nonsense,” said the old man. “But you can hardly blame people for talking. You’ve become nothing short of a recluse. And on the rare occasions when you do
appear in public, well, I needn’t tell you that skulking about the streets in your gloomy black cloak doesn’t help much either.”
Mr. Grim was about to protest, but Lord Dreary raised a hand to stop him.
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “any talk of madness, in sorcery or otherwise, is enough to spook even the heartiest of investors. And therefore I regret to inform you that even
my impeccable reputation isn’t enough to save you now.”
“Save me?”
“Yes, Alistair Grim. I’ve been instructed by our business associates to tell you that, pending the outcome of this meeting, all your accounts at the Central Bank are to be frozen
immediately.”
“What?”
cried Mr. Grim, rising. “They can’t do that!”
“Oh, I’m afraid they can,” said Lord Dreary, and he produced a document from his coat pocket. “Per the agreement you signed five years ago, and I quote: ‘If party
one’—that’s you, Alistair—‘fails to open the Odditorium by the agreed upon date’—that was a year ago yesterday, Alistair—‘at the discretion of
party two’—that’s our backers—‘all liquid assets and material holdings belonging to party one’—that’s you again, Alistair—‘shall be
seized and sold at public auction.’ There’s more in here pertaining to me, but I assure you that my future isn’t nearly as bleak as yours.”
“But we’re so close!”
“Then prove it!” Lord Dreary thundered, rising. “If you won’t allow them inside, give me something I can show them—something to prove that their money has not been
wasted on a madman’s folly.”
Mr. Grim wheeled away and, leaning on the wall behind his desk, hung his head low—his hair in his face, his arms rigid against the pipes. “So it’s proof they want,” he
muttered, caressing the polished steel. “Proof that I’m not a madman?”
“Proof that Alistair Grim is still a man of his word,” Lord Dreary said, his voice tight with emotion.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Grim, stiffening. He raked his hair back and turned to face Lord Dreary. “Tell our backers to gather outside at promptly three o’clock this
afternoon.”
“Outside the Odditorium, you mean?”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Grim, sitting at his desk. He opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper, dipped his pen in his inkwell, and began to write.
“What on earth do you have in mind?” Lord Dreary asked.
Mr. Grim held up a finger, seemed to think for a moment, and then finished writing.
“Here,” he said, passing Lord Dreary the paper. “Have the printer rush off two hundred of these—large type, something dramatic—and return them to me by noon.
I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Hm,” said Lord Dreary, reading. “This had better not be another one of your
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