3. The Alchemists of Vra, the first three chapters.

THE VELVET PAW OF ASQUITH NOVELS

THE ALCHEMISTS OF VRA

THOMAS CORFIELD

Panda Books Australia Sydney — New York — Tokyo — Berlin

The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels Book 3, The Alchemists of Vra

First published in Australia by Panda Books Australia in 2016 Copyright (c) Thomas Corfield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Corfield, Thomas

Alchemists of Vra, the ISBN 978-0-9945306-2-2

1.Corfield, Thomas – Humour – Adventure 2. New Fable

Panda Books Australia Limited Level 29, Chifley Tower, 2 Chifley Square, Sydney NSW 2000 pandabooksaustralia.com Text design by Stephen Guest, Highway 37 Cover design by Manfred Holland Typeset by Letter Spaced Perpetua 10 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Written in Australian English. If you enjoyed this book, please visit velvetpawofasquith.com to discover further Dooven Books. If you didn’t enjoy it, then consider re-reading it, paying closer attention.

Cinematic Audiobook editions of the Dooven Books are available from Scribl.com, Audible.com, iTunes and all online audiobook retailers.

Copyright 2016 Thomas Corfield

The Velvet Paw of Asquith Facebook page: www.facebook.com/doovenbooks

A bit about the author: www.thomascorfield.com

Music from the books: www.velvetpawofasquith.com/dooven-music

Certificate of Achievement: www.velvetpawofasquith.com/quiz

The other Velvet Paw of Asquith novels: www.velvetpawofasquith.com/bookshop

DOOVENISM

The Velvet Paw of Asquith novels, aka the Dooven Books, are complemented with additional media to enhance the reader’s experience. Visit VELVETPAWOFASQUITH.COM to learn more about these additional components of the Dooven Books: \

IMPORTANT NOTE

This publication contains references to characters, events and places from other books in the series.

This publication contains 3 intentional typographical errors. Readers astute enough to identify them are eligible to receive a delightful ‘Certificate of Astuteness’ and a paw-written letter of congratulation from Oscar Teabag-Dooven.

Moreover, readers who post a review of this book anywhere—even on their fridge—whether favourable or otherwise (the review, not their fridge), will receive a ‘Certificate of Indebtedness’ for doing so.

These two certificates, along with the one received upon successful completion of the book’s quiz, add up to a veritable swathe of credentials which would improve the appearance of any wall, providing it would look good draped in certificates.

Submit your finding(s) at VELVETPAWOFASQUITH.COM. Alternatively, don’t.

“So many misprints, it’s like an entirely new language.”

—Sampson Braithwaithe.

“Corfield is a writer who ought to have his poetic licence revoked.”

—Heidi Maitland, Hard but Fair.

“The Dooven Books read like a phone book, but with less intrigue.”

—Cavan Daahl, Royal Academy of Things in General. .

For

Oliver and Jeremy, Tabitha and Natalie

The Alchemists Of Vra

3

1

____________________

“Dark pit of ground to bright height of sky,

Rupturing stone as bone and earth as marrow,

And magma its deepest heat of blood,

All churn in oldest years,

Far beyond any feeble mortal days.”

– The Tome of Cadre.

HE CITY WAS DARK AND DANGEROUS. Even its shadows had a reputation for violence. This night, a little dog scurried through its laneways, hoping he wouldn’t contribute to it statistically.

The place appeared desolate. Abandoned. But it was not. The little dog knew that nasty things lurked nearby. He stopped and doubled against a wall, forcing breath still to listen

for those pursuing him. Silence. Swallowing, he stumbled on through streets he knew little of, other

than reputation. Having been on the run for three nights, he had no choice but continue. There would be no reprieve in surrender; those pursuing him knew the word, but spat at its definition.

Ahead, lanterns suggested others remained awake. But even amidst others he’d find no reprieve from those following.

For how can one hide from those already hidden?

T

The Velvet Paw Of Asquith Novels

4

Against a wall, he slid toward the lanterns. They lit a restaurant. There was movement within. The place was busy. But as much as he wished to, he dared not beg for their help lest he end up on the menu.

He threw himself across the street and peered through the restau-rant’s window. The scene was convivial. Animals sat at tables munching, while others waited. Several milled amongst them bringing dishes to some and taking orders from others. Through doors, a kitchen steamed, from which shouts, clangs and the odd thump arose. Into it, waiters disappeared with empty plates, to re-emerge with full ones.

