AMYGDALA

By Sam Fennah

Amygdala is a story of animals, born to a world of swirling, fractal chaos, who learned the art of civilization. Their government was forged in fire, ruled only by the objective truth of all things, with no room for incompetence, mercy, or even morality. Their city, 'The Underbirth', holds within it the greatest collection of animal minds, born

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Fennah
• Release date: Feb 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781802276817

Book preview

‘The mind of an animal granted all the pleasures of life, without pressure, effort, or cost, oft creates its monsters, for an idle brain must justify its own existence. This is the dance of civilisation.’

– Locket, The Grand Voice.

Chapter One

1. The Little Things

‘Regulations Act 102 – Individuals, Freelance or otherwise, must subject all new chemical and material constructs for review under equal conditions as stated in Poisons Act 94. The unlawful distribution of unregulated chemicals and materials may result in the destruction of associated products, trades, and individuals.’

– 15th Law of Article 3, Authored by Locket, the Grand Voice.

‘Mind yourself, little thing,’ Sally Sefton would often say, ‘for the great mountains of the south were not hewn by giants but pressed gently together, from dark root to jagged peak. And the shifting of stone, subtle and slight, gave rise to the easterly oceans, drowning the lands in drear death. And the veins of that vastness trickled west, girl, to where our home was made, above calm silver mirrors. Little things, Lucy, little things. They shape the world.’

And yet, Lucy Lacemaker had not seen the great mountains to the south, nor the rolling fields of Blackenrend. The city was ever before her, Kasino streets curving far overhead like the shell of a black planet. She had not seen tall waves, royal and imperious, come to drown the world. The city was ever above her, the Thumme her only star. And around that political sphere the five Hammerlow rings orbited like satellites, blue, luminescent halos casting down a gentle glow. But Lucy saw often the face of nature, for it lived loud upon the streets of the Underbirth, that proud and ancient city.

The images of home came sweetly to her silver eyes, and nothing about it was of alien decree. It was, by all accounts, normal. From a slate rooftop she found her vantage, casting her gaze far across Vileborne, her hometown, looking east to the inky lake, beyond the low docklands and the coiling cobblestone streets. Then, her eyes drew inward, toward the light that played upon the high rooftops as silver and bronze, twinkling and intertwining like ivy. Finally, Lucy looked down upon the animals, her compatriots: naked and clothed, tall and short; slithering, crawling, striding; hairy, slimed and smooth. Upon their faces she bent her gaze. Small and fraught with youth, her defence was distance, intuition, a certain… awareness. And such was her weaponry also.

Lucy Lacemaker had a little body frosted with white fur and decorated with crimson polka dots of varying size. She had soft bright eyes with a diamond patch framing her left like a sharp red ruby. Her hair was short, scruffy and silver, framed by a pair of slumping pointed ears – the right of which was red. Lucy’s face was weaselly and smug, with pear-shaped nostrils, red whiskers and full cherry lips. Her chest was filled with crimson colour, like a great heart sprawling across her ribs and down her belly. A long and striped tail swayed at her back, and behind her pretty smile lay white razor teeth. A Fowler she was, young and gaunt; no larger than the common cat, though her posture and frame was closer to simian.

Between Lucy’s crossed legs were the white bones of a stolen meal. And long after the sating of her appetite, she watched the world move, studying, as if some great puzzle.

She’s waitin’ for him again, ain’t she? said a young voice from a neighbouring rooftop, male and rough.

Another answered, "She’s obsessed, that one! Female, a touch softer, straining for a haughty tone. Oi, Lacemaker! He’s gone! You won’t see him for dust, ol’ girl!"

Lucy flicked her silver eyes to the two urchins opposite, her forehead wrinkling with irritation. She spoke boisterously. Fido and Kly, wa la wa, two cheeks of the same arse! A cockney twang, somewhat elegant. What’s up, ol’ loves? She twirled whiskers about her finger.

Fido, the first that spoke, was no taller than a foot, thin, and wrapped in dark red skin, perched upon a dormant black chimney. A famished gargoyle. His soft lips, romantic blue eyes and pipsqueak horns made a kinder face than his voice. Nothin’! he said with vacant expression.

Kly was larger in mass, though a similar height to her companion. Her dragonesque body bore greasy green flesh, a heavy chest and a sour face. She had wings – too weak to fly – in place of arms, transparent skin connecting to the ankles, like a bat. Bah! Let’s just go, Fido! she hissed with a flap of her wings. She’s friends with shady folk! For the Chopshop, she is!

Lucy sprang to her feet with a fist full of bones and hurled them across the gap. "It’s you who’s for the chop, not I!"

The urchins laughed in two separate octaves, but the sound was far from musical.

"Oi! roared a gravelly voice from below. There stood a six-foot werewolf of a male, black fur, the glimmer of ruby eyes. He wore a dusty brown coat with grey trousers. Upon the brim of his top hat lay two white bones. Bloody Fowlers!" He shook his fist.

"Sorry, Bill!" Lucy called down as Fido and Kly scampered away.

Billy Pikey – for this was his name – was a matured Kivouachian, a predator, and a force not to be tested. He removed his hat, shook his fur like a wet dog. "Wha’ a mess!"

I said I was sorry!

He knew the voice. "Lacemaker… Bill plucked the last bone from his hat and held it up. You pay for tha’?"

She cackled. O’ course I didn’t!

The less astute might have seen a dark wolven face creased in anger, but Lucy saw a sparkle of humour behind the eyes, and rested shoulders. Stay outta trouble, Lacemaker, he said in a softer voice, then strode on.

Lucy smiled and waved him off. Will do, Billy! Cuttin’ it close wiv tha’ one, she thought. Still, he’s softer than he looks.

In her short life, Lucy’s time had been spent scavenging what she could, avoiding the crushing jaws of larger, matured animals, and observing her kind, the world in which she lived. This was a culture built upon an economy of fair trade, law, order, the humiliation of the weak and the admiration of the strong. A city of animals. But with all the wonders of her home, it was ethology Lucy took to. She paid close attention to the art of faces, how they twisted and turned, telling their own stories, exposing the lies of lips. She had found that while words could be filtered with a dishonest poison, expression and language of the body was not so easy to mask: facial tension, the pose of a shoulder, the fleeting movements of evasive eyes, the little currents of a voice as it ebbs and flows. The true language. And reading the truth, untouched, uncontaminated, was the skill Lucy aspired to master. She saw words from afar through the dance of lips, read tone through posture and attitude through eyes. When fully applied, Lacemaker could foresee immediate intentions by the flow of a brow, the flair of nostrils and the pressure applied to the grip of a glass.

