So there are several problems here.

The first one is that his head hurts. Kind of a lot actually.

The second is that he has no idea where he is.

The third is that wherever this is, it looks super ominous.

The fourth is that he doesn't remember how he got here, or, actually, literally anything else before three seconds ago when he opened his eyes and started enumerating problems.

He sits up, rubbing his head, and glares at the guard on general principle.

The guard notices. "Sore head, eh? Can't be worse'n what you did to the other bastard."

"...what did I do to the other bastard?"

"Stabbed him to death, so they say. Then somebody cracked your skull with a barstool. I'd think you'd remember at least one of those things."

"You'd think that! But I don't."

"Huh. You're still going to New Newgate - bloke you murdered is a sergeant's nephew, and he complained to his uncle. And the law doesn't care if you know what you did."

He reflects on this for a moment, then shrugs. The words he's looking for are Sucks to be me, I guess, and it's a pity his dialect doesn't contain them.

The guard shrugs too. "S'a pity, honestly - what are you, sixteen?" 

"Sounds about right!"

"Too old for the orphan-gangs, too young for anything else. Bloody shame."

They come closer to the bars and squint at the prisoner, their keyring dangling from their belt. "It's odd, but I'd swear I knew you from somewhere."

"Yeah? From where?" He steps closer, bringing his face into the light.

The guard squints harder.

Then they shake their head. "No bloody idea. Maybe I saw you running with an orphan-gang ten years ago."

He laughs. "Well, that's still more than I remember about me at this point!"

The guard worries their lip.

Then they seem to make a decision. "Fuck the sergeant's nephew," they decide. "He probably deserved whatever you did to him, and I'm not sending a kid like you to the Spike until you're my age."

They remove a key from their keyring and toss it into the cell. "Anybody asks, you stole that from me. Got it?"

He blinks, surprised, then grins. "Thanks! Yeah, for sure."

"I'm off to get some coffee. Make better decisions about who you stab in the future."

They leave the cell, leaving the prisoner to escape.

He waits until there's no one around, lets himself out, locks it back up behind him because why not, tosses the key back into the cell just to be annoying, and leaves.

No one stops him - a purposeful stride does wonders.

Outside the door of the jail, the city of Fallen London spreads open before him. Watchmaker's Hill, specifically. There's a pub, and an office building with a sign out front reading DEPARTMENT OF MENACE ERADICATION, and at the top of the hill there's an observatory. Around the hill there are marshes, thick with tall treelike mushrooms.

The DEPARTMENT OF MENACE ERADICATION looks interesting! He heads thataway.

Inside, there's a bored-looking man playing solitaire at a wooden desk, along with a few grizzled old men with harpoons chattering with each other. Behind the desk are various posters.

RATS: 11 ROSTYGOLD PER 10. WORRYINGLY LARGE RAT: 200 ROSTYGOLD. SORROW-SPIDER LEGS: 15 ROSTYGOLD APIECE. SPIDER-COUNCIL: 1000 ROSTYGOLD. THE VAKE: 1 MILLION ECHOES.

The Apathetic Secretary looks up from his solitaire. "What you here for, eh?"

"...how big does a rat have to get before it's worryingly large?" he wonders, peering at the assortment of posted rewards.

"That's a bounty on a specific rat," the Apathetic Secretary clarifies. "We call it the Worryingly Large Rat because it's pretty concerning that a rat can get that big. The Department want it dead, but the reward they posted isn't enough for the big-time ratkillers to go for it, so it's sitting there until somebody really needs two echoes' worth of rosty."

"Well, how big is it?"

The Apathetic Secretary gestures. It's about the size of a Doberman.

"Okay, that's pretty big," he acknowledges. "What about the Vake, what the hell's that?"

The monster hunters go quiet.

The Apathetic Secretary looks, for once, engaged. "Nobody quite knows. It's like a bat, they say, but very big, and deadly as anything. It preys on Londoners in general, but its favorite prey is hunters - specifically, Vake-hunters. People come in and say they're after the Vake, and next thing anyone knows they've vanished without a trace."

...he laughs. "Wow, a giant bat that eats people. Why does anyone ever admit they're going after it, then?"

"Well, you've got to track it down somehow, don't you? And if nobody knows you're after it, then they can't tell you where you'd find out."

"How does anyone know where to find it if it kills you as soon as you admit to looking?"

"Well, there is one man who claims to have seen it in person and lived," says the Secretary. "He lives in Bugsby's Marshes, in the mushroom forest. I could tell you where to find him."

"Might as well, I'm all curious now!"

The Apathetic Secretary scrawls a quick map on a piece of foolscap and hands it over. "Maybe after you kill the Vake you can take on that Worryingly Large Rat too."

He snickers. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

The map leads him deep into Bugsby's Marshes, as promised, through a forest of towering mushrooms. Eventually he comes to what must have once been a rather nice house, now mostly consumed by the swamp and covered in mold.

At this point he's getting kind of hungry but that seems like a thing he can figure out later. He knocks.

The man who opens the door is tall, rail-thin, with a schoolmasterly attitude and terrible scars seaming his forehead and cheeks. "What do you want?" he asks.

"Somebody told me you know things about the giant bat that eats people!"

"Ah!" The man nods. "Yes, come in, come in - I'm called the Scarred Naturalist, for obvious reasons. Would you care for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure!"

The Naturalist instructs his maid to make a cup of coffee for his guest, and in the meantime he leads said guest to the sitting room. "What, then, would you like to know?"

"You met it, right? What happened?"

The Naturalist smirks. "Straight to the point, I see. Well, I was fascinated; I was a chiropterologist, prior to a change in fortunes, and a giant bat seemed interestingly novel. How did it fly? What genus did it most closely resemble? And so I learned everything I could about the beast through the ordinary measures - searching various libraries both public and private, asking others in the field - but it wasn't enough. I went to the Department of Menace Eradication and asked the monster-hunters, 'what can you tell me about the Vake?'"

The coffee arrives. It's absolutely terrible. The Naturalist sips his without seeming to notice. "They were more or less useless. But as I was headed back to the University, I was attacked by nothing less than the Vake itself. The Vake was nothing like an ordinary bat; its wings were tipped with terrible claws, and its teeth were more like the fangs of a wolf or tiger. Alongside other anatomical differences, of course, but those were the ones most interesting to someone without a chiropterological background. But as it savaged me, I felt a bottle slip from my pocket - a special, Correspondence-etched bottle containing an Aeolian Scream, which I had been holding onto for a friend. When it shattered on the pavement, the scream was released, and as it echoed around me the Vake was stunned. It was, in fact, stunned long enough for me to escape."

...wow, that sure is a substance. Is coffee always this bad? He can't remember.

"Huh," he says. "Lucky you. And you haven't seen it since?"

He laughs. "Oh, I certainly have. The very next time I left my office, I was attacked again - but I was prepared, and had purchased another Scream. After this second attack, I designed a special device which emits a loud and terrifically high-pitched noise, inaudible to our ears but absolutely hateful to bats, and set up shop in this house in the marshes. The device hangs above our heads-" he points to an arcane-looking contraption built into the room's ceiling "-and if the Vake approaches, it will most certainly wish it hadn't."

He laughs. "Oh, good thinking!"

"I thought so," the Scarred Naturalist says, looking rather pleased. "Now, for the grand question: do you intend to hunt the Vake? Because if you do, I've got some plans on how you'd do it."

"To be perfectly honest with you I hadn't thought that far ahead. Let's hear it, anyway."

"Well, the first thing you would need is a mandrake root. They don't kill with their voices, as the legends say, but they do hurt. Anything that can hurt a human with its voice will most certainly hurt a bat. Once you've acquired the root itself, you'll need to treat it with wine and teach it to sing."

