Chapter 5 - The Showgirls

The Showgirls

At just over 300 nautical miles per day, the Henri Giffard XVI was the fastest luxury dirigible in the fleet. It was just before 8:00 pm on October 5th. Her captain was in the process of reviewing the final preparations for launch, and not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned! Passengers rarely boarded in Port Bump, and it was his recommendation that this stop be excluded from all future voyages. After all, for years now it had been company policy that passengers remain on board while the ship took on supplies. Skipping this brief layover would allow him to reach his destination, just south of the equator, a half day sooner.

He was about to issue the order to shut the hatches and release the grappling lines when he spotted something of interest. Moving over to the glass and swivelling it to view the south he quite clearly saw two women running at a break-neck pace for the tower.

“Mr. McGregor,” he called over to the chief purser, all the while continuing to watch the approach of the two distant runners, “are we expecting any showgirls to be joining the complement from this stop?”

“No sir,” replied the purser who had joined at the captain’s side to watch the rapid approach of the two colourfully-dressed women. After a brief moment the purser noticed something more. “Look,” he called, pointing to a line of dust rising from the ground a short distance behind the women, “it appears they are being pursued by those savages from this Gods-forsaken Port.”

The captain shifted the angle of the glass. “Indeed you are correct Mr. McGregor.” The captain saw what appeared to be a mob of about a dozen angry men, two elephants, and a troll running about 300 metres behind the two women. The mob appeared to be gradually gaining on their quarry. “Keep the hatches unlocked until my word, Mr. McGregor.” instructed the captain without taking his eye from the glass. “I do hope they make it.”

***

Malus stared at the fire-grilled sausage wrapped in a fresh cornbread bun with a level of food-lust hitherto unheard of. He was about to sink his teeth into all that spiced-meaty goodness when he heard a tiny voice pipe-up: “Feed me.”

Malus looked down, his mouth still open, the sausage mere centimetres from meeting its final destiny. But then, before he could bring himself to consummate this epicurean union, he was staid by the sight of the most pitiful little waif he had ever seen in his life. She couldn’t have been more than four, with big blue eyes shining forth from a flawless little face, framed in wispy strands of mousy-brown hair. She was dressed in rags, her tiny, delicate fingers just poking out from under the large loose sleeves of her sweater.

“Feed me.” the child said again. “I is so hungry mister. I ain’t ate in nearly two days.” A single tear fell from the child’s eye, carving a path through the soot that darkened her cheeks.

“Don’t you listen to her mister.” warned the toothless old lady behind the sausage stand. “She ain’t what she seems. That child is the very spawn of evil, you mark my words.”

“My good lady,” Malus said with great indignation on behalf of the child, “As anyone can plainly see this child is neglected and half starved. Have you no compassion? Where is your pity?” Ignoring the calling whistle from the train behind him, Malus turned to the tiny child.

“Don’t you feed her!” the lady called again in warning, starting to back away from the sausage-wagon as if she meant to turn and run.

“Here child,” said Malus, resigning himself to purchasing a second sausage (likely half as good and twice as much) from a concession stand at the airfield. “Take mine.” he said with a smile crouching down and handing the sausage and bun to the beautiful little urchin.

***

From his seat aboard the train, Emerson had watched the exchange, a smile spreading across his face as well as his heart. He turned to find the conductor at the far end of the car. “My good man,” he called out, “if you could wait but a moment more. My squire is just in the process of carrying out a deed of a most chivalrous nature. You most certainly…” the sentence hung forever incomplete. For at that moment, with a casual glance back to the sausage wagon, Emerson saw his squire Malus, sword in hand, in a life and death battle with what appeared to be a 7-foot troll. The conductor, having caught sight of the amazing altercation as well, began blowing repeatedly upon the whistle which hung about his neck.

“No wait!” called Emerson standing now in the aisle, “surely there are men aboard who might be willing to offer assistance.”

“Sir, sit down or get off the train, but make your decision fast.” The train lurched as the breaks were released. Slowly the train began to move forward along the tracks. Emerson grabbed the bags and jumped to the platform at a loss as to how he was going to be of any assistance what-so-ever. In a complete act of desperation he ran to the now abandoned sausage wagon and began to fling fire-grilled sausages at the creature who was menacing Malus with increasing intensity. As if to illustrate what it would do should it get its hands around Malus’s throat, it caught one of the sausages and squeezed, only to let out an astonished bellow of pain as hot sausage grease trickled down through the hairs of its bare arm. Emerson and Malus took the distraction as an opportunity to run for their lives down the muddy main street of Bump.

***

Fortunately for Emerson and Malus, while the troll may have been strong, it was not particularly fast. Within a few minutes they had successfully managed to elude the angry creature and were able to slow to a more leisurely pace.

“That was a little close for comfort.” said Malus, as he re-sheathed his sword.

“Indeed it was.” replied Emerson, trying to catch his breath, noting a curious blackened and burned-out lot to his right. “Fortunately it’s not yet 2:00, still plenty of time to make our way to the airfield in time to catch our flight.”

Stopping at the end of Main Street, they noticed a series of tents and temporary structures being set up by a traveling carnival. The roadies and carnival workers barely took note of our two heroes as they enjoyed a moment of respite beside a cage housing two tired looking elephants. “Have you ever seen muckier streets?” Emerson lamented the toll on his shoes.

Malus wasn’t really listening as he had noticed a bag of peanuts next to the elephant’s cage. It certainly wasn’t the sausage on a bun he had been anticipating earlier, but at least it was something, he thought, as he absently started cracking shells and popping the nuts into his mouth.