Alone, her mind fell into reflection: I’m not obsessed! Couldn’t be! Is it obsession to want for a cordial end? To seek truth where the lies live? Nonsense! Harmless curiosity is all it is. And what damage could I possibly do? After all, I’m only a little thing.

2. The Invisible Hand

Economy could certainly be considered beautiful if viewed through the correct apertures; an organism comprised of complex relationships, where behind the curtain of blissful ignorance the chains of production rattle. Much like culture, it is not a thing consciously designed; it evolves, integrates, and inhabits the peripheries where it surely belongs. However, when things go awry, it becomes necessary to lift the veil and bear witness.

As she waited, Lucy moved her frosty eyes back to the streets below, looking to the vast collection of shops and freelance stalls, listening to the flow of trade and productivity. She wished for a life within that world, a life of striving, accomplishment, respect, creation. Survival was the first duty of all young Fowlers, and the wonderful glow of adulthood teased and inspired.

Locket’s economic engine was one of barter, item for item, service for service, fuelled by reputation. A free market of competition. Nobody sold more than they bought, nor bought more than they sold. Currency, to the Kivic eye, was worthless, its only function being to exchange for items of actual quality – a hollow promise to pay. After the Trade Revolution, Locket lay waste to the concept. She observed that the pursuit of empty tokens was but a sickly cousin to the direct exchange of services and goods. This resulted in a free flow of product and left all within the city open to acquire direct fulfilment. Of course, value was relative to the individual. Reputation in the Underbirth also held worth; beginning with nothing, minds weighed with ideas could ascend the social staircase and thrive through competence. Demand, product and public preferment: the life blood of Kivic trade. Yet nature seeks balance, objectivity; always there will be winners and losers, grand thinkers stood proud atop the staircase, far above the living failures serving as the steps.

The rooftop on which Lucy sat belonged to one of the quieter establishments. Like all Kivic buildings, it was a fine display of art and design: dark wood, richly carved, licked by a swirling metal frame. Tisher’s Hide was the name, a charming Laughhouse that poured dark and heavy drinks, traded fairly and respected one’s solitude. This, she knew, was the place Goldune would come.

Sure enough, Lucy spied him approaching from Modrick Square, swanning his way down Teal Street, hands pocketed, head down. Inconspicuous. But Lucy knew better.

Goldune was cloaked in soft sapphire fur. He had four marigold eyes burrowed into a canine face with four large horns sprouting from behind stout violet ears. He stood at approximately ten feet. His red nose twitched as his head lifted, taking in the fine aromas. He wore a long azure coat lined with eight pockets at each side and one at the breast; Goldune kept the coat tied together with the severed tails of conquered opponents, a variety of textures and shades. ‘Slick, groomed, suave,’ some would say.

A fool, Lucy sneered within her head.

He entered through the doors below with his long tail trailing behind, blissfully unaware of the silver eyes pinned to his face. Lacemaker scampered to an opened window, squeezed through the gap, and concealed herself behind a rich wooden beam. She moved along the bones of the building, above the heads of drinking clientele, and leapt across to the high shelves, disappearing behind a line of bottles.

Goldune sat with downcast eyes, facing the shelf; his seat was the folded body of some headless fool. The establishment was sprinkled with these conquered servants, minds long destroyed, kneeling and folded, shamed and objectified. Indeed, the Kivouachians had less of a need for crafted seating when a mindless body could contort so pleasantly. An unrotting vessel had to serve some utility, and with no concept of the grave, they put the dormant to work.

Lucy peeked between the glass bottles and studied Goldune’s face. Nervous, scared, possible regret. This is it. Soon after, he was joined by another. This was a female dressed in a dark Lockettian coat, top hatted and lean. Lucy saw only the back of her head but enough to identify black fur and two pointed ears squashed by the brim. Who’s this? Goldune’s met with many… but never her…

The stranger’s voice was strong and domineering. Place an order, was her command.

Goldune waved over an employee. He spoke in a common drawl. Giz a bottle o’grin, Hetty, love.

Lucy scoffed. Predictable. As ever.

The stranger raised a finger. A glass of pucker, roundhead cordial, please.

Lucy inched closer with a raised brow. Curious… Not the local palate.

The drinks arrived, but only Goldune drank. His voice was strong, but his posture betrayed the act. Find the place okay?

You will not speak, said the stranger, who pulled a small package from her pocket, stitched together with red lace, and placed it upon the table. The owner must be obedient, and the establishment suitable.

Goldune leaned back. Dimensions?

Two hundred square feet, minimum. No Bloodhalls, no riffraff. She gestured to the package. Inside you’ll find the products, the list of buyers, and a contract. You will return the contract signed.

Goldune hushed his voice. "Written by… Fontaine?"

You will not refer to your employer by name again. Do you understand?

Yes. Delay. This is a tough sell, wa la wa.

She pushed the package toward him then arose from her headless seat. Then sell it well, wa la wa.

Are the Yolsh outplayin’ us to such a degree?

Wexle and her puppets cannot be bested on the streets, she answered. "We must play a different game, and you will help us play it."

Goldune was measured as he peeled back the first layer of packaging. Can I ask…?

No.

Right, right… He stopped and fought a rhythmic twitch of his brow, looking to her like a scolded child. I’ll do my best.

The stranger’s voice, for a moment, seemed softer, kinder. We’re doing a good thing, Goldune. You must believe in us. Believe in our work.

An idealogue? thought Lucy, stroking her chin. Interestin’. Dangerous.

"Your final drop is at Farroway at the next Songtower chime; it’ll be during the town’s red phase, so move promptly. And remember: data."

Finally, the stranger pulled from her pocket a small clockwork device, flipped open the circular lid, reviewed the mechanisms inside, and snapped it shut. After pocketing the device, the stranger turned, and with a flamboyant swish of her tail, exited the establishment unseen, like a passing shadow.

Goldune drank his glass empty, eyes clenched shut.

Lucy crept back down the shelf, but in her haste, her tail knocked loose a half-depleted bottle, spreading shattered glass and alcohol across the floor. She cringed as Goldune snapped his head to the broken mess; a dark patch oozed through the rug, turning red to black. His yellow eyes moved swiftly up to the shelf, but by then, Lacemaker was gone.