"That sounds like fun even if I'm not using it to hunt giant bats, really."

The Naturalist chuckles. "The second step would be to acquire one of the Vake's own teeth, and fashion it into a weapon to use against it. Its skin is fantastically tough, you see, and only another of its kind could penetrate. My research indicates that its teeth grow back, you see, after they're lost - and after four thousand years of wandering the Neath, it must have lost a few."

"Oh, like the lion," he says, half to himself, and then he can't remember where he heard that or what the rest of the story is. Are there lions who can only be hurt by their own claws? Is that a thing? Well, whatever. "Wait, four thousand? How d'you know how old it is?"

"The Vake has been around since the days of the First City, if not earlier. The records are fragmentary, but there are clear references to 'a great leathery beast' descending and carrying off a priest-king who had suggested a mass exodus from the city."

"Well, how d'you know it's the same one?"

"Analysis of feeding habits, mostly, but also the fact that no one in four thousand years has credibly reported finding one's body or seeing two at once. The feeding habits are more convincing, though; at times when multiple hunters have decided to approach the bounty, they've almost always been eaten one by one with two weeks between feedings. To me, that suggests a gorging predator."

"Huh. Fair enough," he says thoughtfully.

"At any rate, once you've got the singing mandrake and the Vaketooth weapon, it would only be a matter of finding the beast - simple enough, when it hunts down anyone who professes a desire to slay it."

He laughs. "I don't even know that I want to! I guess we'll see if I get bored enough."

The Naturalist shrugs. "Well, if you get bored enough to hunt up a mandrake, come to me first, and bring some jarred Primordial Shrieks. Without the appropriate protective gear, it'll scramble your brains like an egg."

"Good to know!"

The Naturalist finishes his terrible coffee. "Was there anything else you'd like to know?"

"I think that'll do. Thanks!"

People are so helpful. Also he's kind of hungry. Perhaps if he wanders the streets he will find somewhere to get food, and if he's lucky maybe even somewhere to get some sort of money to buy the food with.

Well, wandering the streets is a good way to find new and interesting places! It's also a good way to get lost.

The street signs say he's in Spite when a man swaggers up to him. "Pretty nice clothes you're wearing, lad. You get lost on your way to Veilgarden?"

"I have no idea where that is!" he says cheerfully.

"Ah, a tourist," says the man, with a look of disgust. "Even better."

The Unfortunate Ruffian pulls out a dagger and points it at his prospective victim. "Hand over your coinpurse, and this won't get bloody."

"Don't have one."

This person does not seem very helpful.

"Oh, I doubt that," the Ruffian sneers. "I'll find it on my own."

The knife thrusts forward.

He sidesteps. Moving feels simultaneously weirdly smooth and weirdly clumsy, like he used to be very good at this and then got badly out of practice. But he's fast enough to make a grab for the knife despite his difficulties.

The Unfortunate Ruffian typically coasts on being the one with the knife. He's pretty easily disarmed.

So, let's see. You stab someone and then you take their money, is that how this goes?

That appears to be how it goes!

The Unfortunate Ruffian was carrying four purses of varying quality. One contains a quantity of jade discs, two contain some strong-smelling red metal minted into rings, and the final one has some glossy purple fragments which don't quite account for its weight.

...huh, how about that.

He leaves the Unfortunate Ruffian where he found him and finds somewhere a little quieter to sit down and investigate the incongruous purse.

The incongruous purse continues to be incongruous! It's a flat-bottomed leather construction with a snap on the top, and if he looks in closely enough then he might also notice that it isn't as deep as it looks from the outside. The leather must be rather thick.

Well how about that. And can he figure out how to get at the rest of the inside if he tries?

If he tries very hard and believes in himself, he may eventually notice that the "bottom" is actually a strip of leather glued to a small box. With some finagling he can remove the box, which is filled with coins and, nestled among the coins, a rather large diamond.

Well that's neat!

He puts it all back the way he found it and finds places in his clothes to hide all four purses and also the knife. Then he continues looking for somewhere to eat. At least his money problems are now solved! Maybe that fellow was helpful after all.

Well, if he heads west, he'll eventually come to an establishment called the Singing Mandrake. They serve various vintages of mushroom wine, mostly, but they've got assorted food products to go with the wine, too.

What an appropriately named establishment! He can get food there and then he will not be hungry.

Now, about a place to sleep...

There's a woman looking at him with concern as he exits the Singing Mandrake. Her face is lined with age, but her hair is vibrantly red. Perhaps she can help?

"Hello!" he says. "I'm looking for somewhere to stay the night, can you help me?"

Her eyes widen. "Oh- but don't you have a family to stay with?"

"Not that I know of!"

"Oh, how terrible - and you've outgrown the orphan-gangs, I suppose-"

She worries her lower lip. "I wouldn't want a young man on the streets at night, and the flophouses are terrible, they'll rob you blind. Why don't you come home with me, and I'll put you up in the spare bed? My latest lodger took an unexpected trip to the Tomb-Colonies."

"That sounds lovely!"

She brings him back to her home in the northeast of the city, chattering along the way. She's called the Softhearted Widow, apparently. She lost her husband and son both to the Unterzee - "Never go zailing, dearie, it's a terrible way to go." She's involved with half-a-dozen charities.

"But enough about me - what about you, dearie?"

"I woke up this morning in a jail cell with no memories!"

She gasps. "Oh, that's awful! Those damned Constables - if you'll pardon my French, but really, what an awful thing to do to a lad- have you found your way around alright? I hate to say so, but London really isn't the most hospitable city if you don't know how things work."

"Most of the people I met have been helpful. One of them tried to mug me so I took his knife and stabbed him with it and then took all his money."

The Softhearted Widow nods firmly. "Serves him right then. Trying to mug a nice boy like you, I don't know what's wrong with some people..."

"I don't really know if I'm all that nice but I guess he knew even less about that than I do," he says philosophically.

They reach the Widow's townhouse in good time. She unlocks the door and leads him inside.

It's a lovely place, if you like chintz and porcelain statuettes. She shows him to the spare bedroom, which is a bit more soberly furnished, and hands him a key. "That'll let you in if I'm not at home. Is there anything else you need, dearie?"

"I think I'll be all right! Thanks so much!"

"No trouble, no trouble at all."

She leaves him to rest.

He sleeps. He wakes up. He thinks of counting all his money and then gets distracted partway through the first purse and gives up.

He leaves the purse with the diamond in it behind and goes out looking for food and something interesting to do with his time.

Would he like to go back for another meat pie at the Singing Mandrake in Veilgarden? Skewered rats at the food-carts in Spite? Some meat of ambiguous origin at Dante's Grill in Ladybones Road? Some sausages at the Medusa's Head back in Watchmaker's Hill? Rubbery Lumps from Mrs. Plenty's Carnival, at the outskirts by the Prickfinger Wastes?

...what... exactly... is a Rubbery Lump?

Some manner of zeefood. That's all anyone knows or will say.

You know what, sure. Why not.

They taste... quite good, actually. They're very salty, and fried in an oil of nonspecific origin, and they do take some definite chewing, but they taste like the lightless unclean waters of the Unterzee any other fried seafood.

The Carnival has other diversions, as well, if he can pay for tickets. For example, there's the Most Educational Anatomy Exhibition, where "The NOTED PEDAGOGUE Mrs Plenty presents an INFORMATIVE and EDUCATIONAL EXHIBITION of ANATOMY and DANCES OF ANTIQUITY for DISCERNING GENTLEFOLK. You will BE IMPROVED!" There's also "MADAME SHOSHANA, the NEATH'S FOREMOST CLAIRVOYANTE," who can "SEE the FUTURE, the PAST, and THAT WHICH SHOULD NOT BE SEEN", and "the HOUSE of MIRRORS," which does not appear to have much of a line out front.