“I commend you Squire Malus on your selfless act of chivalry.” said Emerson, allowing his eyes to wander over the simple wooden structures lining the street. “How were you to know there was an enchantment upon that child?” Neither man seemed to sense the increasing level of agitation being displayed by the two elephants behind them. “In fact,” Emerson said with a smile, “I do believe I would like to buy you a steak and onion lunch for your deeds.” Just then both men suddenly jumped in startled response to the trumpeting call from one of the elephants. They both started to laugh.

“That was shockingly loud wasn’t it?” Malus said.

Emerson clapped Malus on the shoulder, “Come on,” he continued, “I noticed a place which may suit our needs just a few doors up, a rather inviting looking saloon called Snake Eyes.” Malus grinned at the prospects of finally getting his steak. He dropped the bag of peanuts to the ground about a metre and a half from the cage, much to the chagrin of the two angry elephants.

Moments later they stood outside the doors of the Snake Eyes saloon listening to the tinny sound of a frontier piano coming from within. A poster beside the door promised a burlesque show every hour. “This may be a bit risqué.” Emerson said with a wink, opening and then holding the door for Malus.

Once inside the dozen or so patrons all turned at once. Conversation ceased immediately. The piano player stopped mid-song, his hands hovering over the keys. The silence hung like an eternity before someone broke the spell. “Look boys…the entertainment has arrived.”

***

Despite the valiant efforts of the bar-room piano player to drown them out, the catcalls and the boos were both bawdy and relentless. “Come on.” encouraged Emerson, his arm around Malus’s shoulder as he tried to choreograph their moves. “Like this: lean to the left and kick to the right, then lean to the right and kick to the left... again, one, two, three, kick… one, two, three, kick. There you go.” The crowd quieted somewhat.

“A higher kick though.” Emerson instructed, “and don’t bend your knee. They want to see more petticoat.”

“I can’t seem to manage these heels.” Malus complained.

“Just keep you back straight and your weight over your hips son... and place your foot straight down or you’ll twist an ankle.”

“I don’t see how this is supposed to help us escape.” Malus hissed angrily, missing a kick in the process. The crowd started to boo once again and someone threw a bottle narrowly missing Malus’s head. It was now almost 6:00 pm. Emerson scanned the exits seeing no means of unblocked escape. Indeed, with the airship scheduled to depart in just over two hours, their situation appeared grim. This last desperate ploy to distract the crowd from their more nefarious appetites had seemed to run its course. Indeed many had started to approach the stage with a hungry look in their eyes.

Then, just when there seemed no hope of survival, a deafening crash came from the front of the bar as the two enraged carnival elephants, having easily broken through their flimsy cages were now running about in a full-out raging rampage.

“Run Malus, run!” Emerson shouted amidst the confusion even as he made a break for the door. Malus grabbed their two bags from the side of the stage and quickly waded into the mayhem.

Somehow, in the confusion, they managed to get past the stunned Bumpians finding themselves once more (and this time in heels) on Bumps mucky main drag. They didn’t have time to relish the victory however, for the troll they had eluded earlier had finally caught up to them. In a blind panic, Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus ran for their lives.

***

“Mr. McGregor!” the captain called, “our new guests have succeeded in reaching the tower’s lift. Seal the hatches the moment they have been secured onboard. Ready to launch, on my mark.”

Chapter 4 - The Cows

The Cows

The sun rose over the dew laden fields north of the Dairy Cooperative with the same sparkling enthusiasm it had since time immemorial. As it set to task the drying of the morning mists, it noted with rising interest the rapid approach of two strangers running from the south: a silver haired gentleman wearing inappropriate footwear for a cross country trek and a lanky, shaggy-maned teen carrying a bag in each hand.

“Perhaps we should have stuck to the road.” said Malus, as the two slowed to a more leisurely pace. “North across the farmlands is a rather vague instruction which could lead to substantial error. We may miss Bump entirely and not even realize it for several hours.”

Emerson scanned the horizon and saw nothing but rolling hills, interspersed with the occasional tree. He had to concede that Malus had a valid point. The problem was he had no idea where they were in relation to the road.

“Well, there’s the sun,” Emerson gestured, “so we know that way is east. I don’t see much choice but to push on towards the north and see what we find over the next hill.”

An hour later, the next hill showed little more promise than the last. “We should have stolen some food before we climbed out that window,” said Malus, “At least we could have gotten lost on a full stomach.”

“You seem to forget that stealing food is the reason we had to climb out that window in the first place.” Emerson retorted. He was about to suggest they start walking again when he spotted something. “Look,” he pointed, “do you see that?” About a dozen cows were just cresting the rise in front of them.

“Cows.” Malus remarked.

“How astute.” Emerson’s retort was perhaps a shade snippier than need be. “They must have come from somewhere.”

“Equally astute.” Malus’s hunger was making him grumpy.

“Why are they still coming towards us?” Emerson question was tinged with a subtle level of concern.
Malus would have replied with something of a mocking nature if he wasn’t also sensing a touch of trepidation. The cows were clearly making their way directly towards the knight and his young squire. Both men regarded the approaching bovines with an increasing level of distrust.

“What do you know of cows Malus?” Emerson asked.

“That they say ‘moo’ and it is somehow possible to get milk from them.” replied Malus.
The cows stopped at about 3 metres distance. Emerson and Malus, as if perfectly choreographed, took a step back. The cows, equally well choreographed, took a step forward.

“Malus,” Emerson began, “this may sound like a stupid question, and I give you full permission to ridicule, but…” Emerson hesitated as if trying to frame his question, “...do cows eat meat?”