At one table in particular, a dog waited. But not in a patient manner. Initially he had been. Up until he had reason not to. Which revolved around his dish being different from what he’d or-

dered; a mistake, he was certain, that had arisen because of all the mill-ing going on. Having advised a waiter of this, he’d been relieved of said dish, but hadn’t received another in return. With paws folded, he scowled at waiters. They ignored him. It was policy to ignore disgrun-tled patrons, because when they lost their tempers, they could be thrown into the street as a succinct end to the matter. This was a popular means of managing disgruntled customers in Talsik-Kerr, because that’s the sort of place Talsik-Kerr is. In fact, the city is so rough that is hadn’t so much earned its reputation, as stolen it from elsewhere.

The dog’s temper was on the boil. “Where’s my chicken?” he growled at a milling waiter. “I’m sorry?” the waiter replied, in a graceful twirl of attention. “My chicken. I ordered chicken and some muppet got the order

wrong and brought me fish instead.” With crockery teetering, the waiter looked at the dog’s empty table,

and said, “I can’t see any fish.” “It’s gone now. One of you muppets removed it.” “Well, if you didn’t want it, and it’s now gone, I fail to see the prob-

lem.” “The problem is that I want my chicken.” “The fish is very good.” “I don’t want fish.” “But you don’t have any.” “What is wrong with you?” “Me?” the waiter exclaimed, as others stopped milling, all eager to

end the matter succinctly. “You’re the one making a fuss about nothing!”


5

“Nothing?” “Yes. Nothing.” It stabbed a free paw at the empty table. The dog took a deep breath. “May I,” he said, deciding to start again.

“May I please have a serving of chicken?” He smiled through bared teeth. “You may. I shall just distribute these meals of food, and then return

to take your order.” “But I just gave you my order.” “Indeed, but the kitchen is busy and steamy, and so am I. So it is, I

am sure you’ll agree, best to write these things down.” “Write these things down,” the dog repeated. “Indeed. To avoid confusion.” “Confusion. What, like messing up orders?” A patronising nod. “Exactly.” “It didn’t help last time though, did it?” “You must have said fish.” “I did not order fish.” “No, but you must have said it.” “I did not say fish, all right? Why would I say fish? I hate fish. My

mother choked to death on a fish. And what’s more, I am allergic to fish.”

“Well, you must have.” “I. Did. Not.” The waiter turned to those behind him. “Who took this dog’s order

please?” There was a pause, before a paw rose. “Do you have the order slip?” There was some fiddling, a bit of tearing and a small piece of paper

made its way forward. Despite dishes, the waiter read it, and then held it out for the dog to see. “It says here: table eight—fish.”

The dog stared, stunned at their stubbornness, and the fact he had not ordered flipping fish. “I did not order flipping fish!”

But before the waiter could punch him in the face, the animal responsible for the order said, “It is true. He did actually order chicken.”

The waiter turned. “You are not helping.” “But it is true. He did actually order chicken.” “The why did you write fish?” There was an awkward pause. “I can’t spell chicken.” On the pavement outside, the little dog gasped at noises from up the

street. He slunk to the ground, peering at shadows, convinced he was about to be pounced upon and torn into long, thin pieces. Scrabbling


6

toward the restaurant’s entrance, he pushed at its door and stumbled inside.

Having never been in a restaurant before, he stood trembling. But because customers’ attentions remained on the unfolding cabaret, he hid behind a pot plant.

“What do you mean you don’t have a pen?” the riled dog demanded. “I cannot believe you do not have a pen! This is being done intentionally, surely? I’d believe one of you lot being hopelessly disorganised! But all of you? You are clearly an entire troupe of muppets!”

The waiter, having returned from the kitchen, patted himself down, surprised to find he was indeed devoid of pens. Behind him, others did the same, patting themselves down for anything resembling writing im-plements.

“None of you?” the dog asked, flabbergasted. He turned to some pa-trons, who shrugged in admitting that it was rather absurd. “I demand—demand, do you hear—to see the manager!” Furious, he stood, his chair skittling into a table behind.

A chef burst from the steaming kitchen, demanding to know what all the fuss was about. “What on earth is all the fuss about?”

Smaller chefs steamed after him, their irritation no less apparent. “I am the manager!” he steamed. “And I cannot hear myself yell in

there, for all the yelling out here!” The furious dog took several strides to him, pushing past those still

patting themselves down. “Oh, indeed? So you’re the creature responsi-ble for this maelstrom of muppets passing themselves off as staff then?”

The chef folded his paws, about as interested as meeting the runner-up in a bi-annual cabbage counting competition. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh, yes, there is! For I have never, ever, been so insulted in all my born days!”

“Then you should come here more often.” “I am warning you—” “That won’t be necessary.” “What?” “It is not necessary. I’ve had my tablets, thank you very much in-

deed.” “You’ve had your what?” “My tablets. I’ve already been wormed. We all have.” The dog stared at him until realisation dawned. “Not wormed, you

stupid animal! I said warned! I am warning you!”