Well, as interested as he is in Mrs Plenty's anatomy, he's curious about everything else too and going for the thing with the shortest line sounds like a way to get from here to something interesting faster than if he had to wait. What's the House of Mirrors—or, rather, the HOUSE of MIRRORS—like?

It's surprisingly dark. The mirrors are slightly dusty. Is he supposed to be in here?

The mirrors don't distort his image with curved frames, like he might have expected. Indeed, the frames are perfectly straight, and the mirrors are flat. When he looks at his reflection, it looks... mostly like him. But in one of the mirrors, labeled HEART, he's pallid and covered in bleeding wounds; and in another, DREAM, his eyes are wide and he bears a feverish grin that won't go away. The reflections follow his movements, mostly, but the first reflection trembles as it does so, and the second jitters.

He squints at them, looking from one to the other. Is this normal mirror behaviour? He's fairly sure it isn't.

As he looks from one to the other, he may notice that when he's looking at one, his reflection in the other is even weirder.

Bigger, for one thing. Writhing. More limbs, or more accurately tentacles. It's hard to tell how it... works. But it looks familiar.

(The reflection in Heart's Mirror is still clearly dying, and the reflection in Dream's Mirror is still mad, even when they're tentacled beasts. These mirrors know what they're about.)

Wait what. No. Wait. What.

He is pretty sure that normal mirror behaviour is not this.

Right???

Are there any mirrors in this tent that are not insane?

There's this one over here, that shows him riding on the back of a giant batlike creature, holding a spear made out of a giant tooth and a length of polished wood! He looks older, and deeply satisfied with himself.

He likes that one much better!

...does it still give him tentacles when seen out of the corner of his eye, though?

Yep! Still riding the bat, but much more tentacular.

That's concerning. He's concerned. It's not that he has any inherent objection to tentacles, really, but he likes his body and does not want to end up inadvertently betentacled. Granted he doesn't want to end up dead or insane either, but the business with the giant bat actually looks like an excellent future apart from the tentacle problem.

...oh hey, that's the giant bat, isn't it. The Vake. Does the creepy tentacle mirror think he can tame it? Does he trust the creepy tentacle mirror on this subject?? He thinks he perhaps does not trust the creepy tentacle mirror very much.

The creepy tentacle mirror makes no comment, but he may be assured it is deeply hurt.

If it wanted him to trust it, it should have given him better assurances.

He spends a little longer looking at the image of himself riding the creature, and then about half a minute trying to examine the tentacles out of the corner of his eye before he decides this activity is giving him a headache and stops.

Before he leaves, are there any other badly behaved mirrors hiding in dusty corners?

There's a couple. One of them shows him playing cards against a monkey, for some reason. One of them shows him holding a diamond the size of a small dog, looking haunted. One of them shows him arm-in-arm with someone whose face doesn't exist.

...well, that's better than death or madness, but definitely worse than riding a giant bat.

Okay, back out to the rest of the carnival he goes. Maybe the next interesting thing he encounters will be less bizarre and inexplicable.

The ANATOMICAL EXHIBITION is still there, as is MADAME SHOSHANA the CLAIRVOYANTE.

He goes for whichever has the shorter line. The CLAIRVOYANTE if they're comparable, because having just experienced completely unexplained cryptic nonsense, he's pleased by the notion of cryptic nonsense you can actually talk to.

MADAME SHOSHANA's line is a bit shorter.

She looks at him as he enters her tent, and her eyes widen. "You!"

"What?"

"I've seen you, in my visions. The monster that wears a fair face! The lost son, the hot-hearted hunter, the smiling killer! What do you want from me?"

He shrugs. "Nothing in particular, really, I just thought you might make more sense than the house of mirrors. —Wait, lost son? Whose lost son?"

She grimaces. “Don’t know,” she admits. “S’not really an exact science. I just know that you’re somebody’s lost son, and that it's important. I might get a better handle on it if I read your cards?"

She picks up a deck of cards, then hesitates. She puts them back down, rummages around under her table, and takes out a different deck of cards. She offers him the deck. "Pick one, that'll signify you. Then I'll do a spread."

He squints at the cards, then shrugs and grabs one.

The card bears the image of a skeleton on a pale horse, holding a scythe in his fleshless grip. He rides over a field of bones and corpses.

Madame Shoshana frowns. "...Death. Oddly auspicious, all things considered."

He looks at the card, thoughtfully.

"What's it mean?"

"Transformation. A change which is a blessing in disguise. A clearing-out which makes way for something better. It's... actually very strange, getting it as a significator. Usually it refers to an event, not a person."

"Well," he says cheerfully, "I woke up yesterday with no memories, so it actually seems kind of appropriate."

"Ah. That would also explain why you want to know whose son you are, come to think of it."

She flicks seven cards onto the silk-covered tabletop, landing them in a horseshoe formation, and flips over the first. "The past..."

It bears the image of a woman, heavily pregnant and wearing a crown bearing twelve stars. She stands in a wheat field. The card is facing him, and thus backwards relative to Shoshana. "The Empress, Reversed. A woman, overprotective and tyrannical... resources aplenty, but no love. A classic for the beginning of a read; it usually indicates the querent's overbearing mother. Unfortunately there's no shortage of overbearing wealthy mothers in London, so the help the card offers you in particular is limited."

He laughs.

"The present..."

She flips over the second card, revealing a card showing seven coins growing from a beanstalk. "The Seven of Coins, or of Pentacles. Slow growth and forward planning. It may seem as if nothing is happening for some time, but wheels are turning."

"Oh no, forward planning," he says, laughing. "I don't think I'm any good at that, all I've done since I woke up has been stumble around at random."

She raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should pick up the habit. Or perhaps someone else will help you along. Hidden influences at work..."

She flips over her third card, revealing the image of a horned, bat-winged figure sitting on a pedestal with a man and a woman chained to it. "The Devil. The bearer of the inevitable - usually disaster and misery. Lust, greed, the refusal to recognize anything other than the value of pleasure for its own sake." She squints at it. "Ordinarily I'd be concerned - the Devil is one of the worst cards to draw, representing an immovable obstacle. But... for some reason... I feel as if you're... in tune with it? This is not a force working against you, it's working with you. Perhaps even within you."

"Oh, I like that one."

"It's no mean thing, having an immovable obstacle on your side," the fortuneteller says. "Now, the obstacles in your path..."

She turns over a card with seven swords woven into a kind of knot. "The Seven of Swords. Your foe is strong. Direct confrontation is not the way forward; you must be cunning and use all of your wiles to succeed. A sacrifice may be involved."

"It's news to me that I even have a foe, unless it's talking about the giant bat. Everyone seems very sure I'm going to fight the giant bat."

She nods thoughtfully. "I have seen you fight it in my dreams... but dreams are never for certain. External influences..."

She flips a fifth card, starting her descent down the slope of the horseshoe. It has seven cups on it. "The Seven of Cups. You'll face a decision, a big one, with many choices. Not all of those choices are good ones. All is not as it seems."

"I don't like things not being as they seem."

"You're hardly alone in that. Your ideal course of action..."

The penultimate card, which shows seven wands rooted in the earth under a stormy sky. "The Seven of Wands. Four sevens... an omen of significance, though not always positive. In times of adversity, you must stand strong and do what it takes to survive, and you'll triumph against all odds."

"Well, that's reassuring."

"Isn't it just. And finally, the outcome of all this."