Malus, of course had heard tales of Bump and began to wonder if the tastes of that town’s inhabitants extended to their cattle. “That may depend on whether these are Bump cows, or Dairy cows.”

The two men began to walk backwards keeping their eyes on the advancing line of cows until they could take the stress of bravery no more. Together, they turned-tail and ran in out of control panic. The cows maintained a steady pace behind them.

***

“Aww, look-it there Cleet.” Daisy pointed from the back of the little wooden ass-cart Ceetus was driving, across the fields. “Those cows be a restin’ under that pretty orange maple.” Cleetus noted a dozen or so cows sitting in the shade of an autumn-emblazoned maple, quietly chewing their cuds. But then his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a couple of dark shapes clinging to the branches above.

***

“Be careful Miss Daisy,” Emerson warned as she approached the tree. “I think the cows are aggressive.”

Daisy stared up at Emerson for a moment before bringing her hand to her mouth to hide her giggle. “Sir Emerson, they be just cows, there ain’t nothin’ aggressive ‘bout ‘em, they is just curious is all.”

“Well,” Emerson replied with as much dignity as his position afforded, “I assure you, when the people read of these adventures in the years to come, the cows will be quite aggressive indeed.”

***

From its noon-time position high in the sky, the sun looked down upon the two individuals sitting in the back of the wooden cart. Beside them, two bored donkeys swished away flies with their tails. The cart was parked next to a coal-shed at the side of a set of train tracks.

“Where you be gittin’ your hookah leaf from Sir Emerson?” Cleetus asked, the nozzle of one of the hoses from Emerson’s hookah, clutched tight in his hand.

“My doctor.” replied Emerson with a cough. “A surgeon in New Babbage… though I haven’t seen him around lately since the women of the town burnt his practice to the ground.”

“Ye can’t trust yerself to no doctor, Sir Emerson.” said Cleetus. “I grows me my own hookah leaf out behind Pa’s barn.” Cleetus tossed Emerson a small leather satchel. “Here go. Ye gots yerself a week ‘n a half in an airship ahead a yer. Yer be needin’ this more ‘n me.”

Emerson smiled gratefully as he pocketed Cleetus’s hookah-leaf. “So when this train be a comin’?” asked Emerson, easily slipping back into the local dialect.

“Usually be comin’ anytime ‘bout now.” replied Cleetus.

“Are you sure there be no hard feelings?”

Cleetus smiled. “There be no hard feelin’s ‘atwixt the two a us, Sir Emerson.” he assured. “Nor Daisy fer that matter. She didn’t really want to marry Mr. Malus anyhow. Pardon me for sayin’, but he’s a bit of a dandy fer her tastes. All she ever wanted was to git away from the farm… and I can’t say as I blames her none. This ain’t no place fer her. Why ‘afore you ‘n Malus comed along her best prospects fer a husbind be our cousin Jimbo… not that he be that bad, bein’ a champeen hog coller ‘n all.” Cleetus paused. “We ain’t goin’ back home Sir Emerson. Me ‘n Daisy... we be headin’ us down to New Babbage-town ta seeks us our fortune.”

Emerson quickly grabbed a quill and paper from his bag. After several minutes of scribbling he sealed the paper in an envelope and handed it to Cleetus. “Here,” he said, “Take this to my Majordomo, Mr. Arnold, in the Wheatstone Waterways. It authorizes him to provide you with sufficient funds to see you through your first three months in New Babbage. Could you also swing by Brunel Hall? Ask for Victor Mornington. Let him know that with the airship tonight, Malus and I will have taken four of the seven means of transport he requires... he’ll know what I mean.” Emerson paused, “Be careful Cleetus, New Babbage can be rough on new comers… although I have a feeling you and Daisy will be just fine.”

***

No matter how many times Emerson had seen it he still had the same undiminished excitement at the approach of a steam-powered locomotive that he first felt as a child. What energy! What power! The very sound alone was beyond description! If you shut your eyes for just a moment you can imagine it… the hiss and the chug… the very vibration of power rippling through the earth itself… is there anything more magical than that? Even now, at the side of the rail, ten kilometres south of Bump, he could feel the promise of adventure at the approach of that train!

While the engineers re-stocked their reserves with coal, Emerson and Malus bid farewell to Daisy and Cleetus.

“Thank you, Sir Emerson,” Daisy said as she broke the embrace. “Cleetus done told me ‘bout all your help.” She said with a tear in her eye. “We’ll do you proud down there in New Babbage.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Emerson returned her smile. “Don’t mind Mr. Arnold. He’s a bit suspicious by nature.”

“Squire Malus,” Miss Daisy curtsied, “I expect you to write me of all your adventures as you uncover the secrets of the empire.”

“All aboard!” interrupted the conductor, thus saving our four new friends from becoming even more maudlin in their goodbyes.

“Safe driving Miss Daisy!” Called Malus with a wave from the steps of the train as it pulled away from the coal yard.

“Thank you Squire Malus!” she called out. “And remember… the airship port is 10 kilometres north of the town. Whatever else… don’t get off the train in Bump!”

***

Twenty minutes later, the train slowed to a stop at Bump. The conductor entered the car. “We’ll be here about 5 minutes gentlemen, please stay on the train and we’ll be on our way shortly.”

While Emerson read the local paper (which mentioned something of an influenza virus spreading rapidly down in New Babbage) Malus noticed a sausage wagon parked beside the tracks.

“I’ll be right back.” he said as he jumped from his seat and ran from the train.