7

Although a genuine mistake, it was an amusing one, and several pa-trons chuckled. As did staff amidst their pen-patting.

The dog stared at them all. He was hungry, and all he wanted was some flaming chicken. When the kitchen’s billowing steam became smoke, two of the more posterior chefs hurried back into the kitchen to discover the chicken was doing precisely this.

“What exactly do you want?” the chef steamed when the dog’s gaze came full circle.

“I just want some flipping chicken!” One of the little chefs hurried back from the kitchen and tugged at

his boss’ sleeve. The chef bent down and listened. Nodding, he straightened up. “Apparently we no longer have any

chicken,” he said. “Would you like some fish?” With a roar, the dog lunged at the chef and punches were thrown.

The violence spread to staff, who proceeded to remove the dog from the premises in a succinct end to the matter. The dog had his own thoughts, however, and threw chairs at them, which they countered by hurling tables. Without bothering to open the door first, the dog was then thrown from the restaurant, followed by several meals of food, which ironically left him adorned with chicken—though more as fashion acces-sory than edible condiment.

In the wake of such cabaret, the little dog found opportunity. Dart-ing through chaos, he shovelled bits of chicken and fish into his mouth, before skittling into a wall. He turned to see if he'd been noticed. He hadn’t. With mouth bulging and tummy grateful, hope flared and he wondered if fleeing was possible after all; if he remained on the move, kept his wits about him and didn’t lose the leather pouch, he might just save the world.

But he froze, mid-swallow, and stared at the dog sprawled across pavement.

The animal stood, brushed himself down and lurched sideways as though pushed. What was left of the door shifted as though kicked, be-fore tables and patrons were thrown across the restaurant by invisible paws. With a cry of despair, the little dog scrabbled through crockery and fell into the kitchen. Battling trolleys and pots, he scurried through smoke, over saucepans and around a sink. His paws found a handle, which he fumbled with until a door gave way. When he burst from the restaurant’s rear, he clambered over garbage bags, before tumbling into a laneway. Racked with sobs and blurred with tears, he stumbled through a back street, desperate to reach lands further north. But when he fled


8

around a corner, he fell against a wall and stared around wildly, no longer knowing which direction north was.


9

2

____________________

O ENSURE HE LOOKED THE PART, Sinson-Rascalian had ordered some special clothes made of Taper Silk. It was fitting, he’d told his minions, that he looked the part because he was the part.

Those loyal didn’t dispute this, because Sinson-Rascalian clearly understood a great deal about how the outside world worked, while they understood nothing of it. After all, it was Sinson-Rascalian who’d permitted their glimpsing lands beyond the green sea.

In a dank and humid cave, Sinson-Rascalian tried on his new apparel. Extending his paws, he asked them to describe what they saw.

But they said nothing. They didn’t understand the question. He sighed. Their stupidity wasn’t their fault, being more a result of

circumstance. “Well?” he asked, wishing he’d ordered a mirror as well so he didn’t have to. “Speak then! How do I look?”

The two Dark Alchemists blinked at each other. He glared at them. “I asked you a question, and I shall have an an-

swer: how do I look?” “Well, we’re not entirely sure of what you speak, Sinson,” one tried.

“For you look as you always do; a cat of some persuasion.” Sinson-Rascalian humphed. Having grown up in a reclusive monas-

tery, the animals’ inability to understand anything meant such comment was as close to an answer as he could hope.

He sighed. Knowing he looked wonderful was one thing, but having no others

realise was quite another. He tried a flourish of paw within silk. But a claw caught and tore the

fabric, bringing his choreography to an abrupt halt. He swore and or-dered a Dark Alchemist to fetch some thread so he could mend it before the seam unravelled further. The animal did so, grateful to finally under-stand something.

T


10

The cave was deep, dark and smelt quite a lot like eggs. Hidden within the bowels of a monastery, few knew of it, other than the forgers of amberstone, who ignored the antics of apprentices prancing around in it, primarily because the place smelt quite a lot like eggs. On some days the fumes were so bad, that Sinson-Rascalian ensured a little dish of water remained nearby, which he’d sprinkle in his eyes when they burnt too much.

Smell or not, this was his domain. His den. This was his lair. In the Monastery above, three hundred Clandestine Alchemists

roamed, all of them oblivious to his secret order of Dark Alchemists beneath.

Thread was brought and he snatched it in annoyance. He’d only worn the thing a minute and already it needed stitches.

Sewing his sleeve, he referred to those above, saying, “Clandestine indeed! It is we beneath who are the true Clandestine Alchemists!”

Again those loyal were confused. “Pardon, Sinson? I thought you had termed us Dark Alchemists.”