She flips over one final card. A young woman, either throttling or caressing a lion. "Strength. By dint of your power and courage, you will stand victorious over your enemies. It seems redundant with the Seven of Wands, but..." She looks him in the eye. "Strength has certain thematic elements the other card lacks. Namely, mercy."

He flinches, then blinks in confusion. Why does that word make him feel so awful?

Madame Shoshana nods, as if she just confirmed a suspicion. "You needn't be ruled by who you are," she says quietly.

Then she claps her hands together. "Now, is there anything else I can help you with? Or shall we call it quits?"

Still slightly unsettled, he says, "Can't think of anything."

She begins shuffling the cards back into her deck. "All right, then, time for my next consultation. You can leave the tent the same way you came in."

"Sure. Thanks."

Well, he reflects as he walks out of the tent, he was right. She did make more sense than the house of mirrors.

He finds that he is no longer in the mood for Mrs Plenty's anatomy. Maybe he'd better just go find some more food and a less unnerving pastime. How are those skewered rats?

Not bad, honestly. A bit gamey, as one might expect from rat meat, but competently roasted, and just about anything tastes better skewered.

Oh good. He's in a better mood already.

He doesn't want to hang around Spite, though, not when last time he came through here he got mugged. He wanders elsewhere, looking for something useful and/or interesting to do with his time. Since the fortune-teller told him to get better at forward planning, he decides maybe he should attempt to make some money.

There are rather a lot of ways to make money in London. He could go back to Watchmaker's Hill and seek out the Worryingly Large Rat, for instance, for a not inconsiderable reward in Rostygold. Alternately he could go see if there's work to be had in Veilgarden, as artists are always looking for models. He could probably even go back to the Carnival and see if they'll let him work the Anatomical Exhibition, or just as a ticket-touter.

It does not occur to him to work as an artist's model and it definitely doesn't occur to him to work in the Anatomical Exhibition, but he does think of those bounties eventually, and heads back to Watchmaker's Hill to see if he can find this Rat.

The rat apparently makes its lair somewhere in the marshes near the Medusa's Head. It's not difficult to follow the giant ratty footprints back to its cave.

It's quite large, and as he approaches its cave it hisses at him. What will he do?

How about he tries to stab it!

It leaps for him, taking a gash on its side but fastening its powerful jaws around his shoulder!

This seems like it calls for MORE STABS

Further stabbing is more effective. In death, the jaws lose their clamping power, and he's left with a bloody shoulder, a bloody knife, and the corpse of a Worryingly Large Rat.

Right, off to collect that bounty, then.

The Apathetic Secretary raises an eyebrow when he sees a blood-soaked teenager entering the office carrying a Doberman-sized rat. "I see you've done some hunting," he comments, reaching into his desk and pulling out a fat and clinking purse.

"Sure have!"

Does he hand in the rat or what? He is new to this business, and also to all other businesses.

The Secretary raises a hand when the rat comes closer than five feet. "There's a chute in the wall, just drop it in and somebody'll be along to clean the skeleton shortly. Did you find a brood at its lair?"

"Not that I saw but I wasn't looking too closely."

He dumps the rat down the chute and goes to get the purse.

"Well, somebody'll be along to clear it out anyroad. We don't want a returning rat. -you might want to spend some of that rostygold on getting some attention for that wound, it's not like to kill you but it could fester."

He glances down at his shoulder and shrugs agreeably. It doesn't look worth worrying about to him, but then, how would he know? He can go find someone to look at it, sure.

He leaves 200 rostygold richer.

If he'd like to see a doctor, there's something of a medical district just to the west of the Department. If he'd rather do something else, that's certainly also an option.

If doctors are the first thing he sees he'll try doctors.

The first doctor he goes to, a Suspicious-Looking Physician, will fix the wound for five rostygold. He doesn't look particularly reputable, but he does swear he's the quickest and the cheapest in the district.

"No anaesthetic, though," he grunts. "Nobody trusts me to etherize them, and after a while I stopped keeping it around."

Well that's a heartening endorsement of this fellow's skill, isn't it. Whatever.

He's quick, and his stitches are neat, and he douses the area with some form of alcohol afterwards, which burns like a motherfucker but which the doctor promises will help keep disease at bay.

The stitches aren't so bad, but for just a moment when the pain of the alcohol first hits there's a surge of anger in the back of his mind and things almost go very badly for the doctor.

But he did ask for this - pay for it, even - and it would be stupid to stab someone who just helped him, so he just shakes his head slightly and thanks the man and goes home to the Widow's place. Finding his way around is getting easier pretty fast.

The Widow isn't home at the moment, but that's why he's got the spare key.

All in all, a pretty successful second day of his life!

What will tomorrow bring?

That's all up to him!

Well, mostly up to him. The Widow is in her sitting room when he wakes up, and upon seeing his bloodstained clothing she gasps. "Oh, dearie, that's no good at all! You could give someone an awful fright, walking down the street covered in blood. Why don't you take one of the old suits from the closet and I'll launder what you're wearing?"

He glances down at himself, then smiles at her. "Sure, all right. Thank you."

"Oh, it's no trouble. Just leave it on the bed and I'll have it cleaned up shortly."

He can do that!

And then, in a very good mood because the Softhearted Widow is a nice person and he likes her, he stops by the Singing Mandrake for a meat pie; and, reminded by the establishment's name, wanders back to the Scarred Naturalist's place to ask after mandrake-related protective gear.

"I'll need twenty-five Primordial Shrieks and a hat," the Scarred Naturalist says. "Shrieks aren't as loud as the name would imply, but they've got the right tone to dull mandrake screams and they permeate cloth well."

"Any suggestions on where to look for those?"

"The University has stockpiles of them - but, of course, you're not a student, and I'm no longer a professor, and to appropriate them anyway would be stealing. Ahem. You can buy them from Nikolas Pawnbrokers, in the Bazaar."

He laughs. "Thanks!"

So, about those stockpiles, then...

The University is slightly to the west of city center. Its gates are open, as they always are. There's a campus map behind glass set into the ground just past the gates, which indicate that the reception office is in such-and-such a location and the Department of Chiropteronomy is in thus-and-such location and the Department of Skouximology is right over here. Regrettably, it does not have "here is where you can steal Primordial Shrieks" clearly marked, as such.

The University is honestly also just kind of pretty, and he gets distracted from his quest and ends up wandering around admiring the architecture for an hour before he refocuses and heads over to Skouximology because it seems like a relevant field.

The Department of Skouximology is in a pretty large building. Inside there's a board listing the various office numbers of various professors. There's also a staircase leading down into the basement, with a sign that says STORAGE.

And what are they storing down there?

A large pile of clay jars sealed with black wax, with a sign reading "Primordial Shrieks"! Alongside a slightly smaller pile of "Maniac's Prayers" in glass phials, a small heap of "Aeolian Screams" in rune-etched glass spheres, and something stored in a wall safe.

Is it really going to be as easy as just taking twenty-five Shrieks and walking out? Well, he can try it and see.

As he's picking up the last of the Shrieks, someone thumps down the stairs. A short and rather round gentleman, wearing a monocle.

"Good evening," he says cheerfully, heading over to select a Maniac's Prayer. "What brings you to the stockroom, lad?"

He has an impulse to say "theft" and see what happens, but decides that he would rather succeed at this quest than fail and amends this to, "My friend the professor sent me to bring him some Shrieks," which is at least in the general region of true and will probably not prompt the round man to call the police. "Why, how about you?"

"I've been studying the effects of Maniac's Prayers on Rattus faber," the Portly Professor replies, sifting through the vials. "So far my results are 'they don't like them,' but I have faith I'll find something useful out soon. And I'm better off working on something with applications than going the way of the Feverish Chiropterist - sorry, no, the Scarred Naturalist, now. What a nasty business."