Chapter 3 - The Farmer's Daughter

The Farmer's Daughter

The once mighty and magnificent steam-powered carriage hissed in mortal pain. It lay crushed and broken, unable to comprehend the reality of the approaching darkness that one day descends upon us all. Its very life-breath, the black carbon-heavy smoke and clouds of billowing steam, filled the tomb in which it now lay, spilling through the opening above as it reached for a darkening sky.

Upon the brass and polished steel, now little more than a shell, our two heroes lay like rag dolls dropped from a child’s sleepy fingers. Malus was the first to interrupt the sombre scene. “I see a light.” he said, “coming from above.”

“I am so sorry, Malus.” Emerson said. “It has been an honour having you serve me. I couldn’t have asked for a more loyal squire. Embrace it son, embrace the light.”

“You misunderstand Mr. Lighthouse.” Malus said dryly. “I believe someone is shining a lantern’s light into this pit.”

***

“Look at here Cleetus,” the two adventurers heard from above. “I do believe we done caught us some fancy townies from that stuck-up walled city down south. This bear trap we done dug yesterday works.”

“But they done busted it up good, Pa.” a second voice said with a note of disappointment. “where we gonna gits us our bear meat now?”

“Watch your manners Cleetus, I think I see me someone movin’ down there. I be thinkin’ we gots ourselfs some guests.” The first voice, identified as ‘Pa’, said. “Run and fetch me some rope and tell yer ma t’put the kettle on the stove.”

***

“Thank you for the tea ma’am.” said Emerson taking a long, deep, audible slurp. If Malus wasn’t mistaken, Emerson almost sounded as if he were starting to speak with the country drawl of the locals. “This is the best darn dandelion tea I’ve had since I don’t remember when.” Malus doubted Emerson Lighthouse had ever had dandelion tea in his life.

“You’re very welcome Sir Emerson.” the Lady Zebadiah beamed with pride. “It’s filled up with all the good vitermins. That’s so importin’ this time a year, what with the cold and flu season a comin’ upon us. You don’t want to git yerself sick with such an importin’ quest ahead a yer.”

“How very considerate of you.” said Emerson taking another sip before returning the cup to its saucer. “And what you said about the sicknesses and such, well, that may be true about the city, with its dirty air and crowded streets, but I reckon out here in this fresh air, one might live to be 100 or more, ‘specially with tea as fine as this.” Malus was about to roll his eyes in disgust when he caught a smile from young Miss Daisy across the room. Despite himself he smiled back. “Now, if you don’t mind Mr. Zebadiah,” Emerson continued, “mighten we discuss the terms of our deal.” Emerson was bargaining for transport to Bump. “You mentioned something of an ‘ass-cart’.”

“Two of my strongest asses.” he said. “I’ll have Cleetus drive ‘em fer yer. Won’t be takin’ more’n a coupla hours te git yerselfs ta Bump... if ‘n you cuts across the farms instead a takin’ the long way along the road.”

“Of course I’d be happy to offer whatever compensation you think fair.” Emerson said.

“Well, sir.” The farmer began, we be shearin’ some sheep in the morn an’ we needs us a roustabout.”

“Excuse me?” Emerson asked.

“A roustabout,” The farmer repeated. “When we be shearin’ round the nether regions of the sheep, we be in need of someone to pick the dirty bits off the wool and put the wool in one pile fer Ma ta knit sweaters an’ ta put the dirty bits inna the fertilisin’ pile fer me ‘n the sons ta throw over the tater field.”

“You understand, my good sir, that I am under a rather tight timeline.”

“Shouldn’ take more ‘n a few hours.” Zebadiah said. “That airship you be meanin’ ta catch leaves every evenin’ at 8:00; that should be plenty a time ta shear the sheep in the morn, then gits yerselfs over ta Bump.”

“Very good sir.” Emerson nodded. “Malus here happens to be an excellent ‘dirty-bits’ picker. He’d be happy to help.”

Farmer Zebadiah regarded Malus for a moment, as if he were appraising a head of cattle. “His hands look a little soft ta make a good day laborour, but the lanolin in the wool might be agreeable to him.” Farmer Zebadiah nodded assent before spitting in his hand and reaching across the table for a shake.

“You done got yerself a deal Sir Emerson.” He grinned.

“Wonderful,” Emerson beamed, “now, if you would be so gracious as to excuse us, we are both in need of some sleep.”

***

“Couldn’t you have managed to negotiate dinner into your bargaining?” Malus said once he and Emerson were secured in the hastily made up bunk-room (which typically housed the fourteen brothers who had been relegated to bunking down with the chickens out in the barn). “Considering it was my services you were bargaining with?”

“You worry too much Malus, I’m sure the farmhands get fed a wonderfully suitable breakfast to fortify their labour.” Emerson assured the less than convinced young man. “Now blow out that lantern and let’s get some well-deserved rest.”

***

As quiet as a thief in the night, Malus stole into the Kitchen, and carefully raised the lid on the ice-box. With his mouth already watering he reached in and removed a fresh cooked leg of lamb. He turned, prepared to make his way back to the bedroom when he suddenly found himself face to face with the young Miss Daisy.

“You might find my leg a bit more to your liking Mr. Malus.” said Daisy, stepping from the shadows to block the startled young squire’s escape.

“Miss Daisy, I hope you don’t mind,” Malus said nervously, as he rapidly shifted his focus between the leg he held in his hand to the conspicuously bare legs revealed by the very short nightgown worn by Miss Daisy. “I have quite an appetite.”

“I hope so, Mr. Malus.” said Farmer Zebadiah’s pride and joy. Malus gripped the leg of lamb a bit tighter. “Mr. Malus,” Daisy continued, “I was wondering if you would be so kind as to help a poor girl in distress. I seem to have something caught in my eye. Would you take a look for me.” She took a step closer, tipping her head up.

