Arrival

Kingsley jerked awake as the truck came to a crashing stop, one hand automatically snapping out to prevent a particularly homicidal crate from crushing his skull. Slowly, he peered from behind the fortress of crates. The Kark was nowhere to be seen, but there was a lingering odor of cigarettes. Outside there were shouting and activity. It sounded disappointingly like work. Kingsley eyed the canvas flap at the far end of the bed. If he hurried he could make it and be gone before anybody knew, have the Master's quarters set up, and be safely shielded from criticism for the rest of the day. The Master certainly didn't know that Kingsley could do his day's chores in an hour and spent the rest of the day his own man.

There was an unfamiliar sound, and suddenly the whole canvas seemed to evaporate. Mountains streamed into Kingsley's peripheral vision, and crowd of burly laborers descended on the truck, and suddenly it was skeletal. Kingsley watched helplessly as the crates he was supposed to be guarding bustled away under the arms of a mustachioed coolie. Very quietly, he shifted the carpet bag to the other hand, hopped gingerly over the side of the truck, and surveyed the camp.

It was arranged in large clearing which, from the sound of sawing and hammering, was somehow expanding and becoming more dense simultaneously. Lean-tos and shanties burst from the ground like stop-motion tree growth, the illusion perfected by the fact that some of the logs still had green leaves hanging from them. The societies had, in many cases, already arrived, and were already competing for space. The Barber's College had erected poles to define the edges of their territory; surgical interns from the Sawbones Fraternity swung livery over them if they thought nobody was looking. The Mortician Fellowship had erected a full size statue of Eb in repose, towering from the center of the camp. Members of societies could be seen arguing; an envoy of the Hierophant was shouting and waving a censer at a Nephromancer, although whether it was a threat or simply a gesture to keep off the scent of salpetre wasn't clear.

Lurking in the shadows of the mountain, high above, Kingsley could see the source of the whole squabble. Stairs crisscrossed the cliff face, and a few squat towers were visible over the edge. Kingsley sighed. "Depressing, isn't it?" Veldt clapped his hand on his valet's shoulder. "All these people, here to fight over the right to look at a few carvings and some pottery. Well? Don't just stand there, get a move on, man!"

They followed hastily applied livery through the middle of the camp, into a rather stately shack. It had columns. It was lavishly appointed inside, with a pair of gas lamps throwing a fashionable dim onto a short man sitting at the end of the table. "Mr. Veldt, glad you could make it; we're very excited to have you here. There are some tablets and tools in the ruins, you should see it! It guarantees that this facility should fall under the jurisdiction of we, the Fraternity of Sawbones. Saws! There's scalpels! Scalpels, sir. Wonderful devices, with evidence of ironworking! It's very exciting, I'm sure you know. We have arranged a wonderful bunk at the heart of our camp, as near to the road as the horrible ruffians would allow us. Your man can take your things, and I would be obliged if we could get this assay underway as soon as possible." There was a pause. "Oh, by the way, I am the Sitting Chair of the Fraternity, pleased to make your acquaintance."


Veldt paused, unsure of how to proceed. On the one hand, the Sitting Chair had remained seated, spoken quickly without exchanging the expected niceties and barely even introduced himself at all. The flowery language and gushing and exhaustive exchange of etiquette was abandoned in the shadow of the jagged mountains. It was a breathe of fresh air, meeting someone sharp enough to get to the point. On the other, this layabout had not been nearly as courteous as Veldt imagined he deserved, and he was too old to let some stuffed shirt busybody take his ease during introductions. Veldt knew he was a lot of things, and although gentleman was not one, he was also not some servant to be summoned and paid with money in place of money and courtesy. Kingsley watched beads of sweat form as his master performed unfamiliar social calculus, and surreptitiously cracked the door with his heel.

"You incorrigible little ingrate!" Veldt roared finally.
"Master, perhaps--" Kingsley began timidly.
"Not you, boy. Him! The ingrate! Summoning me from my important work at the University so he can stamp his name all over shiney baubles? The nerve of him!"
"Sir, I assure you I meant no disrespect, I'm bound by the rules of my order to stay sea--"
"You be quiet, society man. Kingsley, call the trucks back! We're returning the University immediately." Kingsley shrugged helplessly at the Sitting Chair as Veldt swept out of the shack, and scurried after his master.

"Sir, we spoke with the drivers on the way here, remember? They won't be leaving for nearly a week, at least."
"Bushwa! These mercenaries will drive us back for a ha'penny, I'm sure. Cutthroats!"
Kingsley glanced backwards nervously. The Sitting Chair was rapidly approaching, waving his arms from a sedan chair borne between two puffing students. A half-curious crowd was forming a human hallway, allowing the fuming Veldt to pass by and closing up behind the sedan.