Onward and upward, Goldune, he muttered to himself. Onward and upward…

He arose from his folded seat and grabbed the package from the wooden table. He gave the item a quick sniff, letting the scent fill his nostrils: nothing. Scratching the back of his neck, Goldune placed the package into his left breast pocket, separating the folded contract tied to it. He stepped out with a whistle and a smack of his lips, leaving the warm light inside, which grew in shades of butter and honey through the walls, floor and ceiling like living fairy lights.

Lucy watched from above.

At that moment, a musical sound roared throughout the Underbirth performed by strings, pipes and bells in the key of D: the fourth tone. Such tones were the city’s measurement of time, an auditory system to inform those without the luxury of light; even the deaf would feel it. There were seven of these tones, each one similar to about three months by earthly reckoning, and with the passing of all seven, a new stanza would begin. Within each township loomed the Songtowers, their function being to musically mark the passage of time in the form of ticks, bells, chimes and tones, similar to minutes, hours, days and months.

Bathed in the voices of the Vileborne Songtowers, Lucy Lacemaker sprang across the rooftops like a darkling sprite, intangible and ever watchful; when ready, she would step into the living world and manifest her scalding ire.

3. A Kivic Freakshow

Vileborne was a masterpiece of Kivic wonderment bound together with delicious architecture. Even the wards furthest from grandeur were well maintained and typically crafted in the three most fashionable styles: Lockettian, Winiwardian and Sombrarian. Such beauty was lost on Goldune, desensitised to wonder.

He looked about himself, calculating. His timing would not be exact, but he was confident enough to dawdle. Goldune knew that his final client was located in Farroway – a small riverside village – at the next chime, during its ‘red phase’.

Days and nights did not exist in the Kivouack, but there were, however, light phases. A light phase was dictated by the shade dominating a particular area of the city; these came in spells of reds, yellows, purples, blues and greens, often melding together like living liquid gems. There was also a ‘black phase’, the closest thing to nightfall. Assured of his punctuality, Goldune started on his way, mindful of the time as it rolled on by.

Outside many establishments, dressing doorsteps and signposts, framed within display windows, were the headless and contorted bodies of living failures. And these headless forms were not necessarily dead in a technical sense, but ‘rottulating’. It would not be prudent to classify the beheaded as deceased, for even when thoughtless, a Kivic body lived. With minds removed, crushed, or devoured, the bodies did not yield to decay, and so, ‘rotters’ they were, disgraced and vacuous.

With heads and limbs capable of reattachment, only the thorough destruction of the brain assured a Kivic death. But the death of the mind was only the beginning, for it paled when compared to the destruction of legacy and memory. This brought indignity to the rotters, for nothing quite burns one’s proud, lingering reputation more than the fiery kiss of shame.

Note: rottulation could be brought about by beheading, damage to the brain or spine, excessive exhaustion, fever, blood loss, or significant shock. Recovery from rottulation was guaranteed, so long as the head was returned with the mind intact.

One might ask why the rotters were bent in such undignified ways. For this, there are many reasons. Simply, the Kivvas were not bound by earthly attitudes, especially in matters of death. But there is another explanation: the freakshow. Animals are surely magnificent, but they are also beasts of blood who hunger for the conquering of their peers. The success of another may shed a cold light, but the fires of their failure warm to the bone. The Kivouachians were not unique in this thinking, they simply did not have the nerve to deny it, for an animal in denial of its nature is nullified, as Locket would often say. And the freakshow never leaves, only does it transform, and it is little without its clowns.

The Kivic concept of shame came down to two factors: mentality and physicality. Locket’s culture placed the highest value on the ability to think, speak and act; to be Kivicly shamed was to have these aspects mocked. For example: beheading was not a lethal process but served as a sound way of rendering one’s foe dormant, deleting all aspects of personality and intelligence, leaving nought but an object. Kivic punishment was the translation of power to shame, not only through fiery words, but through the derision of a proud form, strength bent and folded.

And thus, Goldune smiled at the sight of these lesser beasts, kneeling and humbled, bent and splayed – a reminder to all that incompetence was not tolerated in Locket’s city; that defeat was no point of pride, and that under Locket’s Law, talent, intelligence, and vision, ruled absolutely. Immortal beings, free from the burden of time, long lives teeming with deeds and ideas… so very much to lose.

Despite the distractions, curiosity slowly began to whittle away at Goldune; the package inside his pocket teased and begged to be stripped of its shroud. He looked behind, to his left, his right, then wandered off to the grey shadows of a backstreet.

Comfortably alone, Goldune’s hand pulled the small package loose and fondled the leathery skin serving as the wrapping. Carefully, he peeled back the layers to reveal a wooden box with crude metal hinges. Inside the box was a row of six small bottles. He plucked one free from the collection and held it to his eye. It was a phial of silvery liquid, held within twisted glass and topped with a metal lid. A lavish looking trinket. Interest gnawing, Goldune unscrewed the ornate top and dabbed a single droplet of the substance onto the tip of his finger. Eager for a closer look, he carried the bead to a nearby wall where a lonely vein of light crept. Suddenly, as if insulted, a whip of silver leapt from the wall and set the fluid ablaze, and with an intense, electrical flash, it was vanished in a hiss of smoke.

Goldune winced. With a glance to both ends of the alley, he sheathed the package in his coat and fled the scene with his chin to his chest.

4. The Sefton Bookburrow

Lacemaker followed Goldune from far above, darting across the rooftops, jumping through the black smoke of chimneys. After glancing down, however, she found that he’d slipped away. Perhaps the alley? She scratched her head, then scurried back. After crossing a gap between two buildings, a small flash alerted her. A wink of glass? She sniffed the air. Smells chemical…

She saw Goldune hurry from the alley, stuffing the package into his pocket. His pace had quickened. Before following, Lucy rubbed her chest. Hesitating. Wha’ am I doin’? This ain’t worth it. How can it be? Something within her screamed, keep going! She lifted her nose, inhaled. He’s still close. Follow him. End this. He was moving west away from the lake, toward Sefton’s Bookburrow.

Bookburrows were the banks of the Underbirth; alongside the hoarding and trading of information, they were responsible for restocking local businesses with raw resources. The Burrows kept things fluid and moving; without them, the trade channels would block.