“Yes, that is true. We are Dark while those above are Clandestine.” “So why did you say we are Clandestine?” He sighed and put down his sewing. “I was just highlighting that

clandestine is a word befitting us more than they, despite us being named Dark.”

There was no change in the animals’ expression. “It’s to prevent confusion.” “Oh,” one said, as though that cleared everything up. Which it

didn’t. So his expression remained unchanged. Sinson-Rascalian sighed. He couldn’t admonish their stupidity. Their

ignorance was a consequence of the Clandestine Alchemists’ teachings, rather than any cognitive deficiency.

He beckoned for those nearby to gather around. “As Dark Alche-mists, we are brothers,” he said, “all of us who gather in this hidden place. Do not concern yourself with what we are called, you need only accept it. After all, I have given you every reason to, have I not?”

They nodded, keen to do what they were told, rather than worry about why they were told, as it hurt far less in the brain.

The sleeve mended, Sinson-Rascalian threaded himself into the thing and twirled. Satisfied, he turned to his throne and sat, bunching the robes beneath his bottom.


11

With head high, he posed regally. “Well? Does this look impressive? I mean, do I look the part?”

Again, those loyal exchanged glances. “Yes,” one said. “You look even more like a cat of some persuasion.” Another agreed. “Rather a lot of persuasion, actually. In fact—” He

glanced at his colleague, “one might even go so far as to suggest a title for you, Sinson.”

Sinson-Rascalian stared, intrigued at the notion. He hadn’t thought of a title. But considering he was the part, he might as well have it la-belled. “Well?” he asked. “And my title is therefore—”

The Dark Alchemist put down some rolled maps, and stepped for-ward. “How about Sinson-Rascalian—the Persuader.”

Clandestine Alchemists forbade ideas, so for a Dark Alchemist to have one was remarkable. Let alone a good one. Sinson-Rascalian smiled. Perhaps his brilliance was contagious. Adjusting Taper Silk, he nodded. “That is a most satisfactory title. In fact, I am never to be called Sinson again. You must always refer to me as either ‘the Persuader ’, or ‘Sinson the Persuader ’. Is that understood?”

They nodded. “And you have to tell all the others.” Further nods. He shifted on his throne. It was made from the sharp, spiky rock

that littered the ground, and he could sit on it only for a short time be-fore his bottom got sore. “Yes,” he said. “I am Sinson the Persuader, crea-tor of Boundless Extensible Subterfuge. There’s quite a ring to it, is there not?”

“I have no idea,” another said, “as I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Again Sinson-Rascalian sighed. Oh, to meet a mind that might know his own. He stood, rubbed his bottom and glanced at his throne. “I really

ought to get some cushions.” Dark Alchemists looked at each other; yet another idea! Was there no

end to this animal’s brilliance? Turning to them, he changed the subject from cushion acquisition so

abruptly, that they were left dizzy. “Have those who have been sent across the green sea returned yet?” They looked at him, stunned. “How did you do that?” one asked. “Do what?”


12

“Go from contemplating cushions to considering the wanderings of our colleagues so quickly?”

“I’ve told you before; it’s called thinking, and I’ve discovered that it permits wonderful things.”

“But we are taught that thinking is terribly dangerous!” “Certainly that is the case. Meddling with imagination, for those not

understanding its power, can maim dreadfully. But for an animal such as myself, both brave and clever, playing with this fire has permitted me to discover wonderful things; lands beyond the green sea, for example.”

“Oh, how your mind must work, Sinson!” they marvelled. He glared until they realised their mistake. “Sinson the Persuader,” they said. “Indeed. Now, I expect our brethrens’ return shortly, and I would

like this cave cleaned up. It looks terrible. It’s a mess. I mean, there are bits of stone, just, everywhere.”

Dark Alchemists nodded and began collecting pieces which they piled in a corner.

Claw upon whiskers, Sinson-Rascalian looked around his den and imagined how it ought to appear. “Yes. Cushions certainly. And some sort of rug to give colour to this otherwise featureless ground, the tex-ture of which I don’t like at all. It’s too stony, for one thing, and makes the ceiling seem lower.”

While Dark Alchemists muttered in awe, he pointed at a wall and asked, “What about draping some Taper Silk across that end? Would it not lift the perception of ceiling height? Would it, perhaps, make the room look deeper?”

Again Dark Alchemists looked at each other, hoping the question was rhetorical.

“Yes,” he decided, because it was. “I think that’s a jolly good idea. I must look into it next time I’m abroad.”

Exchanged glances again: such bravery! At the cave’s entrance, a hushed argument arose. Sinson-Rascalian

hurried to his throne. But sitting too quickly, he winced, having forgot-ten to stuff the robes beneath his bottom first. Three animals arrived and hurried to the throne. They bowed and knelt, but said nothing. He frowned; that only three had returned answered his first question.