"Oh? What happened?"

"Ah, just a bit of academic drama, I shouldn't even be repeating it," the Professor demurs. "What happened, you see, is that the Feverish Chiropterist, well, he was always a mite obsessive, but he became utterly preoccupied with a mythical beast, the Vake. Then, he happened to be attacked by some beast - likely escaped from the Labyrinth of Tigers - and he lost two Aeolian Screams belonging to the University, valued at two Echoes fifty each, and blamed it on this Vake! He began constructing some diabolical noise-making machine that disturbed professors in neighboring offices, supposedly to ward it off, and the University was forced to let him go. It was a terrible shame, but a reminder to us all to keep our research confined strictly to what is rather than what is not."

"I'd think you'd be used to diabolical noises around here," he remarks with a laugh, "but I see what you mean. Sounds like it was a lot of trouble for everyone involved."

"Ah, but his office wasn't in the thoroughly soundproofed Skouximology Department, it was in the rather less soundproofed Zoological section. It was indeed very troublesome. At any rate, I've got my Prayers, so I'll bid you adieu, if you'll pardon my French, ha ha..."

He heads back up the stairs.

What a nice, if rather judgmental and narrow-minded, man.

He looks at his so-far-successfully pilfered Shrieks. He looks at the pile of Screams. He considers the example of the Feverish-Chiropterist-excuse-me-Scarred-Naturalist.

He scoops up a Scream from the top of the heap and tucks it in his pocket, then re-packs his Shrieks more neatly in their bag and carries them out.

No one harasses him further. It's a marvel what a purposeful stride can do.

He now needs only procure a hat, and he'll be ready to collect his very own mandrake.

Hats, hats... where's he going to find a hat? Can he buy one somewhere? Who sells hats?

He is directed to a shop in the Bazaar named Maywell's Hattery. They have a wide variety of hats - gentlemen's top hats and bowlers, ladies' mushroom-festooned chapeaus, even a fedora liberated from the head of a devil valued at 400 Echoes.

The shop's owner, upon seeing his mode of dress, directs him to a secondhand section, the least battered hat of which costs fifty pence.

He can probably manage fifty pence for a hat!

The store owner will exchange some of his rosty or jade or glim for pence and sell him the hat, then. It is mildly scuffed in places, but it was clearly once a noble hat.

He and his hat and his Shrieks head back to the Scarred Naturalist's place.

The Naturalist greets him with a smile. "Excellent, you brought the materials! I'll show you to the workshop, come along..."

He leads the way to a room containing the tools of various trades, and gets the jars. "The convenient thing about Primordial Shrieks," he explains, "well, one of the convenient things, is that the beeswax with which they're sealed is also effective for weatherproofing a hat. So if I simply-"

He breaks the seal on one of the jars and brings it to the hat's surface. A low groaning sound can be heard, muffled by the fabric. He then uses a pen-knife to cut out some of the beeswax and put it in a pot on a nearby stovetop. As it begins to melt, he repeats the process until the hat is shimmering with noise. Then he dips a paintbrush into the melted beeswax and begins painting over the hat. He does it with practiced expertise, and soon enough the hat looks glossy and new.

"Try it on," he suggests.

...sure. He tries on the hat.

It fills his ears with a low moaning sound - the souls of the very mildly damned, perhaps. It doesn't prevent him from hearing things, but it makes it a bit hard to focus.

"How is it?" the Scarred Naturalist asks. "It should prevent the mandrake's shrieks from penetrating."

"It sounds like my hat is really upset about something but, you know, in a quiet sort of way. It's all right."

"Yes, Primordial Shrieks always do sound a bit distressed. Now, I've got a map of mandrake locations right here-" he hands it over "-and you'll want to avoid the spots with red circles, because they're in the territory of some monster or another. Or I suppose you can just kill the monsters, if you're spoiling for a fight, I'm sure the Department would pay for a couple of marsh-wolf corpses. Any questions?"

"Not that I can think of. Thanks again!"

Off he goes with his shiny new hat!

Before he goes, the Naturalist gives him a lidded jar, and tells him that once he plucks the mandrake he should put it in the jar and shut the lid; the hat is enough to protect from acute exposure, but prolonged exposure is another matter entirely.

The marshes are vast. There are several mandrake spots. Will he go for a convenient one, or a less convenient one?

He is pretty much gonna go for the closest mandrake and if this results in him fighting a monster, well, that's a bridge he can cross when he gets there.

The closest mandrake is inside a red circle labeled MARSH-WOLF. As he approaches the location, he does not see a marsh-wolf; he does see a bright green sprout coming out of the ground which matches the Naturalist's description of the mandrake plant.

How convenient! And can he get it out of the ground and into the jar without meeting the marsh-wolf?

The mandrake screams abortively as he shoves it into the jar, and there's a howl from a few hundred yards away, among the towering mushrooms that make up the forest.

He might want to start running.

But if he runs, how will he ever get to fight a marsh-wolf?

No, fine, fine, he's going, he's going.

The Scarred Naturalist greets him at the door to his marshy house. "Excellent, excellent! You have the mandrake?"

"I do! And I didn't even have to fight a marsh-wolf for it!" he says, with only a hint of disappointment.

The Naturalist laughs. "A true hunter, you are. Now, in order to tame the mandrake, I'll need you to procure a few bottles of wine - ten is a high but reasonable estimate - and then, once it's tamed, you can take it with you to train it to sing. Alright?"

"All right!"

And where does he go to look for wine?

Veilgarden is recommended. He can get a bottle for tuppence at the still-appropriately-named Singing Mandrake, or he could just steal some.

Okay, he can't resist buying wine at the Singing Mandrake to tame his soon-to-be-singing mandrake.

Then, twenty pence poorer but ten bottles of Greyfields richer, he may return to the Naturalist's house.

The Naturalist takes the wine and the jarred mandrake and hooks them both up to a diabolical-looking machine, which fills the jar with wine without exposing any of it to the air.

It's unclear where all the wine goes, but after ten bottles, the Naturalist opens up the jar. It's mostly empty apart from a thick layer of dregs at the bottom, and the mandrake is curled up on the bed of mushroom particles, apparently asleep. Its pale flesh has turned faintly pink.

"So now I have a drunk mandrake. How do I teach it to sing?"

"There are music instructors throughout the city, mostly in Veilgarden. I imagine it'd be more difficult than teaching a child, since the mandrake can't talk... but then, I've never tried to teach a child. Perhaps it'll be a refreshing change of pace."

"Guess I'll go find one of those, then!"

"I wish you the best of luck. Once your mandrake can sing, we can discuss finding a Vake-tooth."

"I might disappoint you there, I mostly just want a singing mandrake because having a singing mandrake sounds amazing."

"Hmm. Well, you're free to do whatever you like. There will be other hunters, I'm sure."

"Good luck finding them!"

As for this particular hunter, he's going to go find a singing instructor for his drunk mandrake.

Veilgarden contains many singing instructors! Few, however, are willing to consider working with a screaming vegetable. Eventually he is directed to an apartment close to the border between Veilgarden and Spite, which houses a Sardonic Music-Hall Singer.

She opens her door and looks at him, raising one of her painstakingly pencilled eyebrows. "You're a bit old for business, and a bit young for pleasure. What're you about?"

"I'm trying to teach a drunk mandrake to sing," he says. "Unaccountably, nobody's been interested so far."

She raises her other eyebrow. "Well, if that's not a euphemism, it's the most interesting thing I've heard so far tonight. Show me the mandrake in question? If, again, it's not a euphemism - one euphemistic mandrake is much like another."

