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Authors: David Lee Stone
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us,” said Obegarde. “You know Burnie, cagey to the last.”
Vanya tried to break the growing air of despondency.
“My father will know what to do,” she assured them. “He is totally passionate about Illmoor, believe me.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy grumbled. “They used to say that about Modeset, and look what happened to him …”
Eight
V ORTAIN VISCERAL WAS A popular ruler, and not merely because his family had commanded Spittle since the city had first been conceived. He was angular, pale and gaunt, with a chin so pointed that many voiced the opinion that his head looked exactly like a crescent moon. Visceral was also a very strange man, and had aged little in the ninety-seven years he’d been on the throne. Some took his unnaturally long life and nocturnal demeanor to be a sign of vampiric or ghoulish pursuits, though in truth Visceral had never drunk blood and the thought of flesh-eating was abhorrent to him. Moreover, the earl had no great taste for food: he seldom even dipped a biscuit these days.
The actual fact of the matter was this: Vortain Visceral had absolutely no idea why he was the way he was … and he certainly didn’t want to question it. If the gods had seen fit to grant him extended tenure and a body that never looked much over thirty, then who was he to disagree? Gods were whimsical creatures, after all, and to be fair, he’d always wondered if they’d given him Spittle as a form of punishment.
People said Dullitch was bad—people who’d never set foot in Spittle. Few did.
Nevertheless, like all cities, it had its good points. If you wanted to trade anything, absolutely anything at all, you went to Spittle. You just didn’t expect to return with anything more than a black eye and, if you were lucky, a limp.
Today, the city was bursting with energy, activity, enthusiasm and the sort of smells that only went away after you set light to the source.
Spittle Tower, home to the royal family, was arguably the most visited site in Illmoor, due not to its particular size or questionable beauty, but because it was the continent’s only leaning tower—if the word leaning could actually be applied to a building that had bent at such an angle as to practically lay horizontally across the landscape. It was also a structure surrounded by mystery—not least because the corpses of several limbo dancers were still under there somewhere.
Inevitably, the rooms inside were all slanted at a ludicrous angle, and only Earl Visceral himself managed to walk the corridors with his dignity intact.
Today, the page on duty threw all his energy into climbing the long corridor to the throne room. When he reached the portal, he clung on for a time, before managing to swing himself into the room.
“A message for the earl,” he gasped. “It’s quite urgent.”
Earl Visceral, sitting in an ornate chair that had been nailed to the floor to stop it sliding into the far wall, looked up from his news scroll.
“Urgent?” he snapped. “I can’t remember the last time I got an urgent message. It’s not from Prince Blood, is it? Another complaint about the trade fair with Spittle I don’t need.”
The page shook his head. “No, Highness, it’s a message from Lady Vanya: she’s on the ship from Dullitch …”
“Ah yes. Her term will have ended.”
“… with a vampire and two other refugees.”
“What’s that? Refugees? What are you talking about?”
The page wiped some sweat from his brow with a free hand. “It appears that there has been some sort of an uprising in the capital. Her ladyship says that she will explain upon her arrival, but that in the meantime you must call a meeting of the High Council.”
“But—”
“It appears, Highness, that there’s a very real chance that Viscount Curfew has been murdered, and that some sort of … creature now sits on the throne.”
Earl Visceral swallowed a few times. Then he did what he always did whenever he got bad news. He closed his eyes and
Vanya tried to break the growing air of despondency.
“My father will know what to do,” she assured them. “He is totally passionate about Illmoor, believe me.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy grumbled. “They used to say that about Modeset, and look what happened to him …”
Eight
V ORTAIN VISCERAL WAS A popular ruler, and not merely because his family had commanded Spittle since the city had first been conceived. He was angular, pale and gaunt, with a chin so pointed that many voiced the opinion that his head looked exactly like a crescent moon. Visceral was also a very strange man, and had aged little in the ninety-seven years he’d been on the throne. Some took his unnaturally long life and nocturnal demeanor to be a sign of vampiric or ghoulish pursuits, though in truth Visceral had never drunk blood and the thought of flesh-eating was abhorrent to him. Moreover, the earl had no great taste for food: he seldom even dipped a biscuit these days.
The actual fact of the matter was this: Vortain Visceral had absolutely no idea why he was the way he was … and he certainly didn’t want to question it. If the gods had seen fit to grant him extended tenure and a body that never looked much over thirty, then who was he to disagree? Gods were whimsical creatures, after all, and to be fair, he’d always wondered if they’d given him Spittle as a form of punishment.
People said Dullitch was bad—people who’d never set foot in Spittle. Few did.
Nevertheless, like all cities, it had its good points. If you wanted to trade anything, absolutely anything at all, you went to Spittle. You just didn’t expect to return with anything more than a black eye and, if you were lucky, a limp.
Today, the city was bursting with energy, activity, enthusiasm and the sort of smells that only went away after you set light to the source.
Spittle Tower, home to the royal family, was arguably the most visited site in Illmoor, due not to its particular size or questionable beauty, but because it was the continent’s only leaning tower—if the word leaning could actually be applied to a building that had bent at such an angle as to practically lay horizontally across the landscape. It was also a structure surrounded by mystery—not least because the corpses of several limbo dancers were still under there somewhere.
Inevitably, the rooms inside were all slanted at a ludicrous angle, and only Earl Visceral himself managed to walk the corridors with his dignity intact.
Today, the page on duty threw all his energy into climbing the long corridor to the throne room. When he reached the portal, he clung on for a time, before managing to swing himself into the room.
“A message for the earl,” he gasped. “It’s quite urgent.”
Earl Visceral, sitting in an ornate chair that had been nailed to the floor to stop it sliding into the far wall, looked up from his news scroll.
“Urgent?” he snapped. “I can’t remember the last time I got an urgent message. It’s not from Prince Blood, is it? Another complaint about the trade fair with Spittle I don’t need.”
The page shook his head. “No, Highness, it’s a message from Lady Vanya: she’s on the ship from Dullitch …”
“Ah yes. Her term will have ended.”
“… with a vampire and two other refugees.”
“What’s that? Refugees? What are you talking about?”
The page wiped some sweat from his brow with a free hand. “It appears that there has been some sort of an uprising in the capital. Her ladyship says that she will explain upon her arrival, but that in the meantime you must call a meeting of the High Council.”
“But—”
“It appears, Highness, that there’s a very real chance that Viscount Curfew has been murdered, and that some sort of … creature now sits on the throne.”
Earl Visceral swallowed a few times. Then he did what he always did whenever he got bad news. He closed his eyes and
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