He asked it anyway. “Well?” The returned Dark Alchemists looked at each other. The question

was succinct, which would only highlight their answer’s length. “Sinson,” one began, “there have been unexpected—”


13

He was interrupted by a raised paw. “I am now to be known only as the Persuader. Or if time permits, Sinson the Persuader. Is that under-stood?”

The three exchanged glances again, before the animal continued, “Sinson the Persuader, there have been unexpected delays in retrieving the Pumbel named Manky-Stew.”

“Delays?” he said, in a manner demanding explanation should follow. “Yes.” Which hardly sufficed. “What sort of delays?” “We can’t find him for a start.” “That’s not a delay! It is excuse!” “Well, they’re sort of related, really.” Sinson-Rascalian stood from his throne—which was a relief in itself.

“You mean to say, a silly little Pumbel has outwitted you?” The three glanced at each other again, but were allowed no time to

confer. “A Pumbel has outwitted a horde of Dark Alchemists?” “Not the entire horde, Sinson, for we three have returned only to

inform—” “THE PERSUADER!” A pause. “The Persuader, for we three have returned only to inform

you of the delay in his retrieval. Certainly we shall find him. But consid-ering it’s three nights since his absconding, he’d have managed quite some distance already.”

Sinson-Rascalian stepped from his throne, a bruised bottom not helping his temper at all. “How can it be that a little dog upon paw can outwit a horde of animals such as yourselves? Animals who wield amber-stone?”

There was a silence of ignorance. “How can a Pumbel, an animal oblivious to the workings of the

world beyond this monastery, manage to stay a paw ahead of animals who currently influence said world?”

A silence not much different from the one prior. Sinson-Rascalian shook his head; the very notion defied belief. The Pumbel had to be caught. The animal had to be caught now, before everything was lost. “Do you know how dangerous this is for us?” he asked. But they had few words other than apology, which had no place in

any constructive answer.


14

“You know well that Boundless Extensible Subterfuge pivots on our knowing of the outside world while they know nothing of us!”

“But surely, Sinson, even if—” “The Persuader.” “—the Persuader, even if Manky-Stew managed to reach the

northern lands, who would believe his story? It would sound absurd. What’s more, he has no idea how to manipulate the amberstone he’s stolen. And even if he was believed, surely by virtue of being Dark Alchemists, we are safe? By definition, we cannot be seen.”

Sinson-Rascalian stood close to him, and his voice became dark. “You underestimate the animals of the northern lands, cat. They have not been cocooned in a monastery for a millennium as we have. They do not burrow beneath sand as we do. They do not find solace in season as we must. While Clandestine Alchemists aspire to denial, those beyond this place revile it!”

The other Dark Alchemists suspended their stone piling, and lis-tened too.

“Those of the northern lands have embraced imagination,” he continued, “and as a consequence have made their world soar. They have built and explored and dreamed. They have looked beyond their world, as opposed to us, who only look within. As alchemists, we have honed introspection at the expense of everything else. And that leaves us so inferior, that even the word itself cringes at being used.”

Those kneeling stared at the ground. “So do not underestimate what animals beyond the green sea are

capable of seeing—especially when you are certain they cannot. For although invisibility is our strength, it is also our weakness.”

The three swallowed at the same time, and played a sort of squelchy chord.

With a sigh, he said, “For three nights you have been unable to re-trieve the creature. For three nights you have failed.”

“Sinson, we still have—” “The Persuader.” “—the Persuader, we still have our remaining party in close pursuit.

Certainly he shall be returned here, we promise you.” With a sneer, he turned from them. “Your promises are forged from

no more than hope. Were they forged from something more substantial, you’d have no need for them, as the Pumbel would already be here.”

With claw against whiskers, he thought for a time, before having a brilliant idea; one that might allow him to pick out some Taper Silk


15

robes and some cushions also. Perhaps even a full-length dress mirror. Moreover, he could show off his Taper Silk robes to animals appreciative of such things.

He’d retrieve the Pumbel himself. In a swirl of Taper Silk, orders were given, and his minions scrabbled

to obey, despite not understanding a word. The little dog who’d relin-quished maps gathered them again and was told to fetch more for an extended stay beyond the green sea.

When it became clear they didn’t know how to arrange anything of the sort, Sinson-Rascalian sighed wearily and set about organising every-thing himself. But several more Dark Alchemists arrived, advising dinner was served upstairs, and that it was chicken.

And because they all liked chicken, they decided to eat first.


16

3

____________________

SCAR TEABAG-DOOVEN STOOD outside the Catacombs of Asquith and fluffed his pantaloons, scarf and whiskers in that order. Behind him, traffic rumbled. Above, the sky shone blue

and in nearby trees, birds sang a glorious recitative of spring. There was an important reason he stood outside the Catacombs, and with a scan of his collapsible tummy, he entered the place to find out what it was.