Veldt froze suddenly, prompting Kingsley to nearly run into him. The puffing society men came to a stop with the Sitting Chair desperately trying to prostrate himself from chest level. Kingsley followed his master's gaze. A small dove had hopped onto the corner of a building. It tilted its head at him, then flew away. Veldt straightened.

"Kingsley, I had an epiphany. We're staying. Stuffed shirt, lead me to these saws. Kingsley, see to my things." He swept away, pushing through the crowd.

Kinsbourne had been a convenient find. Where the river had widened and slowed and the dense forests had curled back its vast maw on an open plain, there was room to a comfortable village. Over the gentle slopes on the north , something stranger was found to accommodate the burgeoning community. Where the fields that had made Kinsbourne such an inviting port surrendered to the trees, a strange structure parted the forest. A ramp of cement and metal, wide enough to let two dozen people stand shoulder to shoulder, lifted itself regally from the gentle hillocks and plunged away into darkness.

It made for a convenient entrance to the center of the continent, and its size and mysterious origins drew religious interest. Pilgrims traveled it, looking for the secret history of their giant deities. Explorers would travel its length until professional pride got the better of them, and then they'd descend the side roads into the forest and trailblaze. Broken-down steamer trucks became stations, and tiny homesteads hunkered under the buttresses. Nobody was quite sure how far the High Road went, although explorers claimed to have reached the far edge toppled into a crevasse at the foot of the mountains hundreds of miles on the interior.

For most people, the nearer forests held their own interests. At first furs and lumbers were the draw, and the Road made for extremely convenient trading. As the trees found themselves rising as Kinsbourne's Upper Walks, farmers moved into the places the lumberjacks had logged, and subsidiary roads provided paths deeper and deeper inland. That was when the ruins had start to turn up. It was well known that the continent had had previous inhabitants. Not one to look a gift continent in the millions of unmarked graves, settlers generally turned out pockets where they found them and got on with their lives. Out in the wilderness, however, the buildings became more numerous. They held curios, and geegaws, and the societies were vastly interested in every object they could find there. Homesteaders claimed there were great secrets hidden in the old compounds. The secret to everlasting life! The answers to the universe! The equation for a long lasting engine solvent that also serves as a beard wax!

Kingsley sat amidst trunks in the bed of a huge canvas-backed steamer truck. He'd been charged with guarding his master's possessions and had promptly realized the task was unnecessary, given as he was the only one in the truck bed and furthermore the possessions consisted of two carpet bags full of clothing Veldt had only brought along to appease the laundress, a few books, and a large crate too heavy to be stolen and too boring-looking to be worth it. So he'd settled in for his favorite pastime, watching. It had been exciting for the first few hours; he'd stared through a flap in the canvas as first the university station, then the gables and stalls of Kinsbourne, and finally the ramparts of the Upper Walk had slid sideways out of view. He'd even sat for a while entranced by the fields of corn and beans separated by ancient stone walls, with roughly-clothed folk tending plants, animals, and farming equipment visible from the sides of the High Road. Soon, though, huge trees towered overhead, an innumerable army of faceless sentries. Periodically a small village would shake free of the overgrowth, and the caravan would grind to a halt, unloading new settlers and enthusiastic pilgrims. Caravaneers hawked their wares to starry-eyed fungus farmers and the scholars would rifle through the curio stores of local ruins-raiders, but the periodic starts and stops had begun to set Kingsley's teeth on edge.

Kingsley wasn't especially surprised when the truck jolted to a stop and instantly his hand steadied a homicidal steamer trunk. A complaint rose in his throat but good manners stifled it and he swatted the canvas aside so he could peer at the goings on outside. A fat man in pink pajamas flopped off the back of the next truck, and scrambled away. Someone landed on his back, and wrenched him backwards. Men descended the squat truck rapidly, and finally, the two huffing contestants were glaring at each other through a prison of arm bars. Finally, the fat one was released, and his attacker was frogmarched away from the group. He wrenched away from the two men holding his wrists and casually hauled himself into Kingsley's truckbed. Kingsley peered timidly at the colossus. It struck a match and thunder corresponded, illuminating an angular face with thick-knit eyebrows and a neatly trimmed beard. Kingsley scowled as he settled on the floor and steadied the tipping steamer. A coolie with a beard, smoking a cigarette, getting in fights. Suddenly his security role had been expanded. As the cigarette flared to life, a gentle staccato of rain began its all-night percussion piece on the canvas.