“I don’t, um... I don’t see anything in your eye Miss Daisy.” Malus said. His mouth (watering just a moment ago) suddenly seemed unnaturally dry.

Daisy took the leg of lamb from his hand and placed it on the table. “Perhaps I just need to stand a little closer Mr. Malus.” Daisy put a hand on the squire’s shoulder and stood on the tips of her toes, somehow losing her balance in the process and falling into Malus’ arms.

“Why thank you Mr. Malus, how very clumsy of me… and how very fortunate to have such a gentleman on hand to save me.” Daisy said, placing a hand on her chest to emphasize her sincerity.

“Now, be honest with me Mr. Malus,” she began, “do you think my gown reveals too much décolletage ?” Malus didn’t know what that word meant but thought the appropriate response was,

“Why no not at all, Miss Daisy, your décolletage looks fine.”

“Kiss me Mr. Malus.”

Malus was about to respond in the appropriate manner when he heard the unmistakable click of a pump action shot gun.

“What do we have a goin’ on in here now?” Came the stern, and decidedly less friendly voice of Farmer Zebadiah. Standing in the hallway behind him, Malus saw the farmer’s wife, his fourteen sons and... at the very back... jumping up and down in an effort to see what was going on, Emerson Lighthouse.

“Ma,” Farmer Zebadiah called without taking his eyes (or the shotgun) off Malus, “git the fancy china out of the cupboard. Cleetus, hook up the asses and git yerself up to Bump ta fetch the rev’rund. We is gonna have us a weddin’.”

Capter 2 - The Highwaymen

The Highwaymen

“They are gaining on us Malus!”came Emerson’s warning shout, “Come on son, pedal to the medal!” It was about four in the afternoon, nearly twelve hours since Emerson Lighthouse and Martin Malus had bid Arnold adieu outside the clock/house in the Wheatstone Waterways, thus beginning their fantastic quest.

By far, the most treacherous part of their journey over the first eleven hours had been navigating the great steam-powered carriage around the canals and narrow streets of New Babbage. More than once, Malus had been required to disembark in order to push past an obstruction while Emerson shouted out words of encouragement. The next several hours had been rather unremarkable. Emerson had managed to write a few letters despite the bumps of the road. But then, quite suddenly, as they were considering breaking for a late afternoon snack, they were beset upon by three dark riders of questionable intentions.

“I’m riding this confounded carriage flat out,” Malus shouted back, “it won’t go any faster!” The sound of stress was clear in his voice as he manoeuvred the steering stick with frenetic side to side thrusts in a futile attempt to avoid ruts and bumps. He looked a bit like a bug, Emerson thought, with wisps of brown hair flying out at all angles from under the edges of his shiny new, chestnut-brown, patent leather riding helmet and designer goggles. “And besides,” Malus continued, “these steam-powered carriages are no match for a good horse, everyone knows that… and I don’t care who built it!”

“Perhaps you’d like to pass that message on to Dr. Obolensky yourself...” Emerson was about to add: should we ever make it back to New Babbage alive; but before he had the chance he felt the sting of something nick his ear just a bare fraction of a second before he heard the sound of the gunshot.

“They are shooting at us Malus!” He yelled with more than just a tinge of panic. He crouched down as low as could while still managing to peek over the top of the seat as the three highwaymen, riding at a full gallop, began closing the gap between them.

“Well?” Malus responded as he swerved to avoid a fallen tree covering half the road.

“Well what?” yelled Emerson gripping the sides of his seat so as not to be thrown from the vehicle.

“Shoot back!”

“Right…” Emerson made half an effort to look around. “Where did you pack my gun?”

“It is in that riding-gloves compartment in front of you!” Malus nodded without taking his eyes off the treacherous road ahead.

“That compartment is padlocked Malus!”

“You told me to lock it!” Malus didn’t even attempt to hide his exasperation, “to protect your hookah leaf!”

“So where is the key then?” Emerson didn’t like where this was heading.

“I gave it to you.”

“You did not!”

“I did so! Before we left, right when I gave you your riding gloves…”

“The riding gloves which are...”

“… in the compartment!” They both finished together.

Malus pulled the steering stick sharply to the left nearly tipping the carriage as it careened off the road and started a surprisingly much smoother ride across an open field beside them. Startled sheep suddenly scattered in all directions as the roaring steam-carriage, billowing a trail of thick black smoke mixed with clouds of steam, roared and hissed through their midst. Surely this was the dragon of legends!

Emerson desperately stared at the console, there must be something he could use with all the money he had put into upgrades. It was a pretty standard feature that Dr. Obolensky’s vehicles come rigged with explosives, but it seemed a pretty extreme measure to resort to that level of destruction at this point.

Before he and Malus had left New Babbage he had taken the carriage to Kamika Ying’s shop in order for her to add a few unique features. Unfortunately he got lost in her technical explanations of exactly what she had done so he wasn’t really sure what all the dials and buttons did. He pushed one marked with a grid-like symbol: “#”

Suddenly from the back of the car a canister flew high into the air. A second later the canister popped and a weighted net sailed through the air. One of the riders veered his horse sharply to avoid the net and in doing so crashed into two very confused sheep. The horse stumbled, tossing its rider before galloping off on its own.

Malus and Emerson cheered boisterously until the two remaining pursuers began shooting again.

“The horses!” cried Malus.

“What about the horse?” Emerson shouted back, hands hovering above the buttons uncertainly.

“You need to spook the horses and they’ll throw the riders!”