A domed ceiling hung over a large foyer. On its far side, lifts opened and closed in a cyclical digestion of animals. Those alighting marched across the foyer to important destinations to relay important informa-tion about lots of important things, while those that got in, didn’t. At least not at ground level. Such activity was normal. What wasn’t normal was the number of animals smiling at him. Oscar hurried across the foyer, not used to such attentions. At least, not with smiles and nods. He was used to being ignored and teased, often at the same time. Which, being impossible, says much about the extent he was loathed.

Saving the world presumably changes opinion. Word spread quickly through the Catacombs. Old curiosa dossiers

are used in the canteen as napkins, which helps keep animals abreast of developments while distracting from its appalling meals of food. Nearing the lifts, he winced in recalling the Catacomb’s dossiers of his curiosas in Arabesque and Ruen, which concluded that his success was due to talent and skill, rather than his insistence it had been cowardice and luck.

Apparently, his missing ears were evidence of the former. It seemed the Loud Purr was right after all; others saw not so much

his lack of ears, but the courage he’d found in having lost them. At an authoritative burgundy lift, reserved for invitation only, Oscar

again scanned his collapsible tummy. The lift pinged authoritatively and opened. Stepping inside, he was relieved when its doors closed on the foyer’s bustle. He got halfway through a sigh when the thing rocketed upwards, and before he’d any chance to re-fluff his pantaloons, its doors pinged open to reveal the Lair’s reception. It was refined and quiet. He’d once been here under very different circumstances; as a pawn in

O


17

Masterful Posh’s cunning cruelty of scheme. For Oscar, Posh’s sudden resignation from the Catacombs had been welcome.

He wandered to a large curved desk and received a smile from the animal behind it.

“Good Morning, Mister Dooven. The Loud Purr has asked that you enter directly upon your arrival.”

Oscar pointed down the hall to be certain. “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “You can go in now.” “Now?” “Yes.” Oscar glanced at the brass doors at its end. “Are you sure I shouldn’t

wait until I’m bellowed at?” “The Loud Purr asked that you enter directly, Mister Dooven.” With an uncertain fluff of pantaloons, he left the desk. When he

knocked upon the doors, a grunt arose that he assumed was permission. The Loud Purr was beneath his desk, with another alongside. Both

scrabbled around looking for something. Oscar purred loudly in case it was he they sought.

Looking up, the Loud Purr bumped his head. Growling, he removed himself from the floor and asked, “Have you a pen, Pantaloons?”

Oscar patted himself down, because he did. And some paper. As a poet, he never knew when verse might arise, so it was prudent to be prepared. He didn’t use them very often, however, as he preferred com-posing, rather than retaining lines. When he offered it, the large cat took it with a grumble. The second animal extricated himself and dusted down his clothing, part of it being a purple sash, indicating he was an Elder of Asquith, which left Oscar surprised and standing to attention.

“That’s goodness knows how many pens this fortnight,” the Loud Purr growled. “I mean, how can so many pens go missing from this most secret domain?” He tapped his intercom in irritation and demanded more pens, before settling into his authoritative chair behind his authoritative desk.

While the Loud Purr glowered, the Elder smiled, which left Oscar with a discomfort best described as earless.

“This,” the Loud Purr said, indicating the dog, “is Messington-Blint, an Elder of Asquith.”

The dog was tall and his smile kind, and he stepped forward to offer a paw. Oscar took it and returned it, as was the custom.

“Don’t be concerned, Oscar,” Messington said. “I merely wanted to meet you after your extraordinary curiosa.”


18

“Messington is the animal who suggested the means by which you proved your worthiness to the Catacombs,” the Loud Purr said.

Oscar raised his whiskers, still unconvinced he’d proved anything of the sort.

“The Loud Purr has great faith in you,” said Messington, “which is why he insisted Masterful Posh be the instigator of that ridiculous curiosa.”

At the mention of the cat, the Loud Purr growled. “I shall not hear that name within this place. Posh has gone, times change and we are all better for it.”

When Messington gestured for Oscar to sit, he did so and tucked his tail in beside him, a bit like a seatbelt.

The dog continued, “There is not a creature upon this Earth who could have predicted the consequences of that curiosa, and it left me eager to meet the Velvet Paw who triumphed so spectacularly. For the Loud Purr to speak highly of any animal is a rarity, and he speaks very highly of you indeed.”

While Oscar stared, the Loud Purr shifted uncomfortably. “That’s all very well,” the Loud Purr said. “But we have more imme-

diate concerns to discuss.” With a smile, the Elder returned to the Loud Purr’s desk. From it,

he retrieved an assortment of papers, which he offered to Oscar. “Do you recognise this animal?” he asked.

