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Chapter Text

The commercial area of this narrow alley was cursed. At least that's what Fallen Londoners said. The Honey-Addled Detective's inquisitive mind went through several explanations: the most likely seemed to be some illegal trade holed up here, and rumours of a supernatural danger could be spread intentionally to keep eyes and ears away. Or perhaps neighbours simply disliked local sellers; people always find a reason, be you an immigrant, an adherent of different beliefs, or an exception in almost any other way. But he wouldn't rule out an actual curse, either. After all, this is the Neath.

Entering the pawnshop of the Nocturnal Nostalgist was more like diving – so thick was the mist of incense mingled with perennial dust. The cough of visitors did such an excellent job of alerting the owner that the door chime seemed a fanciful excess.

The Detective met the gaze of his unflatteringly exhausted sunken-eyed reflection in the murky glass of display cases. Trying to pay no attention to this miserable sight, he looked through. An amber earring without a pair – a sad and beautiful gaol of some tiny prehistoric creature... An amulet engraved with incomprehensible symbols, resting on a velvet cushion... A bone carving from Chelonate: a figurine of a nude mermaid in a voluptuous embrace with a zee-monster... A stack of yellowed postcards, which, apparently, someone tried to burn...

He was distracted by the cold kisses of fragile silver wings of the frost-moths fluttering around his gaunt face.

"Apologies, my friend. The smell of Prisoner's Honey attracts them." The Nostalgist stepped into the front room. They flocked to her just as eagerly, but her translucent dark mourning veil limited their persistence. "Would be a pity to keep them in captivity under glass jars. Some say they are the souls of the deceased on their way to forbidden rebirth. They should be able to find it freely through the night."

"And what some say about you is that you are strange. Which is good: so am I, and I hope you will understand me, ma'am."

She smiled – so shyly that it was barely visible behind the veil – and offered him tea. The Detective couldn't refuse, tormented by thirst of abstinence.

The usual mushroomy taste of Neathy substitutes was pleasantly disguised. He shared this observation, both as a compliment and as a demonstration of his legendary perception.

"I add dried petals," she revealed the secret, pouring another cup for herself.

"Curious. I can't even notice them among the tea leaves."

"Iremi roses. Not yet grown, not yet blossomed."

The Honey-Addled Detective nodded thoughtfully with the air of someone who never discards any contradictory information straight away.

"Let's get to the point then: currently I am preoccupied with an investigation that led me to a dead end," he said. "But I have an idea. Maybe I should examine the collected evidence with new eyes. Alas, I can't risk experimenting with irrigo; however... Tell me, ma'am, is it possible to pawn my memory to you? Or my logic, temporarily exchanging it for someone else's? Or empathy, to ensure that unwitting compassion or bias won't make me fall for lies?"

"Hmm... This is much more difficult than preserving a small fragment of reminiscences and emotions in a sentimental gift, a piece of art or a letter... What you ask may leave scars. And your mind is far too precious to damage it. I'm afraid my capabilities are not enough. I'm just a humble amateur collector."

He took another sip and allowed himself to enjoy the softness of the moth-eaten armchair for a little while before trying again:

"I understand. Then I have a plea to your..." he paused, searching for the right word, "...boss."

"I'm the only person in charge of this shop, sir," the Nostalgist tilted her head like a puzzled cat.

"I don't see any signs of lying in the way you say it. However, here's an interesting fact: the trade permits of the Bazaar have no mentions of you..."

"Yes, I am a ghost who haunts this doomed commercial area," she chuckled quietly, pulling a rare joke from the depths of a quagmire of chronic melancholy. "It's still legal, Detective. The reason is just that not a single Echo is involved in my bargains. Barter and services only. Good for minimizing taxes..."

"...and avoiding the Masters' control. Thus I theorized that you must have other patrons whom even they prefer to steer clear from; otherwise your charming pawnshop would have been long closed. At first I suspected the Gracious Widow and her smugglers, but you wouldn't receive such cordial invitations to the Duchess' salon if this was true. Soon I found out that a share of all secrets and dreams passing through here goes to a certain "V". Delightfully cryptic, isn't it? As if beckoning to follow, not telling where, but noticeably winking."

