The Court of the Air and Beyond

Stephen Hunt’s Jackelian novels are often called “Steampunk”--and I suppose they do have the essential elements with their fantastic pseudo-Victorian sort of setting--but they draw from a much wider range of genre fiction tropes. In fact, all the factions, locales, and (dare we say) character types seem to make tailor made for gaming inspiration.

The first novel, Court of Air (2007), introduces the basic setting elements (and they’re a lot of them!) in a story about two orphans in the Kingdom of Jackals (Britain’s stand-in) who come to play a role in a world-destroying threat--a Communist stand-in rebellion secretly subverted by Lovecraft-by-way-of-Mesoamerica insectoid Elder Gods looking to regain the ascendancy they enjoyed in the last Ice Age. The heroes include an agent from the steampunk equivalent of SHIELD complete with helicarrier (the eponymous Court of the Air), a boy of the feyblood (super-powered magical mutants hated and feared by the world) who gains the magical weaponry of a legacy hero similar to the Scarecrow of Romney Marsh, and a plucky young girl with ancient nanites in her blood linking her to the robot savior at the Earth’s core!

That’s only a few of the ideas Hunt throws at us. There’s enough for 3 or 4 Rifts supplements. We’ve got Middle Eastern stand-in Cassarabians with magical biotech, Steampunk computers like in The Difference Engine, airships (I did say it was Steampunk), and the robotic Steam Men. The Steam Men are probably my favorite element of the world--these coal-burning artificial intelligences field heroic armies of knights, worship (and are sometimes ridden) by spirits called the Steamo Loa, and throw the cogs of Gear-gi-ju to divine the future.

In the midst of these rapid fire ideas, there’s a fast-paced adventure story. This is true of all Hunt’s novels in the series (the novel’s are standalone, but they have recurring characters). The second novel, The Kingdom Beyond the Waves, gives us a submarine journey up-river into a perilous jungle and a Bondian super-villain out to use ancient technology to take over the world. The Rise of the Iron Moon has a sort of War of the Worlds-esque alien invasion.

The world bears some resemblance to Tekumel in that civilization is fallen from great technological heights, and the artifacts of previous ages may appear like magic. It also contains a lot of stand-ins for real world historical elements--some of them with only the thinnest disguise. Quatershift, for example, is Revolutionary France with a mixing of various Communist states.

One characteristic of Hunt’s writing is a tendency to use portmanteau or sometimes punnning names. The world-saving robotic being is called Hexmachina. I’ve already mentioned the Cassarabians and the Steamo Loa. I could see this name practice irritating some readers.

I think these are minor quibbles. If you’re looking for good adventure fiction in a fantastic setting, particularly if you like sort of “kitchen sink” settings, I think you’ll find something in this series to enjoy.

Stray Cat Blues

For those in the know, the whispered mumblings of an urban druid on the corner, the boastful wails of alley cats in the night, and the raucous debate of an ad hoc committee of the Parliament of Crows in the trees, can all point to the arrival of royalty in the City. In any night-spot from Broad Street to Solace, one might run into the coolest of cats, the Cat Lord.

The Lords of Beasts are held by (human) thaumaturgists to be eikones imbued with the symbolic power of their animal totems. The lords themselves dispute this and claim they're the gods of their respective species--the remnant of a time before mankind staged a coup and replaced the democracy of tooth and claw with the tyranny of the tool-user. A lot of the Beast Lords are still angry about the loss of the old order, the old balance.

The Cat Lord keeps his cool. From worship in ancient temples to the pampered care lavished on them today, man's done alright by his folk, and he’s got children amongst humanity. Certain families descended from ancient cat-worshipping clans still change into cats when their passions are high, or the moon is full. Sometimes he runs into one of them and maybe his green eyes show a hint of paternal pride, but he ususally shows no more interest in them than his other offspring..

What does interest him is avoiding boredom--and he bores easily. Secrets interest him, but he mostly keeps those to himself.  Sensual pleasures pique his interest, but he tires of lovers quickly. He used to enjoy the hunt, but he’s old and jaded now, and only something really novel is worth the bother.

A meeting with the Cat Lord should be handled with caution. He's got knowledge of possible use to adventurers, but he may or may not be motivated to share it. To try and coerce him is earn his ire, and that’s likely to end badly. Becoming too friendly with him is unwise, as well; the road he walks can be a dangerous one for mortals, and his friendship is often fickle.

The most important word to the wise: Only a rube gawks at the sharp-dressed guy with a cat's head seated in the corner table.

Trading Fate

In the Financial District of the City an unconventional commodity exchange exists among all the mundane markets. A secret market open to a few of the rich and powerful is said to deal in fate itself.