Oscar took them and flicked through the pages. Among them were a series of photographs showing a handsome

young cat in a variety of poses—all of which looked dangerous and not the sort of thing he’d like to do at all. In one picture the animal was hanging onto the wing of an aeroplane during flight. Another had him apparently tickling an enormous, savage bear with a stick. A third pic-ture showed the animal halfway up a mountain where he’d paused to comb his fur, while another showed him being carried on some sort of improvised throne by adoring animals. In each photograph, the cat wore the bare necessity of clothing, presumably to advertise his physique. Either that, or the mechanics of buttons eluded him. What he did wear was torn in a brave, macho-esque sort of way. In one picture, the animal appeared to be sporting a mane—although the image was blurry which made it hard to tell.

Oscar did not take to him at all. The cat looked like a ghastly show-off. “Who is he?”

“His name is the D’dôdô-Sette,” the Loud Purr said.


19

“The what?” “The D’dôdôSette.” “How in fluff do you spell that?” “With considerable difficulty. It’s got some funny things over the let-

ters; squiggly things.” “Squiggly things?” “Yes, you know; letters with squiggles over them.” Oscar looked at the pictures again. “He’s an adventurer,” the Loud Purr continued. “An explorer, if you

will. Rather famous, in fact. He has a habit of gallivanting around the world, looking at things, climbing things, jumping off things—that sort of thing.”

“He’s rather good at it too, apparently,” Messington said. “And he is the only animal in the entire world who has been every-

where.” “Everywhere?” Oscar asked. Nods from both, with a further, “Everywhere.” “What, even here? Even inside the Catacombs?” The Loud Purr and Messington looked at each other. “Well, not in here, obviously,” Messington said. “But certainly in

Asquith. Many times.” Oscar looked at the photographs again. The animal appeared

insufferable. In each photograph, his smile smouldered, suggesting he was not only brave and fit, but charming as well.

“Surely these poses are staged,” Oscar said, indicating the cat’s atten-tion being on the camera during situations it ought to have been on not dying.

“Actually, they’re not,” Messington said. “These are actual spontane-ous photographs, apparently, when a photographer accompanied him for a newspaper story a year or so ago.” He paused. “It’s quite remarkable that these photographs were developed at all.”

“Remarkable?” Messington nodded. “Indeed, because the photographer fell down a

crevasse. See?” He pointed at the blurry one. “It’s a bit blurry when the ground beneath gave way.”

Oscar peered at the image. “Down a crevasse? Poor creature!” “Oh, he didn’t die. The D’dôdô-Sette jumped down after him,

apparently, and managed to lasso him with his tail, or something, before securing the injured animal’s paw with a splint improvised from the pho-tographer’s own tail, a frozen lettuce and some snow.”


20

When Oscar raised his whiskers dubiously, Messington said, “It’s all verified in the final article, see?”

He pointed to a document under the photographs. Oscar wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t heard of the animal, as he

tended to avoid anything involving creatures as insufferable as this one was. He tended to avoid animals in general, preferring quiet walks by babbling streams with butterfly nets and a small thermos of hot-fin. “May I ask as to the Catacomb’s interest in this animal?”

“The D’dôdô-Sette is attending a poetry recital the night after next,” the Loud Purr said, “and knowing your interest in the same, the Catacombs would like you to attend also.”

Oscar nearly fell off his chair. “This animal attends poetry recitals? This cat—this Dodo Setting—”

“The D’dôdô-Sette.” “Right. He listens to poetry?” “Actually, no.” “I thought not! He hardly seems the sort to harbour such sensitivi-

ties! I rather suspect he’d have a clinical adversity to such things. These images suggest he’s a rather beastly show-off, dangerously egocentric, terribly arrogant, insufferably narcissistic—”

The Loud Purr and Messington glanced at each other. “—and appreciative of no creature other than himself.” Oscar

looked at them. “Sorry, but I see such traits all the time, Your Great Illus-trious Fluffiness, in those vying to become Velvet Paws.”

They blinked at him. “We spoke about it recently, Your Awfully Illuminatedness. Perhaps

you recall?” “He doesn’t attend recitals, Oscar,” Messington said. “He gives

them.” This time it was Oscar’s turn for some surprised silence, which he

ended by a staunched, “Pardon?” “His poetry has him in high demand in the more exclusive social cir-

cles, apparently,” Messington said. “He does a bit of travelling and some brave exploring in far-off lands, and then shares it with audiences through poetry.”

“He writes poetry?” “Apparently, yes.” Oscar stared at the pictures again. “This animal is a poet?” “Actually, not so much a poet, as a bard.” Oscar looked up. “A bard?”


