Read Online Mariah Mundi and the Ship of Fools by G.P. Taylor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: G.P. Taylor
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couldn’t speak. The terror of the vision chained him to the ground. The image flickered with the golden light and seemed to come closer. A blue mist with the scent of almonds and seaweed filled the room. The vision of Topher began to fade. Mariah could hear him speaking but couldn’t understand the words. He felt weary, exhausted. His eyes were heavy. His head drooped. Finally his knees buckled and he fell to the floor, overcome by a deathly sleep.
[6]
Naturum Muriaticum
T HE Saloon Theatre was misty-thick with the smoke from a thousand cigars. Charity stood, crowded to the end of the long wooden bar. Three large windows gave him a view over the dark sea. High above, the Bicameralist kept pace with the ship, hovering like a dark cloud. A searchlight at the front of the skyship bathed the Triton in a pool of carbide light.
Charity looked down. The ship appeared to be surrounded by a ghostly phosphorescence that bubbled from the sea. Promenaders walked the deck arm in arm. Some stopped by the railings and looked out at the flat, calm Atlantic that enclosed them like thick green ink. In the packed saloon, old men drank absinthe and Angostura poured from tall jugs. The conversation was loud and raucous as they watched the dancing on the small stage by the curtained doorway.
Sipping from his glass, Charity waited. He had no interest in the burlesque or the milky-green cocktail, yet he held his glass so as not to appear out of place. With each faux sip, he looked about the room. It had been something that Casper Vikash had said to the Marquis on the balcony of their suite that had brought him to that place. Charity had been sure that he wasnot meant to hear that single word, but hear he had. As the night had gone on so the intrigue had grown and grown. By the time he and Mariah had got to the door of the cabin, Charity could bear it no longer.
As he had taken the steam elevator to the upper deck, Charity knew he was being followed. There had been two men at the end of the passageway near to his cabin. They had watched him intently whilst they conversed amiably with one another. Then as he left the elevator on the saloon deck, another man had followed him along the corridor and through the red velvet curtains. Charity didn’t know who these men were, but his suspicion was that they worked for the Marquis DeFeaux. Each one was typically Continental, smaller than average, swarthy in complexion and with a thick Latino brow. Their clothes were to big for them, as if they had been hurriedly found for the purpose of fitting in with the aristocratic guests of the saloon bar.
Even as he sipped his drink in his gloved hand, one of the men watched him from the door and then, within minutes of his arrival, was joined by the two others. Charity knew that whilst he was in the company of so many people nothing would happen. As he waited, the dancing stopped. The stage was cleared of several disregarded Akomeogi hand-fans thrown down by the dancers. Into the bright limelight stepped a hunched man in a tailcoat and white spats. He carried on his arm a large leather-faced doll dressed as a Chinese Mandarin.
For a moment, he held the doll for all to see. It was lifelike in every way, although its skin looked as if it were tanned rawhide and the eyes were that of a large fish. A long, thin moustache flowed down from its lips. The man took a stool and sat with the mannequin on his knee.
‘My name is Charlemagne. I am the keeper of secrets,’ he said as he bolstered the doll against him. ‘Shanjing is more thana mannequin – he is a thousand years old and has seen empires fall. This night, he will tell you the darkest secrets of your hearts.’
As the ventriloquist spoke in his Italian accent, the audience muttered in bored disapproval.
‘We want dancers, not mind-reading bits of wood,’ shouted a thin man with an obvious glass eye on the very front row.
‘You want to know who is stealing from your business and how much you spend on
[6]
Naturum Muriaticum
T HE Saloon Theatre was misty-thick with the smoke from a thousand cigars. Charity stood, crowded to the end of the long wooden bar. Three large windows gave him a view over the dark sea. High above, the Bicameralist kept pace with the ship, hovering like a dark cloud. A searchlight at the front of the skyship bathed the Triton in a pool of carbide light.
Charity looked down. The ship appeared to be surrounded by a ghostly phosphorescence that bubbled from the sea. Promenaders walked the deck arm in arm. Some stopped by the railings and looked out at the flat, calm Atlantic that enclosed them like thick green ink. In the packed saloon, old men drank absinthe and Angostura poured from tall jugs. The conversation was loud and raucous as they watched the dancing on the small stage by the curtained doorway.
Sipping from his glass, Charity waited. He had no interest in the burlesque or the milky-green cocktail, yet he held his glass so as not to appear out of place. With each faux sip, he looked about the room. It had been something that Casper Vikash had said to the Marquis on the balcony of their suite that had brought him to that place. Charity had been sure that he wasnot meant to hear that single word, but hear he had. As the night had gone on so the intrigue had grown and grown. By the time he and Mariah had got to the door of the cabin, Charity could bear it no longer.
As he had taken the steam elevator to the upper deck, Charity knew he was being followed. There had been two men at the end of the passageway near to his cabin. They had watched him intently whilst they conversed amiably with one another. Then as he left the elevator on the saloon deck, another man had followed him along the corridor and through the red velvet curtains. Charity didn’t know who these men were, but his suspicion was that they worked for the Marquis DeFeaux. Each one was typically Continental, smaller than average, swarthy in complexion and with a thick Latino brow. Their clothes were to big for them, as if they had been hurriedly found for the purpose of fitting in with the aristocratic guests of the saloon bar.
Even as he sipped his drink in his gloved hand, one of the men watched him from the door and then, within minutes of his arrival, was joined by the two others. Charity knew that whilst he was in the company of so many people nothing would happen. As he waited, the dancing stopped. The stage was cleared of several disregarded Akomeogi hand-fans thrown down by the dancers. Into the bright limelight stepped a hunched man in a tailcoat and white spats. He carried on his arm a large leather-faced doll dressed as a Chinese Mandarin.
For a moment, he held the doll for all to see. It was lifelike in every way, although its skin looked as if it were tanned rawhide and the eyes were that of a large fish. A long, thin moustache flowed down from its lips. The man took a stool and sat with the mannequin on his knee.
‘My name is Charlemagne. I am the keeper of secrets,’ he said as he bolstered the doll against him. ‘Shanjing is more thana mannequin – he is a thousand years old and has seen empires fall. This night, he will tell you the darkest secrets of your hearts.’
As the ventriloquist spoke in his Italian accent, the audience muttered in bored disapproval.
‘We want dancers, not mind-reading bits of wood,’ shouted a thin man with an obvious glass eye on the very front row.
‘You want to know who is stealing from your business and how much you spend on
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