Sefton’s was tucked away in its own private street, sparsely populated and eerie. It was a tall, aching building comprised of wood and framed with twisted metal. A Sombrarian style. The stained-glass windows held depictions of history and fact across the spectrum of red. The street was a cobblestone tongue that wound to the old wooden mouth; the doors were engraved with dates and records pertaining to the building’s construction, and at the base were various signatures carved by the Architects. Kivic doors were naturally big to accommodate the larger moulds but layered within were smaller doors for those of Lucy’s size. It was a rather apt system.

Every time she saw this place, her mouth salivated. To some, Sefton’s was just another shop, whoring out tales of whimsy, dusty mathematical tomes, ponderous poems, and the raw components for larger, more interesting trades. To Lucy, it was adventure, knowledge, growth: the purest form of value. And to see Goldune enter such a special place summoned a territorial anger from within her chest. It was sacrilege.

Lucy snuck in through a round window that stood ajar and hid herself upon the high shelves, silhouetted by beams of light bleeding through the glass behind. There were thousands of bookshelves, mountains of supplies, beautifully carved decorations, and that fine smell of age.

Sally Sefton was the thin bespectacled girl struggling at the peak of a faltering ladder, clasping the frame with her shabby brown tail. Cloaked in a soft black attire (ill-fitted) she began her descent, weaselly ears flapping away the dust disturbed by her dutiful labours. Frizzy golden hair waved across her kind face as she stepped from the ladder. When she turned her blue, magnified eyes toward the door, she scrunched her brow. No! If you’re here for more erillion, I’ll not be seeing you! Come back at the fifth!

Goldune rolled his eyes. "It’s me, Sally."

The Bookeeper pushed her round spectacles up against the bridge of her nose, bringing the world back into sharp focus. "Yes? Do you have something for me, sir?" she asked, stepping behind her desk, piled with books.

That rather depends. Expectin’ someone else?

"Oh, no. Pay no mind to my ranting. There’s talk of an erillion shortage; means everyone wants extra – more and more. I have plenty for each trade in proportion, but not all at once! There’ll be a crash soon, mark me."

Yeah, not all tha’ interested, truth be told.

Have you got something for me or not?

He placed the box upon her desk and pulled one of the phials loose. Under your hat it must stay, little miss. And if you find any quirks, note them down for me… Got it?

Yes, yes. She snatched the bottle and buried it in her pocket. "Take a book, if you please. Yolshen eyes could be about."

"The law about this shop?"

"Peruse a while… I insist."

While Goldune loitered below, Lucy made inquiries above, skittering around upon the high shelves in search of something new.

The importance of learning was not lost on Lacemaker. Ever she took the chance to read the world around her, for that was the task of all youths: learn, adapt, grow. A strict, objective system with small mercies, but the result was undeniably proficient.

Upon the highest shelf, Lucy spied a book around her size and made her way eagerly toward it. Around bottles of ink, dishes of halo powder, bowls of tailire and spiced junivy, she negotiated, making sure not to dislodge any items with her tail. Upon arriving at the book, Lucy threw out her arms, hugging it with glee, delighting in the archaic scent as it told her the story of its life. Well used, slightly abused; stacked high and away from access for the sake of preservation, she deduced. Second edition?

Wha’ a lovely, olden darlin’ you are… she whispered into the pages, pulling away to review the face; the cover did not return her smile, but she knew it was happy to see her… somehow.

The cover was a worn sort of navy blue with a border of black metal – which played a vital role in keeping the book together. The title was presented in the Kivic tongue, a positively strange form of text; with this fact in mind, the written language will be translated, as with all things spoken.

The title read: A Study of the Kivic Mind – by Quinn, Voice of Records.

It was a dull title with little poetry, but it certainly did not mislead, and Lucy was an eager student of psychology. While Goldune feigned interest in the stock below, she smiled, crossed her legs like an infant, splayed the book from knee to knee, and perused the contents, decorating her time with information.

5. A Study of the Kivic Mind – What Lucy Lacemaker Read:

‘… The brain is, by far, the single most important organ of the Kivouachian body; it is the interpreter of outside information, the translator of data; it is who we are, what we are, and all we are. Intelligence, creativity, emotion, and memory are just a few of the many things governed by the brain. The brain is composed of the cerebrum, cerebellum, and brainstem. However, with the deletion of the cranial brain, the vessel continues as a dormant processor. Functions are spread across the body in the form of ganglia. With the head removed, many systems still operate. A rottulated body will continue to break down energies, react to stimulus, regenerate, and even retain basic motor functions and chemical memories.

A rottulating body – or a ‘rotter’, for short – may be identified by the following:

Firstly, the lack of a head: the head holds the face, brain, tongue, and being; if removed, only the vessel remains for the sport of animals.

Secondly, vilt: vilt is the genomic fluid of the Kivic breed, holding the unique blueprint of the individual. However, upon rottulation, a dormant body will void this component through the gower, the Kivic reproductive organ. This display is ignominious for reasons that need not be clarified.

Finally, the constitution of the face: upon rottulation, expression falls away; the eyes roll upward, the mouth hangs open, and the tongue protrudes, often swelling over time. All that is sharp, handsome, and alive, becomes soft, doltish, and vacuous.

It could be seen as a sort of irony how a breed such as our own, proud, strong, intelligent, could be so thoroughly betrayed by our bodies upon defeat. And yet that is the truth of it…’

‘The brain takes on the information fed to it by all twenty-five of our senses; some of them include: sight, smell, touch, taste, hearing, magnetoreception, equilibrioception, thermoception, nociception, proprioception and timereception. Whether we are sensing light, colour, sound, pain, balance, temperature or time, the brain processes it all, and through that process we build our internal model of reality. But among the most curious, as I have found, is the amygdala, domain of the inner animal, ever gnawing at its cage; here lies our fear and rage, unconquerable, inescapable…

All senses play a vital role in the temporal lobe of the brain, the home of hearing, sequencing, language, organisation, and memory. The mystery of memory was solved and published by the Institute in 1224. Through various L.I.S grade experiments, it was deduced that the process came down to three phases: encoding, storing, and recalling. The encoding of information is simply the delegation of importance and which of the data is of note. This information is not limited to those of a verbal and written nature; smells, colours and tastes are among the strongest linked to memory. Upon taking in the scent of polished erillion, a connection is formed within the brain, and if the intake is repeated, the connection is reinforced and embedded as a memory. One could be transported, with vigorous intensity, back to a period of great pleasure, terror, or confusion, simply through the intake of similar environmental factors. Psychology is patient work…’

6. A Quiet Place

After a short period of feigning interest in Sally’s stock, Goldune snatched the prettiest book within reach. I’ve got an offer, Sefton, he said.