21

Messington nodded. “He doesn’t like being described as a poet, be-cause he does an awful lot of travelling. He therefore titles himself as a bard instead. He feels the title of poet doesn’t do him justice.”

Oscar found a silence no less stunned than a moment prior. “Who in fluff describes themselves as a bard these days?”

“Well, that’s quite the point; none, something he makes a point of telling his audiences. Apparently, only he is worthy.”

“He said that?” Messington nodded, apparently having no concerns over such con-

ceited accolade. Having heard enough, Oscar asked, “What possible interest could

the Catacombs have in my attending his recital?” The Loud Purr stood and wandered to his authoritative window,

through which he peered authoritatively. “For two reasons, Pantaloons. Firstly, this recital is part of the Triennial Affable Nations’ Assembly, in Plempt; the most pivotal coming together of nations in the world.”

“I see. Well, that’s marvellous, of course, but could you elaborate, Your Almost Extensible Brilliantliness?”

The Loud Purr turned and looked at Messington. “Pantaloons, your intuition serves you well. The D’dôdô-Sette does have a reputation for being brusque in his portrayal of the places he’s visited. A brusqueness that reflects his rather opinionated attitude—which is, as I understand it, the principal reason he’s so popular.”

Oscar blinked. “I am sorry, but I didn’t understand a word of that.” “The D’dôdô-Sette is rather rude. His poetry has a tendency to in-

sult.” “Insult?” The Loud Purr nodded. “The cat has—as you deduced from the pic-

tures—a smugness which is readily expressed through his poetry.” “It is very likely,” Messington said, “that his recital will cause an af-

fray at the Assembly, should he include any of the nations attending as subjects within his recital. And because Asquith has long been a member, we have a duty to defend not only our reputation, but the reputation of all nations represented.”

“And you want me to stop him?” The Loud Purr shook his head. “No, not stop him. Just contain the

situation should it begin fraying at the edges.” “Contain it? In what way does the Catacombs expect me to do that?”


22

“You have an instinct for poetry, I understand,” Messington said. “Perhaps you could use that to anticipate when national affability be-comes strained.”

“And then what—punch him in the face?” “You have already proved your discretion, Pantaloons,” the Loud

Purr said. “Therefore, you will use your judgment accordingly.” “But if his subject matter is liable to cause problems, then why have

him speak at this assembly at all?” The Loud Purr returned to his desk and leant upon it. “Here we

come to the second reason the Catacombs are interested in him. The D’dôdô-Sette is cheap. In fact, he is free. The animal seeks no fee for giving his performances, and never has. Which has contributed enor-mously to his popularity, as you can imagine.”

Oscar couldn’t imagine anything contributing to the cat’s popularity, other than a freak accident with pruning shears and an extended stay in hospital.

“Moreover,” the Loud Purr continued, “if he asks no fee, how is it that he lives a life of such indulgence? He has no inheritance or title, yet spends his time gallivanting to the furthest corners of the world. He owns several expensive boats moored in harbours across the seas, no fewer than thirteen mansions scattered across the world, and several aeroplanes at times dotted across the skies. How is this possible without earning a single penny?”

“Well, that’s certainly curious.” “Which is why it’s to be your curiosa.” When a knock at the door arose, the Loud Purr grunted permission.

His receptionist entered with a pawful of pens and did not look pleased at having to.

At his desk, she slammed them upon it. “These,” she said, “are the last of the pens. You have misplaced sixty-two in the last two weeks alone, Loud Purr. And I cannot begin to think what you have done with them.”

“Yes, thank you. That will be all,” “Pens do not just disappear, Loud Purr. I am happy to administer

them on a singular basis once their contents expire, for that is my duty. But I take issue with having to do so regularly, and in the plural!”

Turning on her paw, she strode from them. “Perhaps we ought to order some more?” he asked after her. “I have already done so, Loud Purr,” she said. “And a length of chain

to attach them to.” She slammed the door upon leaving.


23

Uncomfortably, the Loud Purr looked up at Messington. “An excel-lent secretary,” he said. “Quite efficient, of course.”

“Of course, Loud Purr. One sees it immediately.” A little later, once details had been discussed, Oscar stood to leave. “Perhaps I might have my pen back please, Your Most Esteemed

Great Wonderfulliness?” The Loud Purr grunted and looked for it upon his desk. He then

rummaged through the pens just delivered, before standing and patting himself down. It was nowhere to be found, however. For a second time that morning, the desk had animals rummaging beneath it.

In the end, Oscar said it didn’t matter, and the Loud Purr asked him to perhaps not mention it on his way out.

3. The Alchemists of Vra, the first three chapters.

Documents

Transcript of 3. The Alchemists of Vra, the first three chapters.