She grew amused. "My, my, have you really bothered to check everyone whose names or surnames or aliases start with it? And all viscounts, and all vicars..."

"Far from everyone, of course. I quickly realized that it might be not a letter, but a number. Roman "5". And because I studied – with great professional curiosity – the case of the first murder after the Fall of London, when there was an inexplicable gap of memory of all those present at the trial, and when Archibald Reid mysteriously vanished despite having been later found innocent, I spent many years figuring out the involvement of the elusive gentleman who called himself the fifth month..."

Relishing his words like music, the Nocturnal Nostalgist responded with an elegant gesture:

"Let me compliment your skill, Detective." Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Yes, May has been watching your persistent efforts with equal interest. It entertained him, which is valuable for one who must endure the tædium vitæ of thousands of years. That's why he isn't angered. And he leaves it up to you what you will do with this information. Consider yourself lucky, because usually any files on him have an unfortunate habit of disappearing overnight even from the most securely locked rooms. Sometimes together with the compilers themselves. Anyway, so what you wanted me to tell him?"

"My request is very simple: I wish to waste no time at the Royal Beth while I'm solving my current case. My backup plan is to turn my brain upside down on my own. Black absinthe, devils' wines, prisoner's honey, maybe even less legal kinds of it, whatever else... I am going to rinse myself in oblivion and madness; through its lens I hope to see something I haven't noticed before. My genius mind must be a tempting prey, and I'm sure it won't be long before the Merry Gentleman grins at me from every single mirror and window. But I beg to let me continue my work. All my best insights come in this state."

"I will put a word in for that, I promise," the Nostalgist said. "And may success be with you."

At the door, the Honey-Addled Detective saw another customer. The latter took off his round black spectacles when stepping into the twilight that was even darker than outside where gas lamps barely held back the underground gloom. "Remarkable," the Detective thought, "how such colourless eyes can be so bright". They were icy, matched by ashen shades of his hat and cloak, and greying hair also contributed to this spectrum. The dim interior of the pawnshop, reminiscent of old sepia daguerreotypes, suddenly seemed like Mrs Plenty's Carnival in comparison to this stranger. He politely allowed the Detective to pass, following him with a watchful gaze for a while, as if making sure that he was leaving.

"Good evening, Dame. We met in the parlour of a certain Order of scarlet chess, if you remember me," the Grosmeister said without getting distracted by display cases, shelves, chests and cabinets. "I feel I'm at a perfect place to find rare grimoires and long-out-of-print books... At least since Virgil & Co moved Hell knows where."

"Welcome. Are you looking for something specific?"

"The seventh edition of At the Shore of Midnight," he answered calmly and readily.

The Nocturnal Nostalgist contemplated him with a brief observant stare and nodded:

"I think I have one left in my personal library. Please follow me."

She led him to the backroom, through inner doors, and down into the basement. The Grosmeister walked behind her like a silent shadow, brushing clinging cobwebs off his cloak.

Both knew there never was a seventh edition.

Chapter Text

Black mourning candles from the Tomb-Colonies had a strange sickly sweet scent that pretended to be lilac, but still was reminiscent of embalming fluids and mortuaries. The veiled lady took one from a slowly melting cluster and glanced back to make sure that the Grosmeister was following her down.

The basement led deep into the ruins of the previous Fallen Cities, well-fortified with columns and spacious enough to guess that this ancient building might have been a town hall or something similarly grand. Lacre-bleached skeletons of its past residents were purposefully left undisturbed in their stone armchairs and on crumbling amphitheatrical steps, serving as grim reminders of the real worth of all the Bazaar's promises. The living were strolling and sitting right beside them, once more filling the dead silence with chatter of a motley variety of occultists, scholars, philosophers ranging from the most pragmatic planners to idealistic writers of fantastic fiction, philanthropists, campaigners, workers, and many others.

Scottish accent flowed through the debate on mythical existence of the universe's greatest library. The Tracklayers' Union played cards on a broken marble slab. An elderly rat in a tiny pince-nez was looking for a seat with a clear view for its height, preferably far from the honey-eyed cat whose white fur was being leisurely stroked by eight long fingers.