Sally shook her head and turned from him. I’m not interested.

Hang about, let me finish…

Get out! Take the book and get out, sir! Unthreatened, she moved quickly around the desk, wafting him away like a lingering stench. "Out, out, out!"

Lucy closed her book and watched him leave, growling. His perception failed him; the scent of the Burrow was too busy, his mind clouded.

Sally leaned against her desk and looked to the high shelves. You can stop hiding now, Lacemaker. A soft smile. Come on.

Lucy’s little face appeared from above. There’s a nice book up here!

"Down."

The little Fowler obeyed. Big one, written by some ol’ geezer from the Thumme!

Third edition, but still an antique. I hope you haven’t been brutalising it.

Can I read it?

What happened to the last book I gave you?

Left it by the window a chime back. Didn’t you get it?

Sally thought for a moment. "Ah, yes, of course."

Sally… what’s goin’ on? Lucy perched herself upon the desk and looked to the Bookeeper with wide innocent eyes.

Nothing you need worry about, little one.

"Why was he here?"

You’ve been following him…

"I know he’s been distributin’ strange bottles… I heard a new name this time, ‘Fontaine’, he said. A criminal?"

Why would you think that?

Lucy scratched her chest. Who is he?

Fontaine is a shadow. Without employment or respect, a life is worthless here. But even those living failures are a commodity. Fontaine preys upon their inadequacies, their desperation, their envy of better lives.

"But you’re none of those things!"

Why are you following Goldune, Lucy? Retribution is a fool’s game.

I’m not gonna do nothin’!

"Anything – you’re not going to do anything. Mind your grammar, little thing."

Lucy crossed her arms. Yeah, right.

This thing you’re chasing, it doesn’t concern you.

You always taught me to be curious!

Curiosity is partnered with information, not impulse. Sally began to pace, speaking with fluent gesticulations. Even if you don’t know where the threads end, knowing their roots ensures you do not get tangled. You’re jumping into something you do not understand. It will end in calamity. You must think this through.

Lucy squeaked, "Calamity? Me? How can I cause calamity?! Jabbing at her chest with her thumb. I’m a Fowler! I’m little stuff!"

Sally placed her palms flat upon the table and leaned in. "We all believe that ruination is wrought by ruinous individuals… but what were they before? Little, like you and me. You believe your motions will not stir the water? Wa la wa, everybody thinks that… and sure enough, we’re drowning in waves. Never think you’re insignificant, Lacemaker. And I say that not as comfort, but as a warning. It is dangerous thinking."

Lucy pouted. So just tell me. Goldune… those bottles… I need to know why–

"–But you don’t. Sefton pulled back. I’m sorry, little one, but this isn’t your story. You’re bigger than this."

I don’t feel like it.

Sally’s eyes turned sad, pained by this torn Fowler. I have something for you. She pulled a single piece of paper from her drawer and laid it flat upon the table.

What’s this? Lucy tilted her head to see. The left side held an inky sketch of her face, and the right contained details and a summary of character.

A letter of recommendation. Sally slid the page across. Hand it to any Bookburrow outside of Vileborne. Try Miviam.

"Miviam? Lucy’s eyes stung with tears. But I wanna work here, wiv you!"

There’s nothing for you in Vileborne, little one. Nothing but an obsession with a past that won’t ever return. He’s moved on.

A silver tear escaped and rolled down Lucy’s cheek, leaving a line of darkened fur. She said nothing. No remark. No quip. No argument. And yet her mind shouted, don’t listen! The conflict cost only a moment of time, but within that moment, a grand story was reaching an end. Don’t let him win! The voice of pride was warm and soft, and the voice of reason, ice. Move on. Let go.

Sally arose and filled the silence: When I first saw you about my shop, I thought to have you for supper; then I saw you reading; it stayed my hand long enough to see something worth living. She tapped the paper. "Leave this place; I’ll never forgive you if you stay. You’re more than this, Lacemaker. This is your one chance; I will not write another. Move on. She wiped the tear from Lucy’s cheek. It’ll be a quiet place… without you."

Lucy threw herself onto the Bookeeper’s chest and squeezed her little face against warm fur. Sally wrapped her arms around the Fowler and smiled fondly.

Once the moment passed, Lucy climbed the shelves, paper clasped in tail, and turned back to Sally, just shy of the window. One more thing… Test her. Do it.

Sally looked up, tapping her thumb rhythmically against her knuckle. Yes?

Tha’ bottle? Wha’ is it?

Sally smiled… and the tapping stopped. It’s nothing – perfume. A rapid blink followed. Voice betrayed words.

Lucy divined truth: blinkin’ ’cos she’s threatened; the tappin’ stopped ’cos lies need focus. A peculiar shift in tone. But why would Sally lie to me? And that tipped the scale. Lucy Lacemaker, cursed with eyes that saw the truth of flesh, had decided. As soon as Sally turned her back, Lucy plucked two items from the shelves before passing through the window: a sleeping draught and a coil of fine white thread.

7. Fowler Flesh

Goldune was moving east down Peaky Street, a long and winding stretch of black cobblestone, spangled with the proudest shops in all the town. The light was a dance of sanguine and silver as he passed by a hissing Inkhouse, home of the press. Through smoke and steam, Inkers marched, armed with stacks of information, ready to be traded.

"Fresh ink! they called. Hammerlow tax hike! Fontaine hunted by Yolsh! Erillion shortage looming! Fresh ink, fresh ink! One spotted Goldune’s pretty book and hailed, A paper for that book, sir?"

No, ta!

The Inker nodded and moved along.

The red phase of Vileborne was coming to an end, but it would still take a little while for the red light to swim and worm to the likes of Farroway. This was perfect, for the hungering Goldune had time enough to enjoy a meal at Conline’s Chopshop, where thwarted Fowlers hung like joints of meat.

Youths of the Kivouack were not instinctively treated with respect or love, for they had yet to prove themselves through talent and toil. For this reason, and as a way of keeping selection pressures robust, the Kivouachians ate of foolish young, granting function to those careless enough to be thwarted and captured; those who did live to maturity, therefore, were the strongest and brightest of their generation. The Kivouachians were true to nature’s will, and nature is objective, without mercy.