He produces the jar and opens it to display the wholly non-euphemistic mandrake.

She looks inside. "Well, I'll be."

The mandrake wakes up and yawns.

"...never thought I'd say this about a vegetable," the Singer says, "but it's awfully cute, isn't it? And it can't be much worse than a six-year-old... My fee's four ounces Prisoner's Honey, unadulterated."

"It is awfully cute!" he agrees, smiling down into the jar. "Guess I'd better go find some prisoner's honey, then."

"You can get it at the Bazaar," she says, "if you don't mind getting stiffed. The honey-dens might sell you some at a better rate. Or you could steal it, what do I care?"

"Might as well try the honey-dens first."

He closes the jar and puts it away and smiles at her. "Thanks," he says. "I'll see you again when I've got your honey."

He bows on his way out of the room, fluid and understated like he wasn't thinking about it at all and simply found it more natural than departing any other way.

From the bemused look on her face, she doesn't get that a lot.

The nearest honey-den to the Singer's place offers Prisoner's Honey at 80 pence per ounce. "Really it's measured by the drop," the Oleaginous Proprietor tells him. "If you want that much honey, you've either got a very serious habit, or you're spreading it on scones."

Well, it sounds like she's got a very serious habit, then, but that's none of his business. He's not even sure he knows what prisoner's honey does.

Question is, can he come up with four times eighty pence on the spot, or does he have to go make some money first?

He could, but it'd take almost all he got from the mugger. He'd be left with about twenty of the various currencies, plus the thumbnail-sized diamond.

Well, being broke sounds like a problem for future him.

—wait, no, that's Bad Forward Planning, isn't it. Probably he should make sure to not spend all his money without first obtaining more. On the other hand, a thumbnail-sized diamond is almost like money, isn't it? Maybe he could just buy the honey and get the mandrake its singing lessons and then go find more money afterward... no, that still sounds like leaving his future self to deal with the problem. If he can't figure out on the spot exactly how he is going to have the funds to feed himself next week, he should go make some more money right now and obtain singing lessons for his mandrake later.

He takes the mandrake home and pats its jar affectionately and leaves it in his room and heads over to Watchmaker's Hill to see if those nice people at Menace Eradication have got another bounty he can claim.

They have plenty of bounties! He could hunt marsh-wolves, or sorrow-spiders, or even a fungus-column. These bounties are all posted on a board outside the Department.

Also outside the Department is a woman who looks very tired of everyone's bullshit. "What kind of hunters won't kill anything that flies?" she mutters.

He stops and looks at her curiously. "What's the trouble?"

"My chandlery workshop is infested with frostmoths," the Bitter Chandleress explains. "So I thought I'd come by to get a Menace Eradicator, get them cleared out. But when I mentioned the nature of the problem, the superstitious idiots just started crossing themselves. Said it's against the will of the Prester to kill anything that flies! So I suppose nobody's going to get this reward I pulled together, and I'll have to fumigate the place."

"I could take a look," he says cheerfully.

"Oh, would you? That'd be awfully nice of you. Come on, the workshop's a ways this way."

She leads him through some marshland to a little workshop. Inside, it's frigid, his breath coming out as clouds of steam, and the ceiling is carpeted with translucent insects.

The Chandleress hands him a pair of thick leather gloves. "You'll want these - their wings are like razors."

"Good to know!"

He puts on the gloves and investigates the ceiling. Can he just grab them and crush them, is that a thing? Or is he going to have to get more strategic about this?

As he reaches up to the ceiling, the Chandleress whispers "Careful - they might swarm you for your body heat, and that's a bad way to die. Maybe you can light a candle and wait for them to come down?"

Strategy it is, then. He shrugs and tries the candle.

The candle draws the moths down, one or two or half a dozen at a time awakening and going towards the bright heat. They crunch between the gloves like ice underfoot. It's meditative, in a way.

They're pretty! Crunch crunch.

It takes a while, but the floor is eventually covered with meltwater and insect husks, and the ceiling is clear. "Thank you," the Chandleress says with a relieved sigh, handing over a pouch of rostygold. "Here's what I'd have spent on the poison to fumigate, plus a bit since I don't have to clear the workshop for the day. You're a lifesaver."

"You're welcome! Happy to help!"

And now how much money does he have?

The Chandleress gave him two hundred fifty rostygold - enough that he'll have no trouble feeding himself even after paying for the Singer's fee.

Oh good! Then - well, it's getting pretty late, but the next day he can go buy some honey and bring the honey and the mandrake to the Singer.

The Singer receives him with a gracious curtsey, then takes the honey bottle from his hand and secrets it away into a hidden pocket. "Thank you very much."

She takes the mandrake out of its jar and beholds it. It beholds her, in turn.

She sings a high note. The mandrake cocks its head quizzically, then attempts to imitate her. It's rather flat, and very loud. She winces, then shrugs. "I've heard worse. You can run along - I'll have your vegetable singing Die Zauberflöte soon enough. Call it four hours a day until we're both satisfied?"

"Seems reasonable! Should I be back for it in four hours, then?"

"Yes, four hours and I'll have a good estimate of where its talents lie."

He beams delightedly at her. "Thank you!" he says, and takes his leave, again with that absent-minded courtesy.

So, four hours. What shall he do with four hours? Maybe he'll wander the streets some more and see if he sees anything new and interesting in places yet unexplored.

As he's crossing Hater's Bridge, he may hear the leathery flap of wings above. Not the quick wingbeats of the average bat - slower, more intense.

He hears it, all right.

It would probably be prudent to grab that Aeolian Scream out of his pocket and smash it, but prudence is slow and instinct is fast; he draws his knife instead.

There's a high-pitched giggle from above him, and the wings descend.

He feels a searing pain as the Vake's claws tear across his torso, cutting through the suit the Widow gave him.

For the first time he can remember since waking up, his body feels wrong. Too small, too weak, too slow, too fragile, he's turning to face it already when it hits but he's not fast enough, he slashes at it with his knife but he can't strike hard enough—

It takes him a few more seconds to remember, but then he fumbles in his pocket for the Scream.

When it hits the ground, there's a sound like if lighting could sing. Not like thunder - it's too high, too pure, too crystalline for that.

The Vake staggers drunkenly off of him, clutching its wings to its head.

All his instincts are screaming that he should attack while it's weak, grab it and rip its wings off, tear it to pieces and scatter the pieces.

His instincts seem badly misinformed about his actual capacity to injure this thing. He takes another ineffectual swipe at it with the knife, then draws a deep steadying breath and tells himself very firmly that there's no use in fighting when he's so badly outmatched, and sheathes the knife and turns and bolts.

It doesn't follow.

Right. Okay. So that happened.

What's his first priority here? —Probably tending these scratches. He checks them; they don't feel all that bad but last time something didn't feel all that bad he was advised to go see a doctor about it, and they are bigger and bloodier than the shoulder wound, so off to the doctor he goes. Same one as last time, since last time seems to have worked out fine.

The Suspicious-Looking Physician asks no questions, just takes a handful of rostygold and cleans out the wound and stitches him up and puts a bandage over the affected area. "Since you're here again, want me to check on that shoulder? No extra charge."

"Sure, thanks!"

The Physician lifts off the bandage and washes off the crusted blood to reveal... nothing.

"Would you look at that," he says blandly.

"Is that not supposed to have happened?" he says, twisting his head to blink down at his unmarked shoulder. He has the vague feeling that it may not be supposed to have happened, but he also doesn't find himself all that surprised by it.

"Not typically," he says, tossing the bandage into a waste bin. "I'd've said that wound would stick around for a week or two, but it's gone. You ever been to the Elder Continent? They can do things like that to a body."