"Already here? I never see you entering through the door. Not that I'm surprised, of course," said the Nocturnal Nostalgist, passing by. The cat was left unattended for a minute to let her pale lips chivalrously touch his glove, mutually deliberately violating several rules of etiquette at once in some kind of a bizarre private game. But then her own hand was playfully intercepted and kissed between whispering that the honour of receiving guests today made the Nostalgist herself the one who deserved the reverence.

The Grosmeister seized the moment of her distraction to blend in with the crowd. Which wasn't big, but he knew how to stay invisible even in much lonelier places. He had extensive experience in infiltration.

A zailor with a wooden leg sat at the center of attention. Among those present, he was the only one who actually looked like a revolutionary – or, rather, like that caricature from newspapers and didactic posters with an expression of fanatical madness on its dishevelled dirty face, a knife in its furiously bared teeth and a bomb in its hand. Apparently aware of this unfortunate likeness, the captain had washed and shaved the day before, but mirrors were banned on board and his dominant arm was also replaced by an intricate mechanical prosthesis, so he added a couple of cuts that only increased the resemblance to a dangerous pugnacious maniac.

It was hard not to recognize the Possessed Pirate from the "wanted" posters in every pub and dockside customs office. For murder, for treason, for numerous other crimes – the details weren't consistent, and the Grosmeister's sources confirmed: all these charges were false or someone else's, just a cover for some different secret real reason to catch him. Was it his trail that led the Honey-Addled Detective to the pawnshop above? Unlikely. The Detective wasn't easy to fool. And a full mug or a pinch of good tobacco was enough to encourage those who shared a ship with the Pirate to blab out their testimonies: they swore they had never met a more honourable, brave and big-hearted captain, whose gravest vices were mere superstitiousness, unwise affairs with his own officers, thriftless gluttony as compensation for asceticism of long voyages, overly flamboyant cursing, and a penchant for risk.

"...That's when I gave the order to steer the zubmarine straight into the abyss of the dilating pupil. My crew was shaking in horror, including our blue parrot. But I've seen this so many times in my nightmares, I felt, I knew that I found a gateway to undiscovered wondrous lands, and the traveller and explorer in me irresistibly desired to peek into the unknown..."

"I think I can guess how this fellow lost half of his limbs," one of the listeners commented, prompting nearby companions' dark chuckles. "Whatever happened to your arm, I'd bet a bottle of mushroom ale that this spirit of exploration was to blame, huh?"

The Possessed Pirate's remaining eye glared menacingly in their direction:

"Would you kindly shut the hell up? It was a bound-shark, not a blunder of mine."

"But what about the leg?" The audience wasn't going to back down so easily.

"A shark, too," the Pirate muttered grumpily, clearly not wanting to dwell on this.

"What, the same one? Or had it recommended you?"

The Grosmeister made a mental note that this man was remarkably bad at lying. And a brief sympathetic nod from the Manager most likely implied an involvement of starving Seekers, perhaps among the ship's crew, or the God-Eaters, or something even worse. As if sensing him watching, the very next moment the Manager, winking with a chilling smirk, stared directly at the Grosmeister. The latter flinched and quickly pretended to look elsewhere. At the corner of his vision, this image still lingered like an aftermath of a photographic flash, as distorted and vague as a remembered nightmare, making him realize that "don't let the Merry Gentleman in" meant not only doors and mirrors, but also eyes and mind.

"Friends! Allies! There will be plenty of time for discussion, I assure you. First, we should let the speaker finish," the Jovial Contrarian's voice proposed affably but insistently, followed by many impatient shouts of agreement.

However, the captain had already understood that words were not enough. He mumbled something about giving up the helm and moved the diagonal leather patch from one side of his face to the other. The eye under it was a supernatural replacement of the missing one; it opened and inspected the crowd. They fell silent. Emitting no light, it burned like an ember: red and gold amid cosmic black void.

"You had questions, hadn't you?" hissed the Halved with the Pirate's lips, but with a tongue of fire, breath of the interstellar cold, and bitter weary sarcasm of someone who has seen everything and became disillusioned with most of it.

The quiet pause began to give way to murmurs of awe, dread and amazement:

"So it's true... Eleutheria exists... not just a fantasy of the Liberationists..."

"By all the infernal saints, what is this?"

