Across The Wall Part 11

'Listen, kid,' he said, and his voice was sc.r.a.ped and raw, like maybe he'd drunk a bottle of whiskey the night before, on top of a cold. 'I'm not going to hurt you. You can see see, can't you?

I knew he wasn't talking about normal eyesight. I nodded, and he eased off his grip.

'I'll tell you something for free,' he said, real serious. He bent down on one knee and looked me right in the eye, except I ducked my head, so I had only about a second of that fierce, yellow-eyed gaze burning into my brain.

'One day you can be like me,' he whispered, voice crawling with little lightnings, power licking away at my head. 'You saw how that girl looked at me? I'm going to have her tonight. I can get any woman I like-or any man, if I was that way inclined. No one can touch me either. I do what I want. You know why? Because I was born with the Power. Power over things seen and unseen, Power over folk and field, Power over wind and water. You've got it too, boy, but you don't know what it can do yet. It can go away again if you don't look after it right. You've got to keep it charged up. You've got to use it, boy. That's the truth. You have to feed the Power!'

Then he kissed me right on the forehead, fire flaming through my skull, and I could smell my hair burning like a hot iron, and I was screaming and screaming and then the world spun around and around and I wanted to throw up but instead I lay down and everything went black.

When I came to, the Darly twins were turning my pockets inside out, looking for money. I was still pretty dizzy, but I punched one while I was still on the ground, and he fell back into the other one, so I got up and kicked them both down the street. That made me feel better, and I thought maybe the worst of the day had happened and it could only get better from there.

But I was wrong.

I was real restless that night. Everybody was. The air was hot and sticky, with thunderheads hanging off on the horizon, black and grumbling but not doing anything about moving in to break the heat. There was nothing on television either, and we all sat there flicking between channels and complaining, till Mom lost her temper and tried to send everyone to bed. Including Dad, but he lost his temper too and they had a shouting fight, which was rare enough to send us shocked to bed.

I remember thinking that I wouldn't be able to get to sleep, but I did. For a while, anyway. I had this awful dream about the Lightning Bringer, how he was creeping through the house and up the stairs, blue sparks jumping around the bent-back toes of his boots. Then just as those lightning-tattooed arms were reaching down, fingers spreading around my neck, there was this incredibly loud burst of thunder, and I woke up screaming. The thunder was real, drowning my scream and bringing a cold wind that rattled the shutters in counterpoint to the bright flashes of lightning behind them. But the rest was just a dream. There was no one there except my brother, Thomas, and he was asleep.

Still, it shook me up pretty bad. I can't think why else I would've gone to the window and looked outside. I mean, if you have a nightmare, normally that's the last thing you do, just in case you see something.

Well, I saw something. I saw the Lightning Bringer on his motorcycle, parked out in our street, looking right up at the window. He had Carol with him; her arms tightly wrapped around his well-built, leather-clad chest. She had a bright-red jacket on and jeans, and a red woolen hat instead of a helmet. She looked like the sort of helper Santa Claus might choose if Santa read Penthouse Penthouse a lot. a lot.

The Lightning Bringer smiled at me and waved. Then he mouthed some words, words I understood without hearing, words that seemed to enter my brain directly, punctuated by the distant lightning. 'I can have anything I want, boy. And you can be just like me.'

Then he revved up the bike and they were gone, heading up the road to the mountain, the lightning following on behind.

I never saw Carol again, and neither did anyone else. They found her a few days later, burned and blackened, her fabled beauty gone, life snuffed out. 'Struck by lightning,' said the coroner. 'Accidental death.'

No one except me had seen her with the Lightning Bringer. No one except me thought it was anything but a tragic accident. She'd been foolish to go out walking in the thunderstorm, stupid to be out that late at night anyway. Some people even said she was lucky it was the lightning that got her.

I was the only one who knew she didn't have a choice, and it wasn't any ordinary lightning that killed her. But I didn't tell anyone. Who could I tell? I'd like to say that I never thought of the Lightning Bringer after that day-and what he'd said-but I'd be lying. I thought about him every day for the next six years. After I got interested in girls, I think I thought about him every five minutes. I tried not to, but I just couldn't shake the memory of how Carol had looked at him. I wanted a girl like Carol to look at me like that, and do a whole lot more besides.

I used to think about the Lightning Bringer before school dances when I just couldn't get a date. Which, to be honest, was all the school dances up until about two months ago. Then I met Anya. Okay, she didn't look at me like Carol had looked at the Lightning Bringer, and she didn't look like Carol. But she was pretty, with sort of an interesting face and clever eyes, and she used to know what I was thinking without me saying anything. Like when I'd want to undo the back of her bra strap and just slide my hand around, and she'd s.h.i.+ft just enough so I couldn't reach-before I even started to do anything.