"Not that I know of, anyway."

The Physician shrugs. "Well, it's a good thing for you, at any rate."

"I suppose it is."

All right then. What's his next priority?

...replenishing his supply of Aeolian Screams, probably. He thinks he would like to have one to keep on his person and one to keep at home, for future occasions. He's not sure exactly how urgent this is; he's hardly familiar with the Vake's schedule. But it only took it a few days to come after him, so he thinks perhaps the answer is pretty damned urgent and he should be tracking down a steady supply of Screams as soon as he can possibly manage.

—in the meantime, though, he thinks it's probably time for him to go pick up his mandrake from its singing lessons. He does that next.

The Sardonic Music-Hall Singer opens the door. She takes in the rents and bloodstains on his suit. "Well, I see we were both busy."

"Sorry I'm late," he says. "Nearly got eaten by a giant bat. How were the lessons?"

"They went quite well, actually. He's got a good ear, your vegetable - I've taught him to match pitch and he's learned the chorus of Allouette."

She turns to the mandrake. "Allouette!"

The mandrake sings. Its voice is a piercing soprano, not dissimilar to the Aeolian Scream he experienced earlier tonight though a bit softer.

"Awwww," he says delightedly. "All right, I'll be back with him tomorrow probably, unless the giant bat gets me." With immense affection, he retrieves his mandrake.

The mandrake nuzzles him happily and trills.

"You might start a trend," the Singer muses. "What'd you do to get him so biddable?"

"I got him incredibly drunk is what," he says cheerfully, petting the mandrake's adorably lumpy head.

"Huh! Well, bring him back tomorrow and I'll teach him some more, but for now I've got some honey-dreams to pursue."

"Enjoy!"

And he's off, bowing on the way out as usual.

Now... hmm. He has a sort of musical mandrake at this point. Also the Vake came after him. Perhaps it's time to check in with the Naturalist?

The Scarred Naturalist greets him. "Hello again, my friend! I-"

He abruptly notices the blood. "Claw marks. Already?"

"Seems the Vake doesn't understand the difference between idle curiosity and a serious effort to hunt it. I did get someone to give the mandrake a singing lesson, though!"

"Well, that much is good. Come in, come in-"

He leads him back to the sitting room. "Are you here about the tooth, then?"

"Let's say I'm at least strongly considering it."

"Well, I don't know off the top of my head where you might find one, you understand - but I know who might. A Morbid Under-Secretary, at the Palace, collects the fangs of various beasts, and I've heard tell he's been crowing about how he's going to have a Vake-tooth soon. I'd suggest that you pay him a visit."

"I can do that! By the way, what if anything do mandrakes eat? I like mine and I want to take good care of him."

"I'm pleased to hear it. They'll eat just about anything - don't give him anything that had blood in it, though, or he'll go wild. And don't try giving him ten bottles of wine again, it's only good the once. And, here-"

He hands his visitor a second jar, filled with thick black mud. "For him to sleep in. I forgot to give this to you last time."

"Oh good!" He accepts the jar. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. I wish you the best of luck."

"You too!"

And off he goes. He tries to think of some food he has encountered that definitely never had any blood in it, rules out meat pies and sausages and skewered rat, isn't sure either way about the Rubbery Lumps, and finally ends up feeding the mandrake bits of broken-off pie crust double-checked for lack of filling.

The mandrake appreciates the bits of pie crust very very much. It gulps them down, then yawns hugely and crawls into the pot of mud to sleep.

"What a sweet little creature," he says, setting its pot down safe and sound next to his bed. "Pets have names, don't they? I think I'll call you Edward."

And that is perhaps enough things for today.

In the morning - well, actually, in the morning he should first of all apologize to the Widow for ruining the clothes she let him borrow.

She waves it off. "You certainly lead a dangerous life, but I'm hardly doing anything with those old things, it's no trouble at all for me. I darned and bleached your other suit, it's hanging in the closet. I'll see if I can salvage the one you've got on or if it goes to the Relickers."

"Thanks."

He changes clothes, has a meat pie for breakfast, feeds his mandrake the crusts, and shows up at the Singer's place to drop it off for its next lesson.

She opens the door and smiles when she sees him. "Here to drop off your friend?"

"That I am!" He presents her with a clean jar of well-fed mandrake. "Enjoy!"

She opens the jar and decants the mandrake onto a divan. "Hello, little fellow."

Then, she considers her guest. "You could stay here while he learns, if you'd rather not tempt the Vake. I'm sure you're safer with the mandrake in your pocket... even if it doesn't mean you're safe, per se."

"You're probably right," he says, with a slightly surprised smile. "Thanks."

She lets him in. There's overstuffed couches and chaises-lounge, and a couple of rather nice sculptures, but other than that the room is largely undecorated apart from a grand piano and a painting hanging on the wall depicting a Surface sunset.

Pretty!!! He gazes delightedly at the painting as he finds somewhere to sit.

The Sardonic Music-Hall Singer sits at the piano and begins the lesson. First she gauges how much of the previous lesson stuck with Edward. Satisfied with his retention, she begins teaching him a cantata.

Her method is gentle, but firm. If Edward stops imitating her, she turns from the piano and frowns exaggeratedly at him; when he finishes a line without mistakes, she beams and feeds him a button mushroom. By this method she guides him through two cantatas and La Donna è Mobile.

"That one's always been a favorite of mine," she confides once Edward has learned it and can sing it without error. "Being a fickle woman myself."

He giggles.

"I like how you teach him," he says. "Seems like you're both having fun."

"Well, thank you. It's important, you know, that everyone have fun. When you teach children, especially, and a mandrake is really very much like a child. That's what my mother always told me, at least."

"Told you which? Or both? I guess it makes sense that I'm not the first person to come through here looking for someone to teach a mandrake to sing."

"You're certainly not; how'd you think I knew it was the Vake that attacked you? My mother taught hunters' mandrakes, as did her mother. That old bat's been around a long time."

"There can't be that many giant man-eating bats in the world, can there? I thought you might have just heard of it somewhere. But this makes sense too."

"Mostly I just knew you had a mandrake."

She resumes teaching Edward for the remainder of the lesson time. She's got him singing, but she wants to improve his intonation - it's no good if he's singing operetta like it's a funeral march, or vice versa.

Finally the end of the lesson arrives, as marked by the bells of St. Dunstan's Cathedral. "Alright, little man," she says to the plant, "we're done for now."

He smiles at his mandrake. What a good mandrake.

"It's funny," he says, "I didn't even mean to hunt the Vake, I just thought a singing mandrake sounded like a fantastic idea. But then it tried to kill me, so maybe I'm going to end up hunting it after all."

She smiles wryly. "Well, a mandrake is an even better idea if the Vake is after you."

"True!"

He scoops Edward up and puts him in his jar, telling him affectionately, "But I would love you even if you were no use to me at all."

The Singer puts a hand over her heart. "You'll make me cry," she says. "Go on, and I'll see you tomorrow."

Off he goes, giggling.

The Scarred Naturalist told him that a Morbid Under-Secretary at the Shuttered Palace collects the teeth of various animals, and that he's been talking about acquiring a Vake tooth. The logical next step would be to make a trip to the Palace.

For some reason he finds that he is deeply reluctant to go anywhere near the Palace.

But he is even more deeply reluctant to be defenseless against the giant bat that wants to eat him, so off to see the Morbid Under-Secretary it is.

The Shuttered Palace has high walls wrapped in thorny roses, and a well-guarded gate.

The guards look at him. One asks, "D'you have an invitation?"

"No."

"Right, on your way then."

Well, fair enough. He shrugs and walks away.