The reason Locket’s city followed this principle was likely due to its roots in chaos; they had seen what incompetence led to, and after suffering under the shadow of Freyda’s blind wrath, powered by size alone, sought never to return to such anarchy. By their reckoning, incompetence led to bad ideas; if unchecked, those bad ideas would lead to the acceptance of more incompetent individuals. The problem multiplies exponentially. Before long, suffering would be abundant, idiotic principles would reign, and those principles would be held in place by a committee of hasty fools; cultural decay, Locket deemed. Fearing such an end, the citizens of the Underbirth did not nurture idiocy, illness, or ineptitude, they ended it, and they ended it young.

These facts were not lost on Lucy Lacemaker, and yet seeing the headless bodies of Fido and Kly hanging outside Conline’s Chopshop was something of a morbid shock. There they were: little baubles awaiting oblivion. Their ankles were chained to a spinning metal display wheel, and above hung their split heads, tongues lolling, eyes rolled and glazed with death.

Too loud, too invasive, too careless, Lucy deduced. Need to be careful…

She licked her cherry lips, perched herself upon a lone spire, and watched Goldune enter below. The powerful fragrance filled her nostrils. The hot steam wet her chin. The scent was legend: natural, cultural, industrial selection.

Goldune placed the book to a vacant table and sat himself upon an iron chair. "Three broths of Fowler flesh for this?" he called out to Conline, who approached with five beheaded youths tied to his belt by ankles and tails.

You know how hard it is to catch these little Fowlers? The spider-legged Chopper caressed the row of meat at his waist. This was a creeping, sinister and dexterous beast with shades of brown and white across his body.

Losin’ ya touch, Conny?

"You’ll have one."

Goldune growled and looked into the Choppers three remaining eyes, the fourth a hollowed socket. "Three."

"Two… but nothing fancy." He took the book from the table and skittered away like an ethereal crab.

Shortly after, two bowls of honeyed meat, drenched in brown broth, were set upon the table. While Goldune ate the first, Lucy crept in through one of the opened ceiling windows, descending with a flourish of crimson colour toward the feeding clients below.

Chopshops, like Inkhouses, were often Lockettian buildings of dark brick, metal, machinery and steam. Locket’s industrial style bestowed upon Conline’s home a circus of ghoulish metal rails on which dishes of cooked and greasy Fowlers were carried to waiting clients. It was upon one of these dark rails that Lucy rested, directly above her target.

She moved quickly, uncoiling the thin thread, dropping it down like an invisible wire into his second dish. She unscrewed the top of the sleeping draught and eased a ghostly line of slumber down into his meal.

Just missing the ascending thread by a moment, Goldune pushed aside his empty bowl and turned to the other. He paused, smacking his lips, but then continued, ignoring the subtle shift in taste. Lucy breathed a silent sigh of relief.

After filling his face, Goldune paid a visit to the kitchen, pulling the package from his coat and placing one of the five remaining bottles into Conline’s hat. And remember, he said, "any anomalies, write ’em down. Data, ya get me? Oh, and Conny, one more thing… He slid the contract from his pocket. I have an offer from my employer."

Conline shook his head. I’m not interested.

Listen here, lad…

I’m gonna stop you right there, Goldy–

–You have deals with Laughhouses, Inkhouses, Bloodhalls… This is no different.

"It is different, Goldune: they peddle beverages, books, information, bodies – all legal!"

You could do well for yourself, Conny. Think about it!

"Fontaine was always trouble, but he wasn’t no linchpin – and now he’s peddling product! Not a chance!"

Is it the Yolsh? They won’t be a problem.

"Then why is Fontaine looking to hide his trade behind the walls of legal business? Because he’s being chased off the streets by Wexle!"

We’re playin’ a different game now, Conline.

Play it somewhere else, wa la wa! The Chopper flicked his hand toward the door and returned to work.

Goldune snarled and turned away. Bloody rotter!

With his hunger sated, Goldune eyed the glowing, illustrious establishment across the street: Needlemire Dollhouse. He gazed at the heavy wooden doors, eager to appease another of his many appetites.

Meanwhile, Lucy climbed onto the slate roof of the Chopshop and tossed aside the empty bottle and spent string, keeping Sally’s letter firm in her tail. She felt a vast array of emotions as her senses drowned in the Chopshop fragrance.

Anxiety – ecstasy – focus, her mind pounded as she eyed the tall, domineering Dollhouse that was the jewel of Peaky Street. Anxiety – ecstasy – focus…

8. Dollface

The fragrance of Needlemire Dollhouse was legend in the Vileborne township, an odour of deviousness and alien lust; alien to a degree that would be considered alarming to those of earthly sensibilities.

Goldune, upon making his entrance, sucked in a heavy breath, dousing his mind in familiarity and comfort. It was dire ignorance that poisoned his outlook, his ability to read the room; none knew this more than the Dollies of Needlemire, who had made a game of his amusing – and terribly misplaced – sense of self.

A ‘Dollie’ was the title of artsy folk, those dedicated to the works of entertainment and performance, creatures trained in the ways of music, dance and the erotic lending of their bodies. Goldune knew the Needlemire establishment exceedingly well; old deals had bound them close. He would typically spend no more than a Songtower chime in the Dollies’ erotic embrace, softening his mind with a glass of lowly grin, losing himself in the illusion of meaningful romance.

Skyler was the large beast often heard barking orders at the Dollies. She was the ‘Doll’ of the establishment, the owner and manager. Dollies brought in clients, and the Doll handled the building, products and accounts.

Sky, you ol’ beaut’! said Goldune, swanning into her field of view.

Her six olive eyes darted in his direction for a moment, then returned to counting stock. She spoke sternly. Come for work at last? I’m just about to brew some perfume for the Dollies, mind you, I really shouldn’t waste the powder.

Just get more, daft ol’ girl.

Skyler frowned. Erillion is a key component, and I’m not sure if you’ve read the papers, but we’re running low, apparently.

Right, right. He nodded, then looked about the gallery. Who’s free?

Depends. How long you got?

Need to be at my last mark by the Farroway red phase. Is Vicky about? He glanced across the flesh market, sifting through the scents that clung to the air.