“With what?” Emerson turned, noting that the highwaymen continued to gain ground.

Malus scanned the flatness of the field with a mathematical eye, searching for a solution. Something about the geometry... “Snakes on a plane!” he shouted.

“What?”

“Snakes on a plane! Throw a snake at the horses!”

“Where am I going to get a snake?”

“We had a Ying Industries Mk 4 Pivot Mounted Pressurized Snake Gun installed as one of the upgrades! Surely you remember.”

“The Snake Gun! Of course!”

Emerson braced one hand against the console to steady his other hand as is sought the right button. It had to be the one marked with the symbol: ‘~’

A panel over the rear left wheel slid back and up popped an elegant brass railgun. Emerson turned and threw his bulk across the back of the seat, grabbing the snake gun with both hands to aim it while hanging on for dear life.

“Malus, why can’t you steady us out,” shouted Emerson in frustration as the carriage began to rattle over rows and rows of potato furrows.

“Just fire it!” yelled Malus.

Suddenly a half dozen snakes flew back across the field and fell writhing at on the ground before the approaching horses. As predicted, both horses reared throwing both riders in the process.

“It worked!” Malus laughed. “We did it Mr. Lighthouse, we did it.”

“We did indeed Malus, we did indeed." laughed Emerson, clapping Malus on the shoulder, caught up in the excitement of escape. Taking the pin from his riding scarf, he began to pick at the lock which was preventing access to the riding-gloves compartment. After all that excitement, he thought, this would be an ideal time for some of that hookah leaf. “From here on in, Malus, it is smooth riding...” he said managing to turn the pin with a most satisfying click, “...until we get to Bump."

Just then the ground collapsed beneath them. The magnificent steam-powered carriage and the two shocked riders quite suddenly dropped from sight.

Chapter 1 - The Wager

The Wager

At the sound of the opening door, Victor Mornington looked up from his seat behind the bar where he sat reviewing the day’s ledger, “Welcome Mr. Lighthouse.” he called out “What brings you all the way up to the Academy this fine evening?”

“Rumours, Mr. Mornington, rumours.” replied Emerson Lighthouse smiling as he closed the door behind him.

“And what would be the nature of these rumours?” Victor replied confident in the tone of his guest that these were the rumours of a friendly nature.

Emerson Lighthouse wasn’t quite ready to tip his hand just yet. “The Muirsheen Durkin seems a little quiet tonight Mr. Mornington.” Emerson smiled offering his hand before taking a seat opposite Victor.

“It’s a Monday night... and it is still early yet,” Victor replied with a shrug, “but don’t let that stop you.” he smiled. “What can I offer you...” he paused before adding “Sir.” The two men laughed.

“Well,” Emerson began “That brings me to the rumours of which I just spoke. Word is you have some fine Chivas Regal... aged 25 years.”

“Well, that ‘word’ would be correct...” Emerson held up his hand before Victor could continue.

“… and perhaps even, dare I say it, Montecristos.” Emerson looked smug.

“Really...” now it was Victor’s turn to be coy, “and where might you have heard that ‘word’?”

“Oh, I have my sources.” Emerson watched as Victor free poured two rocks glasses half full of Chivas Regal adding, “I assume you take it neat.” It was more a comment than a question.

“Of course.”

"Now as to that other item...” Victor’s pause had the desired effect of heightening Emerson’s anticipation, “...the Montecristos about which you heard word...” Victor continued, retrieving a box from the humidor below the bar, “well, those are fine for casual smoking...” Emerson leaned forward sensing something of a tease in Victor’s voice, “But for those of truly discriminating tastes I have....” Victor raised the hinged lid of the dark wooden box

Emerson’s jaw dropped, “Sagrada Lucias” he whispered barely able to believe what he was seeing. He was about to add: those look genuine, but he caught himself before the insult slipped out because beyond doubt Victor would never be one to offer knock-offs. “May I?” Emerson hesitated.
“Of course.” Victor grinned.

Emerson reached out, taking one of the cigars, marvelling at the exquisite craftsmanship that went into winding the red, gold and green leaf with such precision.

“How is this possible?” Emerson asked, “The Hoja del Diablo Dulce only matures once every 100 years. It is exceedingly rare. Families spend generations in an effort to cultivate just a single crop.” Emerson stopped himself noting Victor’s grin. “Okay Mr. Mornington, we all have our secrets.” Emerson conceded.

“You know Mr. Lighthouse,” Victor retrieved a guillotine cigar cutter from beneath the bar. “There is a remote island I know of, just south of the equator...” Emerson watched as Victor expertly sliced the end off of one of the cigars before handing it to him, “celebrating the 100-year harvest this very month of October.” Victor continued, returning the guillotine to its place below the bar after preparing one for himself. “But as you know, sales are brisk and such limited stocks won’t last long.”
Emerson nodded, “And how quickly could you deliver the product Mr. Mornington?”

“I could deliver the product yesterday Mr. Lighthouse.” Emerson laughed though something in Victor’s joke rang true. “But I have no need myself, being fully stocked.” Victor held a flame from a small flint-action gold-plated lighter.

“But you know the exact location of this island?” Emerson leaned in accepting the light.

“Of course,” Victor paused to light his own cigar, “but you will never make it in time.”

“The devil I won’t sir,” Emerson felt the heady aroma sending waves throughout his entire body. “For a box of these I would make sufficient haste. Why I could be there and back by my Birthday, November 11th.”

“Come now Mr. Lighthouse,” Victor said not unkindly as the purple tinged smoke drifted lazily from his mouth, “even if one were to take an airship there and back, it is extremely unlikely one could meet those time constraints.”