So how is he going to see the Morbid Under-Secretary if walking in the front door won't do it...?

A woman in a navy-blue suit steps out of the shadows and falls into step next to him.

"You know, I expected some interesting things from you, but 'trying to get back into the Shuttered Palace' wasn't one of them."

"What?"

"After the lengths we went to getting you out? I'd think this would be the last place I'd see you."

"—wait, you know me?" He stops in his tracks, staring at her intently. "Who the fuck am I?"

"-Christ's blood, I thought you were acting off, but I never imagined - if we're going to have this conversation, it won't be in the middle of the street. Follow me."

She strides off down a sidestreet.

Oh, he is sure as hell following.

She leads him over Hood's Bridge, into the Forgotten Quarter, through streets lined with crumbling statues, into a ruined temple. There, she sits on an ancient, blood-stained altar and regards him.

"How much do you remember?" she asks finally.

"I woke up in a jail cell with no idea who I was or how I got there and I haven't remembered anything more since."

"Well. You were once called the Wayward Prince. Son of the Traitor Empress. When London Fell, your siblings were turned into monsters. Your mother tried again, and you came out just as monstrous as they. So you were all locked away in the cellars of the Shuttered Palace. You occupied yourselves in depravity, in the pursuit of forbidden pleasures; this satisfied the rest of her brood, but you felt trapped. I happened to be assigned to the Palace at the time, gathering intelligence on certain persons - and I ran into you. We had... a rocky start to our working relationship, but eventually came to respect each other, or at least what we could accomplish together."

(When she says a rocky start there's a flash of tentacles reaching out to examine, to plunder - a cold look in her eye, a ratwork pistol in her unshaking hand -)

"I happen to be an artisan of the Red Science - the arts which break the Chain. There was a quirk to your curse, which made your reflection appear human; I stole your reflection from Parabola, the land behind the mirrors, and transferred you into it. Once that was done, I left the hulk of your former body to rot in your chambers and smuggled you out of the Palace. I've kept an eye on you since, but evidently not a close enough eye - I didn't realize the blow you suffered in that bar fight had rattled your brain so thoroughly."

He blinks.

"I almost remembered something there..." But the memory slips away, and he shakes his head slightly. "Anyway, now there's a giant bat trying to eat me and I'm supposed to go ask a Morbid Under-Secretary to give me one of its teeth."

"Ah, yes, the Vake-hunt. Hmm... I could smuggle you in. The Palace always has need of new valets, and making an identity for you would be child's play. But if I do you this favor, I want you to do one for me. Does that sound fair?"

"Suppose it does. What kind of favour do you want?"

"His Amused Lordship is doing some research into the extension of human life which I find very fascinating. Regrettably, he doesn't trust me, due to my lack of a soul. I'd like you to arrange a mutually beneficial exchange of knowledge - replace his research with my own, and bring his to me. I'll copy it out for my own use and send back the originals."

"Well, I have no idea how to do that, but so far every time I can remember trying something I had no idea how to do, I managed it somehow or other."

"I'll give you the documents and get you into the palace; you go into his study ostensibly to clean it and, instead of actually cleaning, take all the research you can find and leave mine in its place. Is that clearer?"

"Yes it is!"

"Lovely! We won't even need a new outfit for you, I got what you're wearing off of a valet in the first place. I'll sneak you in the servants' entrance, and you can find the Morbid Under-Secretary and switch His Amused Lordship's documents and then leave the way you came."

Agreeable shrug.

"Did you have any other questions for me, or shall we return to the Palace?"

"Can't think of anything!"

She leads him to a house near the Palace, inside which is a tunnel leading down. "This will put you out in the palace grounds. You're the Clean-Faced Valet, a new hire. Conveniently, the Morbid Under-Secretary's office is in the same building as His Amused Lordship's study, and it's the closest building to the tunnel exit. I'm not in charge here, but I'd recommend you get in and out without delay. The longer you stay, the more likely it is that someone high-ranking might run into you and recognize you from your former reflection."

"Yeah. I don't intend to stay any longer than I have to."

"Bonne chance," she says, tucking the envelope containing her research into his pocket.

"Thanks."

All right, off to tell some lies in a place he hates. Why does this feel so unpleasantly familiar?

The tunnel, as promised, leads into the palace grounds. He comes out in a shadowy spot between two bushes.

Closest building, she said?

Yes, she did.

Inside the closest building, there's an entrance hall, where a footman stands with perfect posture waiting for anyone to have need of him.

Does he know this place? He feels like he might know this place.

He stands still for a moment, gathering his nerve; and then he sets off, with a tempered version of his usual ebulliently confident stride. There's—a way of moving that feels right for the role, and it's slightly ill-fitting but he can tamp down his discomfort and make it work. Move like someone who is exactly where he's supposed to be, who is so unremarkable as to be invisible. Move like someone who has a job to do and is taking the straightest path to doing it.

The footman doesn’t pay him a second glance. Neither do any of the people he passes in the halls.

The door to His Amused Lordship’s study opens as he turns the corner to approach it; His Lordship himself exits the room. “Ah, capital timing!” he bellows, in the same tone of voice with which he bellows everything. “Was just about to call for one of you to clean up after my latest experiment! Cider foam everywhere, frightful mess. Left ten pence on the table as a tip for when you’re done.”

He strides off before the supposed servant can respond.

You know what? He is going to take those ten pence, and if cleaning up the cider foam takes him less than five minutes he'll do it. But after five minutes or the end of the mess, whichever comes first, it's time to swap the documents and visit the Under-Secretary.

The cider foam is contained within an un-carpeted experimental area, which does indeed take about five minutes to clean if he doesn't do it in too much depth. (It still smells like apples and VITALITY, though.) Swapping the documents is much quicker.

The Morbid Under-Secretary's office is in a less prestigious part of the building. His office door is open, and he is currently doing paperwork. His walls are lined with the fangs of various beasts.

He steps into the office, closes the door, and drops the invisible body language.

"Hello," he says. "I heard you collect teeth. Do you have a Vake tooth? I want one."

The Under-Secretary jumps. "Oh! You startled me - I don't have a Vake tooth, not yet. Would you like to help me acquire one?"

"I would!"

"Well, a report is always crossing my desk that some prisoner in New Newgate had their face carved off. That happens every once in a while; it's the Snuffer's work. But one day, I found a report that this had happened to a certain Dashing Toff who had recently paid for one of the teeth of the Vake to be retrieved from a Fourth City ruin. After that, the reports began to mention that the Snuffer's victims had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest with the fang of some kind of beast." He shrugs. "It's not proof positive, but it hints rather strongly, doesn't it?"

"Suppose it does."

"If you can procure that tooth for me, I'll give you a thousand jade. It wouldn't be easy, but you seem like the kind of man who can get things done."

"A thousand jade sounds nice. A Vake-tooth of my very own might sound nicer. If I come by a spare, though, I'll happily sell it to you."

The Under-Secretary sighs. "Well, I can't go any higher, but I won't stop you if you prefer to keep it."

Then he returns to his paperwork.

And he gets the fuck out of the Palace.

The Provocateuse awaits him.

"The prodigal returns. How went your quests?"

"Apparently there's a Vake-tooth going around that's probably in the hands of someone who likes cutting people's faces off. Also His Lordship paid me tenpence to deal with the cider he spilled all over his floor."

"A profitable evening!"

She bumps him with her hip, and there's a slight tug at the pocket where he has His Lordship's papers.

He grabs her wrist, mostly on reflex.

(There's—something—not quite a memory—a familiarity, to grabbing someone like this—)

Her other hand twitches in the direction of her own pocket, but she stills it and puts it back by her side.

"My apologies. May I have those."