"She’s occupied; we’ve got a Yolsh in this tone, five strikes, higher ranking than usual. We mostly get low threes, maybe a four. Wexle’s been pushing hard. Won’t get any better. Skyler huffed. Have a look and see who takes your fancy. But you best offer something real nice this time or peddle your shadiness someplace else."

The Doll pulled out a stained rag tucked behind her ear and eyed one of the bodies serving as a chair; it was flat chested and pudgy in the middle. After secreting a mild amount of saliva onto the torso, she began to wipe it down, its skin creasing under the motions of her hand. Establishments did have traditional tables, chairs and bar tops comprised of other materials: wood, stone, glass, erillion and so forth. But bodies were a popular choice for seating, being soft and compliant.

Goldune was already pacing around the perimeter of the gallery, decorated by Dollies upon carved wooden plinths in positions of capitulation.

Contortions in the Underbirth were known to Dollhouses as ‘bows’, specific artistic utilities that each betokened a unique aura of disgrace. The ‘capitulator’s bow’ was the common position of compliance, adopted by all who found themselves dominated by another, willingly or otherwise. This required the subject to be on their knees, legs splayed and arms – or any upward limbs – tucked behind their backs. Though firmly erect in posture, the back arched quite extensively as to display the submitting vessel. With eyes rolled up, mouths open, tongues protruded, the subject would mimic rottulation with an expression commonly known as the ‘dollface’ for its lack of decorum. Some of the more monstrous beasts would adopt capitulation in deviations to accommodate their form, for the variations of each bow were limited only by the spectrum of bodies to perform them.

Goldune found himself taken by several of Skyler’s Dollies. One had extremely supple hips, four arms, and his rolled eyes held a flicker of warm tangerine. His head was nicely shaped, short-snouted and decorated with stout ears.

Another, a female, had wings sporting bright colours of aqua and violet that burst from her shoulders, flourishing through feathered branches. Her body was large and quadrupedal with thick back legs splayed before his inquiring eye, accentuated by the lack of a tail. The back arched, exhibiting a massive torso, heavy with soft fat and muscle. The Dollie’s lolling head was that of a monstrous wolf, horned at the nose, framed in a warm aqua mane with eyes of a hard and angry red. Like runes of war, swirling sapphire patterns decorated the grey fur coating her back, shoulders, face, and the gower between her legs, although the legs themselves, along with the chest and belly, were smooth and pale. Kneeling, dollfaced, and displayed, the beast was quashed; power and dignity turned to shame through the alchemy of Kivic art.

Goldune placed a palm to her stomach and caressed, glancing back to Skyler. Hefty lass! he said. What’s her name?

Butika, said Skyler, elbows to the serving desk. She’s a whole lot to toy with; plenty of meat on those bones, let me tell you. She’s a pricy one though; an ex-Yolsh.

A Yolshen fighter, really? How many strikes?

Only a two-striker, couldn’t make it to her third. You know how it is. Not many Officers live too long if they drop out; it’s the Bloodhalls or the Dollhouses. Skyler watched Goldune’s face light with interest. Like her?

He eyed the impressive frame, giddy at the notion of degrading a past enforcer of Locket’s Law. What was once proud and mighty was now his to bring low.

The Dollie’s eyes, rolled up with indignity, did not elicit doubts as her display of submission was uniform. However, with skyward eyes, one might spy things looming high above, and it was here Butika caught the shadow clinging to Goldune. Butika knew Lacemaker ought not to have been there, and had she said something, it might have changed the fates of many. But either out of fear, or curiosity, or simple uncaringness, the Dollie said nothing. And thus, those fates were sealed forever.

Goldune bared his fangs. You know what they say: the more we feel, the less we think. He pressed his hand against her gower. "I wonder how long you’ll last before you pop…"

Butika released a hot snort, a small act of defiance that solidified his interest.

Proud girl, eh? Alright then, Sky, what do you want for this lard? My pockets are full of things you don’t want to be caught with, so best take advantage of my less immediate stock.

Skyler pondered for a moment, looked to her shelves, half-empty and woeful, but shook her head. No, Goldy, I know your type; offer something good or get out.

Come off it, silly ol’ Doll! His anger was cut with an idea. From his pocket, he pulled the contract… written by Fontaine. Sky, I might have somethin’.

Bring it here then. Let’s have a look.

Skyler began placing full bottles of grin upon the worktop, uncorking each from right to left. Goldune fiddled with his ear as he approached.

It’s an offer, he said in a low voice, an offer from my employer… He placed the contract upon the desk and smiled weakly.

No, said Skyler.

Sky…

Out.

"Just listen! You have deals with the Laughhouses; they stock you wiv drinks, and they’re welcome to fondle your Dollies in turn. Fair trade, right?"

"Legal trade between legal establishments selling legal services."

There’ll be rewards, said Goldune. Nobody gives more than they get.

And what do I get?

The most profitable Dollhouse in Vileborne.

Skyler’s entire body paused for a brief moment. "What, he can just make that happen?"

"This product he moves is somethin’ big: mire. I know you’ve heard of it."

Only rumours.

"It’ll change everythin’, Sky, believe it. Sign the contract and you’ll get all the benefits with none of the Yolshen trouble. Vision, girl, vision!"

Yolsh come here all the time, Goldy…

Do the Yolsh come here to snoop around your property or fondle your Dollies, Sky?

"The Yolsh are always on duty."

You’ll be under Fontaine’s protection, and he has friends in very high places. Look, I wouldn’t work for him if I didn’t have assurances, and I wouldn’t expect you to sign such a contract if it didn’t have those assurances locked in ink… You follow?

The Doll stopped and thought the whole thing over. The most profitable Dollhouse in Vileborne?

"By far. And all you need to do is comply with Fontaine’s lot and keep your pretty little mouth shut. Goldune slid the contract over. Sign your name and get me a copy of your employment record."

What do you need a copy of that for?

Same reason as any other business. Fontaine needs to know who he’s dealin’ with. I’m in his book, just like everyone who works wiv him. He’s a professional.

And it’s not in his name, I assume?

It’s clean. No link.

"Only his eyes see it?"

Only his eyes, Sky, yeah. He tapped the contract with his finger. Onward and upward, ol’ girl.