Many thaumatologists prefer to speak of “probabilities” and view the whole idea of fate as a remnant of the unscientific past. Others point to the numerous pagan deities devoted to the concept and argue that the power of human belief must surely have made an eikone of it.

While the theoreticians argue, the exchange does brisk business. It’s members are few--likely less than 20--and are all powerful thaumaturgists, extremely wealthy, nonhuman entities, or some combination of the three. The exchange building itself is accessed from the second floor of a small insurance office. It can’t be found without an invitation or powerful magical aid.

The trading room is always filled with a low, periodic thumping sound. The story goes that its the slow beating of a monstrous heart: the heart of an alien chaos god stored in something like a rune-inscribed Leyden jar. The living heart of minor chaos (it’s supposed) keeps Management or some other in being of Law from shutting down the operation.

The exchange is somewhat misnamed. The goal is to manipulate fate, but the commodity exchanged is perhaps better termed luck. Wholesale theft of luck would attract unwanted attention, so the exchange only snatches small quantities of it---embezzling the “could have beens” rendered purposeless by random tragedy or miraculous fortune.

These loose strands are snatched from the weave of reality by three automata like four-armed women, seated in the lotus and made of brass and porcelain. These are likely of extraplanar origin. It’s said that (for some reason) the automata are only ever observed in operation indirectly, through the use of a mirror.

The traders buy and sell the strands collected by the automata. They exchange them with each other for other things of value from the mundane to the esoteric, but they also use them. Small changes to fate, targeted to critical moments, and over a long period of time, can have a profound effect. A poor man can be become rich (or a rich enemy poor), a wicked life can be extended, or an innocent soul corrupted toward damnation.

If the tales are true, the members of the Fate Exchange buy and sell nothing less than the power of gods--exercised over one seemingly inconsequential event at a time.

Warlord Wednesday: Death Dual

Let's re-enter the lost world with another installment of my issue by issue examination of DC Comic's Warlord, the earlier installments of which can be found here...

"Death Dual"

Warlord (vol. 1) #60 (August 1982)

Written by Mike Grell (Sharon Grell); Penciled by Jan Duursema; Inked by Mike DeCarlo

Synopsis:  Darvin is surprised to find the door to his dungeon open, but it makes little difference to the two assassins. The prisoner still appears to be safely chained and locked in his iron mask. That makes it easy for what the they’ve come there to do.

Things are not as they seem. The Warlord leaps up, slaps the big assassin in the face with a manacle, and wraps the other chain around the neck of the little guy. Grappling with the big one, Morgan stabs him in the chest with a spike on his iron mask.

Meanwhile, Tinder’s attempt to slip out is foiled by Darvin. He’s figured out the boy lifted his keys and helped the the prisoner escape. He raises his pimp-cane to strike the boy, but Tinder twists free, leaving his armlet (Morgan’s wrist watch) in Darvin’s hand.

Morgan, now freed of the mask, hears the boy’s scream and fears the worst. He snatches up the big man’s sword just as the little one readies himself for a duel. Morgan casts aside the broadsword in favor of a dagger, knowing he can’t match his opponents speed with the bigger blade in his weakened state. He lunges at the assassin...

Tinder makes good his escape, running over Griff in the process. Darvin helps the bewildered boy up. It’s time for them to make themselves scarce, too. Darvin’s confident that having the armband will be enough for his schemes.

Morgan and the assassin fight on. A swing that sticks the assassin’s sword in a wall, gives Morgan an opening. He buries the the dagger in the man’s chest. Morgan calls for Tinder, but the boy is gone--another tantalizing mystery. He turns his attentions back to wounded man. The assassin begs Morgan to end his agony. Morgan wants the name of his employer first. Praedor.

Meanwhile, Praedor’s imposter is running the council meeting and Praedor and his cronies are pleased. Tara’s down in the palace library reading old scrolls, looking for a way to overcome the “old boy’s club” of the council. Tara realizes she must denounce the man she believes to be Morgan to regain her position. Graemore shows up to lend his support, and tell her he loves her--which steels her resolve for she she must do.

Elsewhere, Morgan returns to the palace. He commands the guards to seal off the palace and find Praedor. He stalks into his chambers and surprises his double gazing at the mirror in a similar way to how the double first got the drop on him. Normally, Morgan would make short work of the imposter, but in his weakened state things aren't going well, until the cavalry arrives:

Both claim to be the real Morgan, of course. Tara poses a question only the real one would know: “Who’s the King of Swing?” When Morgan says “Benny Goodman” she swings the pistol his way. Quickly thinking back to things he’s told her, he realizes she must have meant to ask who the “Sultan of Swat” was.  He says “Babe Ruth.”