"Will mere mortals really be able to travel unbelievable distances? Even across the sky, the Judgements' domain? And to send mail in a – pardon me – blink of an eye? If the lawmaker of spatial measures himself has abolished all prohibitions and limits, just imagine what the coming century might bring..."

While they were talking over each other, May of the Calendar Council stood up with the assistance of his cane. In a top hat or without it, he was so tall that it proved enough to call for attention. He looked sullen: a rarer sight than a sunny day in Fallen London, especially for citizens who knew him only as the ever-welcoming Manager of the Royal Bethlehem Hotel. Even those who feared the Merry Gentleman's smile more than the immutable grin of the Boatman's skull would agree that its unusual absense seemed twice as alarming.

"Yes, Halved one, I do have something to ask. So many centuries passed, but I never forget. Why have you abandoned us? My city prayed to you, built shrines to worship you... Why haven't you saved us?"

The lightless star answered through the zee-captain, adapting to speech right in the process:

"We – I... – I promised you freedom. Then how could I interfere with the decision you made yourself? Humans must remember that choosing your fate independently of the will of self-appointed gods is a precious immense responsibility..."

"But we served you faithfully! Provided shelter to wayfarers at the crossroads... Cared for the sick and dying, rescuing their lives from the jaws of your enemy... Honoured the teachings of darkness about dreams, voluntary oaths instead of laws, all kinds of forbidden knowledge..." In the dimness of the basement, the Manager's own iris glowed with that same heated red and gold. "Wasn't I your high priest at the Temple of Eyes? Wasn't it me who ruled as a king over my people not by force but by my obedient duty to be a mediator of the night's gifts for them? Why didn't you intervene when grief robbed me of my sanity and the destroyers of cities took advantage of this, o false god among false gods?"

"I don't need servants. Only the powers of light wish to keep slaves on the Great Chain. And I need those who understand what I'm fighting for. Those who have felt the suffocating hold of these shackles. Who have known despair and injustice. Like you..." The eerie eye looked around the whole room. "...Like you all."

Moving from one to another, its gaze stopped on the Grosmeister. All-seeing, unescapable, undeceivable.

"...Yet there is an intruder amidst you."

Before the Possessed Pirate finished uttering the words of the Halved, the uncovered chessmaster had already calculated his next actions and possible escape routes. The way to the door upstairs was blocked by immovable muscular Clay dockers. Luckily, there were large full-length mirrors not too far: perched on suspiciously squirming tree branches, a flock of October's ravens watched the meeting from behind the glass. When the revolutionaries raised the alarm, the spy swiftly slipped into Parabola.

"Damn. I've allowed him to come in, so I should make amends by catching him," the Nocturnal Nostalgist braced herself for the chase.

"It's not your fault. Stay with our dear guests," the Managed assured, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently hold her back. His midnight stalker's smile spread anew. "Let me have the pleasure..."

Chapter Text

The Grosmeister definitely wasn't at the best age for chases. The realm of dreams granted freedom from quite a lot of limitations of a physical body, but still, he wasn't happy with the situation. He liked the excitement of pursuit and evasion only when it was a confrontation of minds that could take place at a desktop, in a comfortable chair, quietly and patiently, for many months of tracking and outsmarting each other. In other circumstances, the Manager could have become an excellent opponent in such a game, extending it for centuries and giving the Grosmeister a rare pleasure of unraveling truly worthy puzzles and cunning webs, but alas, he preferred simple hide-and-seek when it came to Londoners. Well, in fact, not so simple...

The grey cloak swooshed dramatically at a sharp turn, half-wet after a wade through the Mirror-Marches. It seemed like a better option to hide in the thicket of Parabolan forests, notorious as a place to easily get lost in, which was useful for throwing someone off the trail. But the grass under his feet began to redden like a carpet, and trees started to turn into decorative columns: the Manager was already close, and in his presence the Hotel seeped into dreams almost infectiously.

Growing walls trapped the Grosmeister. He refused to give up, using his willpower to imagine doors and slipping through them into more and more new hallways. The Merry Gentleman's laughter echoed off every one of them, making safe directions too unclear to be chosen quickly. All the portrait paintings had the same unsettlingly wide grin and seemed to follow the fugitive with their eyes.