After some hesitation, Skyler reluctantly pulled a large black book from under her desk. Upon the first page was a detailed sketch of her face, and on the neighbouring page was a list of her professional records, height, weight, sex and other identifications. She flicked through the book, past the faces of her employees, until she arrived at a collection of loose papers at the back: copies of her employment record, for the eyes of other businesses with which she was entangled. Skyler plucked one free and handed it to Goldune. With that done, the Doll signed the contract and passed it back. He reviewed her signature and smiled to himself, proud of his work.

Skyler snapped her fingers twice in Butika’s direction. Butika, you’re with Goldune; do whatever he asks until he tires of you.

Butika leaned forward, using her two formidable wings to break the fall. With her back legs stretched and tongue receded, she followed Goldune to one of the available chambers upstairs. Once shrouded in privacy, Goldune shed his coat and let loose his animal urges, howling like a beast, caressing obedient naked flesh with rending claws.

9. The Wrath of Lucy Lacemaker

While Goldune made his offer to the Doll, Lucy listened intently from a dark wooden beam high above their heads. They spoke in low voices, but she filled the gaps with her eyes to their lips.

Mire, Lucy thought. So that’s what it’s called… Mire…

With his negotiations concluded, Goldune took Butika and exited the gallery in search of a chamber upstairs, but he would need time to relax and dull his senses further.

Lucy restrained her impulses. Not yet…

Fifteen feet below, Skyler served grin to the few clients who had entered. One Dollie began to sing at the centre of the gallery; she was furred with curving shades of black and yellow; a chilling sound she produced, like a chant of war. Lucy knew not the song, but guessed at its meaning, hypnotized, dozing like a lounging cat. The words trickled like a black lake, touched by a grey and fateful frost:

I am the truth beyond the lies, I come for those both lame and wise,

I am the calm among the cries, the last thing seen by dying eyes,

I am the waiting cloak of black, the one who takes your final breath,

I am the unforeseen attack, the song you hear before your death,

I will not be defied…

I am the raging storm of fire, the one who comes from up above,

I am the blaze that rises higher, burning peace, and calm, and love,

I am the whistle of the air, the one who settles all disputes,

I weave fire into my hair, tips of gold to blackened roots,

I will not be defied…

I am the voice when all are gone, I who gathers up your bones,

I am far the oldest one, the beast who wanders all alone,

I keep visions safe and sound, those both lost and to be found,

I will be there with none around, recording time deep in my ground,

I will not be defied…

At the conclusion of the song, Lucy decided it was finally time to make her move; she slowly arose from her slumbering posture and set her nose to work.

The Dollhouse was warm, beset with varieties of soft and loving light that swam throughout the building, feasting upon particles of hair, skin and spots of spilled drink. The light kept things clean, appealing and cosy, each shade varying in scent and temperature.

Lacemaker knew the halls as well as Goldune’s habits; he preferred his pleasures bathed in the glow of coloured glass with a view of distant waters. The wood was smooth, the walls sculpted with sensuality, and the metal bones of the building offered a gothic twist. Some light had turned silver as it played upon the iron highlights, licking the metal clean and beautifying the halls as snow would a forest. To the second floor, Lucy climbed. Then came the lusty scent of vilt, fumes of passion.

The doors were marked with names, each a chamber of erotic enchantment, a home for bodies, secrets and warm materials. ‘Pixie’ was the name upon Goldune’s chamber door, and behind it lay the end of her strife, or so she told herself. This is it. At last, the confrontation.

Poking her tiny head around the corner, Lacemaker took inspection of the area. It was a vast space with a rich red rug, peppered with leather couches. To the east was a family of three glass windows, each the height of the ceiling. Through shades of marigold and amethyst, beyond the bay, the distant lake of Lockton Black glistened in the valley far below the town. The ceiling held the image of Freyda’s conquered form, magnificently painted; around the circumference were words sewn in gold:

‘The fall is the thrill of our game. The Lady with no head, the Doll done and dead. And Whispers have no words, and Voices go unheard. And the wind steals our ancient songs, swept from blazing pages. Count down from ten and you’re nothing again for now and all the ages…’

Part of a poem, I think, Lucy thought.

At the centre of the chamber was a Dollie at work: Butika’s powerful body lay headless, folded and displayed upon its knees. Humiliated. All that was proud upon her had been mocked, recontextualised, contorted. Her head was discarded to the floor, dollfaced, eyes rolled, pale tongue tasting her chin. The body lay draining in a scandalous puddle, animated by waning convulsions. While reproduction was the natural utility for rotters, a host for young Fowlers, the Dollies worked knowing this fate would not befall them. Their displays were performed for the pleasure of paying customers, and that labour was valued. This was a lofty trade. But Lucy’s Fowler mind could not fathom the lure of such things.

Lounging near the southern wall, comforted by a collection of soft cushions and silks, was Goldune, a fist to his cheek. Dozing. His azure coat lay unprotected, tossed aside for its crime of modesty.

Let’s make this quick. Lacemaker approached with heightened guard. He’ll be slow, but I mustn’t be careless!

Goldune’s eyes were dimmed and slow to focus, barely awake and functioning. The sleeping draught had done its work. Lucy moved to the coat first, slipping through the enlarged cracks in his perception. From the breast pocket, she pulled the package free – a quaint little box for him, a chest for her. Though lighter than expected, it took both arms, a huff and a silly face to hoist.

Upon the floor, just shy of the slumbering Goldune, Lucy treated her silver eyes to what lay inside. Red lips gently parted, she ran her fingers across the bottles. Prestigious glasswork. Definitely Kasino, but not local. They were no taller than five inches, a small but potent volume.

You… said Goldune’s drowsy voice, his eyes pulling her into focus with great effort and strain. "You came back…" He attempted to move, but his body denied the command.

Lucy pulled the box further beyond his reach, keeping Sally’s letter hidden behind her back in a tight scroll. She offered him a lazy smile. I came to say goodbye.

He forced himself awake. How long have you been followin’ me?

What was the prize for throwin’ me to the dirt? What great wonders had you discovered that made me so very small? She took a half step forward. I was curious.

I chose somethin’, for once, that wasn’t you, he said. You cling to me like a shadow – then you wonder how I could ever throw you away? Come, say what you came to say.

Lucy puffed her chest and spoke at length: "We were friends, Goldy. Me and you. Through thick and thin, we stuck it out. Together! I wanted it to be like it was in the stories, a bond to last all time. We were so alike, after all. But friendship is just a game of mirrors, eh? A game of masks. Soon enough, you just get tired."