Tara shoots the imposter. Morgan embraces her, leaving poor Graemore looking on.

Later, a palace blacksmith prepares an iron mask. Far beneath the palace, in its dungeon, the mask is locked around Praedor’s head.
 
Things to Notice:

• Morgan beats Conan and the Gray Mouser (well, at least they're stand-ins).
• Praedor's name is consistently spelled "Praydor" in this issue.

Where It Comes From:
The title of this issue is a play on "death duel," of course. The issue ends with the common "identify the imposter" variant trope of the hero having to give some information only he would know--and having a little trouble remembering it.

Happy Independence Day!

A good Fourth of July to all my fellow Americans. I hope everybody enjoys the holiday.

While you're enjoying it, do yourself a favor and check out the very British Small But Vicious Dog B/X-WFRP hack from Chris at the Vaults of Nagoh. It's grim atmosphere might be a useful corrective to all that July sunshne and merriment.

Remember John Prester

Watching fireworks on a festive night in the month of Swelter, a visitor to the City might be asked: “Do you know the story of John Prester?”

It’s a trick the locals pull on tourists. The truth is no one remembers John Prester--not really. You sometimes feel like you know it. Or knew it--but it only lingers there almost on the tip of your tongue, just beyond memory’s reach. It’s a good story, that one; you just can’t recall.

There are hints, maybe. Are the fireworks just simple celebration, or do they carry some other significance? Surely there’s something to the giant puppets paraded through the streets--the “Mugwumps” with their motley dress, straggly goatees, stovepipe hats, and leering grins? What about the wooden toy guns the kids mock shooting them with? And what about the tune played by the street musicians and marching bands? Who doesn’t hear that with a twinge of deja vu?

When did all this start, anyway? When did John Prester and his crew save the City (surely that’s what they must have done) or nearly destroyed it (well, that’s a possibility, too)? Maybe it hasn’t happened yet and the celebration isn’t the ghost of a memory but the sign heralding what’s to come?

Ah well, let the City raise a glass to John Prester, anyway, whatever he did--or will do. A bastard bold enough to almost get remembered deserves that much, right?

City Factions

Pierce, two-fist proprietor of The Rusty Dagger, requested a guide to various factions of the City. As various groups have been detailed over the past year, this seemed liked a pretty good idea. They're aligned here by their allegiance to law (meaning the lawful government of the City) or crime. Whether they come down as allies or antagonists of adventures will depend on the adventurers' actions.

Lawful:
Many of the groups supporting law fall under the umbrella of City government:
The Exterminators: The hardworking men and women of the Municipal Department of Animal and Pest Control clean up messes left behind by adventurers and protect the City from wandering monsters coming up from the depths.
The Police: The Municipal Police Department has the unenviable task of dealing with mundane crime and the more supernatural menaces that sometimes threaten the City. They generate two “most wanted” lists: one for regular criminals and one for“specials."

Taxmen: The gray agents of the Municipal Department of Taxation and Finance work hard to divest adventurers of their booty--or at least the City’s legal share of it. Their service to bureaucracy and its tutelary spirit, Management, can make them surprisingly tough opponents.
Thaumaturgical Society: The professional organization for the City’s sorcerers. They establish standards of proficiency and rankings for magical practitioners. They also publish a journal of thaumaturgic inquiry.

Neutral:
The Druids: The City's acolytes tend to stay neutral in regard to the concerns of man. So long as the City abides, they remain aloof.
The Illusionist Guild: Allegedly a lodge of the international Brotherhood of Illusion (if such a thing just isn’t more smoke and mirrors). Generally this is a law-abiding organization, but its secrecy, and the inherent ambiguity of the arts of illusion make it somewhat suspect.
The Unknown: Also called the Inconnu or Unseen Lodge. A shadowy organization of powerful sorcerers.
Undertown: The parallel city of the ghouls beneath the City. Relations are generally cordial--but the ghouls’ dietary habits naturally make surface-dwellers wary.

Criminal:
Anarchists: Terrorist madmen in the service of extraplanar god-monsters of chaos.
The Five-Headed Dragon Society: A criminal cult among the Yianese. They’re based in San Tiburon, but their tendrils reach to the City’s Yiantown, as well.
The Hell Syndicate: The premier criminal organization in the City controlled by the infernal lords of the Nine Hells.
The Reds: Subterranean subversives and their human dupes dedicated to overturning the governments of the world and replacing them with their tyranny.