“If one were to catch just the right airstreams... the southerly flow which is accessible from just north of Bump, for example.” Emerson said. “Why I bet one could quite easily manage it.”

“An interesting boast” Victor mused “but for a truly sporting wager, such a voyage would have to have some restrictions.” Victor continued. “For example, at least seven means of transportation must be used, and you would have to send a telegram, or other message, marking your progress not less than once per week.”

“Are we negotiating the terms of a wager then, Mr. Mornington?” Emerson drained the Chivas and held the glass out for more. Victor refilled both the rocks glasses to the halfway mark.

“Well that depends entirely on what we have to bargain with.” replied Victor. “For my part I’m willing to offer a year of Chivas on the house, whenever you come to the Muirsheen Durken.”

“Okay,” Emerson began, “how about I offer you the services of my Majordomo, Arnold, for a year... in the unlikely event I lose.” Victor didn’t look quite convinced, “He could mop up the floor in the bar for you every night.” Come on, Emerson thought, the odds are in your favour. It was several moments before Victor nodded, “That would do.”

Emerson drained his glass again as Victor wrote out the island’s name and coordinates. “Very good then,” Emerson said, glancing at the information before slipping it into his pocket. “I best get started.” He stood, clenching the Sagrada Lucia in his teeth as he shook Victor’s hand. “Thank you for the Chivas, Mr. Mornington, put the drinks on my tab,” Emerson grinned, “after-all it should be my last bill of charge for about a year and a month.”

Victor shook his head, “Tonight was on me Mr. Lighthouse.” He paused before adding with all sincerity, “Good luck Emerson. Be careful out there.”

“Thank you Victor.”

***

Malus had just sat down to enjoy the steak and onions he had only moments ago finished preparing for himself. Even before he had cut his first bite, Emerson burst through the door, a cloud of purple smoke still emanating from the soggy cigar stump he clenched between his teeth. “Pack it up to go Malus.” Emerson sounded manic. “Start the fire in the boiler of the carriage and get word to Mr. Arnold to get here ASAP. He starts house sitting tomorrow. You and I are off to Bump before the sun rises.”

A Very, Very Brief Note

To Ms. Hienrichs

Dear Ms Hienrichs,

By the time you discover this note my squire Malus and I will be halfway to Bump on a mission of unparalleled importance. I shall be gone about 5 weeks. In my absence I have hired the services of Mr. Arnold to care for the properties next to yours. I apologize for this inconvenience in advance.

Sincerely,

Emerson Lighthouse

Prologue 2 - Brother Malus Takes a Walk

Brother Malus Takes A Walk

From within the shadows of the alleyway, a scrawny, mottled and mangy canal rat looked up from his nightly scavenging to see a dark hooded figure approach. The rat was not unaccustomed to seeing strangers walk passed, but this one’s stride seemed sober, which was a little unusual, given the area and the hour.

Unaware he was being watched the young, dark-haired monk, Brother Malus, paused under the light of one of the newly polished street lamps. He lowered his cowl allowing the cool autumn air to wash over his face and refresh his senses. Autumn has come early to New Babbage this year, he thought, lamenting the added expense of coal to the already stretched church budget. How had the tide of fortune turned so quickly?

Malus looked to the east, noting the lightening of the sky. It will be dawn soon and I should be getting back before Lapis awakens and knows I am still out.

Brother Malus had been walking since midnight. For the past several nights he’d been frustrated over his inability to work through a particularly troublesome fifth order differential equation. The eighteen year-old brother, never the humble one, had always taken pride in the unrivalled speed of his mathematical abililty. Meals were getting smaller, and without the usual diet the monks enjoyed, it was getting harder to concentrate. They were even reduced to eating the fruitcake stored in the cellar under the cathedral, the one item that had not been raided. Impoverishment was not a station in which Malus thrived.

It was during this brief reverie when he noticed a bill stuck to the lamp pole. He read through the advertisement twice and still didn’t know what to make of it. “Is this a joke?” he said aloud. Who in their right mind would seek the services of a knight’s squire in this age of modernity? He looked at the paper again shaking his head. Emerson Lighthouse, Malus had heard the name spoken around town, though the two had never met. Brother Malus tried to recall what he could about the gentleman, but the man seemed a bit of an unknown element, another eccentric who lived in a clock.

Well, it’s time we met Mr. Lighthouse, decided Brother Malus. Emerson Lighthouse, it was rumoured, was wealthy. In fact he even had the audacity to describe himself as a man of leisure, rubbing salt in the wounds of those who could afford no leisure. Well Mr. Lighthouse, in these times of economic hardship it should be the duty of those who have the means provide for those who don’t.

Pulling the bill from the lamppost Brother Malus quickly turned down a nearby alley, nearly tramping upon an alarmed rat in his haste. With a renewed sense of purpose, he made his way through the maze of canals that formed the Wheatstone Waterways eventually arriving at the clock-tower where Mr. Lighthouse resided.

Despite the early hour, the flickering of a lantern’s light could be seen through the ground level windows suggesting the occupant might be awake. As Brother Malus approached he discovered another sign that Mr. Lighthouse was awake: the strong scent of coffee spilling under the door. Malus felt his head start to swim as he climbed the steps to the door… that smell is proof beyond all else of the great divinity beyond.

Resolving himself that this was all for the church, Brother Malus gave three sharp raps upon the white painted door. Several moments passed without a sound from the inside. He was considering knocking again when the door opened.