The Grosmeister cursed himself for entering the territory of rules that weren't in his favour. The nightmare's nature dictated to panic and flee, but wait a minute, why should he? He could still counter it with his rationality. He was able to defend himself, and just one unarmed man, even though taller and heavier, was far from the worst of what he had to deal with before. On the other hand, back then he relied on hidden blades in his cane or sleeve, combined with anatomical knowledge and precise visual calculus; against an immortal, those tricks would be no more effective than a wasp. However, trying to catch an angry wasp would make anyone reconsider if it's really worth it... No, arguments didn't work: some instincts from the depths of the ancient reptilian brain seized control as soon as they detected the primal sense of being hunted. They heroically grabbed his babbling logic and rapidly carried it away together with the rest of the Grosmeister.

Fortunately, behind one of the doors this part of Parabola had not yet completely succumbed to the Royal Beth, settling on a compromise between a room and a jungle. The hapless spy rushed inside, closed it and took a breath. Among so many identical doors, the Manager wouldn't look for him behind them, knowing that most of them lead only to the same endless labyrinths. Or would he? The Grosmeister listened through the wall.

The pursuer didn't even bother hurrying. Punctuating his footsteps with a cane, he chose the most leisurely gait, whistling a tune from the Mahogany Hall. He himself looked like their permanently smiling stage hosts and magicians in disproportionate top hats, so it created an impression that he, too, could demonstrate a prestidigitator's dexterity when needed. But there were no spectators, and this costume of the Merry Gentleman covered up ancient weariness and prideful dignity. Besides, that sinister dark eye had just reminded him that once he was a priest-king of the god of measurements, including distance; these unimaginably long corridors could obediently bring the runaway to him, reducing themselves to one calm step.

Thus coming to the conclusion that any advantage in the chase was deceptive, the Grosmeister changed his strategy to hide-and-seek. Stealth and patience were a forte of a veteran of the Great Game. The sound of the cane and the melodic whistling passed the door and began to fade away; a few more minutes, and he would only have to sneak in the opposite direction.

But as soon as he opened the door in safe silence, the Manager's glove grabbed his throat with a relentlessly multiplying fractal of fingers.

"I recommend not to resist," he said as sweetly as when he was politely instructing new guests. "If we'll have to extract your secrets through interrogations, those who would conduct it won't do it as quickly and harmlessly as I can."

Like in a heavy fever dream, the control over his own body was leaving the Grosmeister, not even allowing to scream, let alone articulate any bargaining proposal. His nails tried in vain to unclench the grasp. More and more damned fingers, more and more teeth in an anticipating smile. "I bet the Masters of the Bazaar don't miss the chance to charge him with some surplus tax" was his last clear thought, purely out of Fallen Londoners' habit to find irony in despair.

"Wait!" Clad in moonlight-silvered armour, the Nocturnal Nostalgist caught up with them on horseback of a stray nightmare. "I think I know him. He is on our side. He wouldn't spy for enemies; most likely he has personal reasons to be interested in revolutionaries' plans."

After the consequences of his deal with the Bazaar, the Manager swore to never trust anyone again. But he had at least some willingness to listen to her: love was no less enticingly delectable than horror, and the Nostalgist was full of it, giving freely, even knowing that he wouldn't reciprocate.

"You are right, this one doesn't seem to have something to hide. Others in his place struggle or beg even if they turn out to be innocent. Despite that I do feel his fear..."

Indeed, the Grosmeister carried himself with surprising dignity and almost calmness. Seeing that he clearly understood the futility of escape attempts, he was released and allowed to catch his breath. He gathered his courage to look straight into the eyes that were studying him suspiciously:

"The explanation is simple, sir. I am a man of logic. Powered by dreams and such, your irrational nature dismays me. And I have to admit, I am quite afraid of insanity, because sometimes I come too close to it when I overload my intellect with new challenges. I hope this honesty will convince you that I have no hostile intentions."

"Another sleuth?" the Nostalgist made a guess. "Is that why you followed the Detective before he led you to my pawnshop?"

"No, my fair dame. I'm just a... well, a Grosmeister. Vice versa, it was me who led him there, in a sense: I am the one whom he is currently looking for."