Brother Malus was a little taken aback by what he saw. The man appeared to be in his early forties, tall with mostly silver hair and an odd style of red rimmed glasses. But that was not what alarmed Brother Malus. Mr. Lighthouse appeared dishevelled, as one who’d been up all night. In his eyes, Brother Malus saw the unmistakable signs of someone who had been crying.

“What can I do for you Brother?” asked Emerson finally breaking the silence. He then noticed the paper Malus still held in his hand. “Oh, you’ve come about the job then. Please come in.” Emerson stood to the side before adding, “Would you like a cup of coffee Brother?”

Coffee. The young monk hesitated at the doorway, taking a deep breath... savoring the rich and delicious aroma. Real coffee, not that burnt root and leaf substitute that Sister Loxely had been brewing after the rectory ran out. The man had real coffee. Like an epiphany, Brother Malus knew what he had to do.

“My name is Martin Malus. I am here about the job.”

A Letter To Mr. Arnold

Dear Mr. Arnold,

Thank you for your recent expressed interest in job competition #00001 for the position of Knight's Squire (in the service of a knight of the highest distinction and unimpeachable honour). Unfortunately the position for which you have applied has been filled. I understand how this news must come as a great disappointment for you (given your obvious fascination with me and my business affairs). Therefore, in an effort to mitigate your despair I offer you the following opportunity by way of a consolation.

As I am sure you have heard, Squire Malus and I are preparing to embark on a most remarkable adventure... a quest if you will. In my absence I require the services of a majordomo to maintain my property and discourage squatters from taking up residence. I can think of no one better skilled at discouraging visitors from overstaying their welcome than you. In addition, your duties will include collecting mail and managing my accounts (use the books on the desk, not the ones in the drawer).

Also, I would request that you power-up the Tesla cannon once per day to keep it primed. You may want to fire off a round or two every few days (to remind the theatre owner across the canal that it still functions). Miss MacBain may be stopping by to raid the ice-box. Try not to antagonize her, she is doing so with my permission. Please stay out of the basement of the house next to the clock, it is locked for a reason.

We can discuss compensation upon my return... but I won't expect you to pay too much for the honour of service.

Yours respectfully,

Sir Emerson Lighthouse, NBE

Prologue 1 - The Errant Knight

On the nature of titles: a letter to His Grace, Colonel (ret.) Sir Edward Pearse, 1st Duke of Argylle, 12th Earl of Primbroke, KWL, OWR

Your Grace,

Please forgive this unsolicited missive. I am writing you with a most urgent question on the nature of titles and, more importantly, the documentation one might require to rightfully claim such a title. My reason for the enquiry is as follows: I have recently determined that I have received a knighthood.  Having recieved such an honour, I believe I have a legal claim to the title ‘Sir’.

Now while it is true I have no evidence for having received this knighthood (nor do I recall ever being knighted) I believe I actually am a knight. Since beliefs cannot be disproved (so long as one accepts that belief as a matter of faith) then there is, in fact, no proof I am not a knight.

Yet, as one steeped in the art of science, I acknowledge that this argument may not stand in the face of objective scrutiny. Further, I recognize the need for any theory to be rigorously tested. Therefore I set before you a mathematical proof following the course laid out so elegantly by Euclid in that most esteemed little manual: Elements of Geometry.

First we begin with an axiom, the truth of which is indisputable in that I know it to be true:

• Axiom: I have no recollection of my life before New Babbage.

Accepting this axiom I next offer the following propositions:

• Proposition 1: As I have no memory of a life before New Babbage, I therefore have no memory of not being knighted.
• Proposition 2: As I have no memory of not being knighted, it is therefore possible I was knighted.
• Proposition 3: We may thusly conclude there is a potential for two contradictory truths:

A) I was a knight and B) I was not a knight.

Here, Your Grace, we arrive at the crux of my argument. As the evidence clearly shows, I was as equally likely to have been a knight, as I was to have not been a knight in a previous life. Further, there is no basis upon which one might suppose I was not a knight. And if one were not to suppose I was not a knight then clearly I would be free to suppose I was a knight.

As you can see through this demonstration of mathematics and logic, while it may 'feel right' emotionally to believe I am a knight, it is more than just a subjective hunch. It most clearly and indisputably is scientifically mandated. Therefore I salute you as –

Sir Emerson Lighthouse, NBE

PS: Note that I am not indicating I plan to use the title, merely that I reserve the right to use the title should the fancy strike me, EL

Job Posting

Competition #00001

Position: Knight's Squire in the service of a knight of high distinction and unimpeachable honour

Duties: The successful candidate will be expected to perform standard squirely duties during parades, festivals and various civic functions; in addition, the successful candidate will be expected to take dictation on a daily basis as the employer has many great ideas that need to be recorded; finally, it is the responsibility of the successful candidate to correct grammatical and factual inconsistencies, without compromising the natural integrity of the employer's thought process.*

Further Qualifications and Limitations:

• Discretion is mandatory
• The consumption of alcohol between sunrise and noon will not be tolerated **
• The successful applicant must be willing to bathe at least once per week
• Hours are variable - but not flexible
• Compensation is nonnegotiable and will be based soley on the applicant's prior squiring experience ***
• Start date is yet to be determined

All interested parties are welcome to apply. Slip your resume under the door of the clock/house tower at Lighthouse Landing in the Wheatstone Waterways quoting competition #00001 on the outside of the envelope.

Fine print section:

* In addition to the above mentioned duties, on rare occasions, the successful candidate may be called upon to alleviate any negative repercussions resulting from possible moral indescretions (allegedly) committed by the employer.

**Unless for medicinal purposes, such as the treatment of insomnia, nervous anxiety, gout, etc.

***Experienced squires need not apply