Which was frustrating, but I still really liked her. She had an interesting aura, too, a bit like apricot jam. I mean apricot jamcolored, and quite thick, not like most of the fuzzy, thin auras I saw. I often wondered if she could see auras too and what mine looked like, but I was too embarra.s.sed to ask her. Which was a bit of a problem, because I was too embarra.s.sed to talk about s.e.x with her either, and I knew that this was probably half the reason why she kept s.h.i.+fting around when I tried to put my hands places that seemed quite normal to go. And why she never let me kiss her for more than a minute at a time.

I mean, I think she would have if I'd talked to her about it. Maybe. Once I ignored her trying to pull away and I just kept kissing, sticking my tongue in even harder and putting my hands down the back of her jeans. Then she started jiggling about, and I thought it meant she was getting excited, till I realised it was sort of panic and she was just trying to get loose of me. I let go and said sorry straight away because I could see in her aura she was really frightened, and I'd gotten sort of scared as well. Anyway, she was mad at me for a week and wouldn't let me even hold her hand for two weeks after that.

It was only a few days after we had gotten back to the holding-hands stage that the Lightning Bringer showed up again. Outside the school, on his black motorcycle, just like he'd done six years before. I felt my heart stop when I saw him, as if something from a nightmare had just walked out into the sun. An awful fear suddenly becoming real. Which it was, because this time he was smiling at Anya. My Anya! And all those electric tendrils were reaching out for her, blue-spark octopus tentacles, wrapping around and caressing her like I wanted to do but didn't know how.

I tried to hold her back, but she ignored me, and I felt these s.h.i.+vers going through her, like when a dog's fur ripples when you scratch in exactly the right place. Then she pulled her hand out of mine and pushed me away, and I saw her looking at the Lightning Bringer just like Carol had six years before, with her mouth slightly open and her tongue just whisking around to leave her lips wet and her chest pushed forward so the b.u.t.tons went tight . . .

I screamed and charged at the man, but he just laughed, and the blue energy came gus.h.i.+ng out with his laughter, smacking into me like a fist, and I went down, winded. He laughed again, beating me with Power, so all I could do was crawl away and vomit by the bushes next to the gate. Vomit till there was nothing to come up except black bile that choked and burned till it felt like it was taking the skin off the inside of my mouth and nose.

When I finally got up, the Lightning Bringer and Anya were gone. For a second I thought maybe she'd gone home, but I knew she hadn't. She didn't stand a chance. If the Lightning Bringer wanted her, he'd take her. And he'd do whatever he wanted with her, till he got tired and then she'd be just like Carol. An accidental-death-by-lightning statistic. I think it was then that I realised that I didn't just like Anya, I was in love with her. I'd been petrified of the Lightning Bringer for six years, terrified of what he could do, and of the darker fear that I might somehow be like him.

Now all I cared about was Anya and how to get her back, back safe before the thunderclouds in the distance rolled over the town and up the mountain. Because I knew that was where the Lightning Bringer had gone. I felt it, deep inside. He'd gone to get closer to the clouds, and he'd gone to call a storm. It was answering him, the charge building up in the sky, answering the great swell of current in the earth. Soon they would come together.

I think it was about this time that I completely flipped out. Totally crazy. Anyway, the Darly twins later said they saw me running along the mountain road without my s.h.i.+rt, bleeding from scratches all over and frothing at the mouth. I think they made up the frothing, though the scratches were certainly true.

Basically, I turned into a sort of beast, just following the one sense that could lead me to Anya. I could tell where she'd gone from the traces of her apricot aura and the blue flashes left by the Lightning Bringer. They were intermingled, too, and in some deep recess of my mind I knew that they were kissing and those tree-strong hands were roaming over her, her own clasped tightly around him as they'd never been properly clasped around me.

I think it was that thought that started the animal part of me howling . . . but I stopped soon enough, because I needed the breath, just as the first thunderheads rolled above me with the snap of cold air and a few fat drops of rain, the lightning coming swift and terrible behind.

I ran even faster, pain st.i.tching up my side, eating into my lungs, and then I was staggering out onto the lookout parking area, and there was the black motorcycle silhouetted against the lightning-soaked sky. I looked around desperately, practically sniffing the aura traces on the ground. Then I saw them, the Lightning Bringer pressing his black-clad body against Anya, her back on the granite stone that marked some local hero's past. She was naked, school dress blown to the storm winds, lips fastened hungrily to the man, arms clasped behind his head. I watched, frozen, as those arms sank lower, hands unzipping his leather trousers, then fingers lacing behind muscular b.u.t.tocks.

He raised her legs around him, then thrust forward, his hands reaching toward the sky. With my strange sight I saw streamers fly up from his outstretched fingers, streamers desperately trying to connect with the electric feelers that came questing down from the sky. When they did connect, a million volts would come coursing down through the man's upraised arms-and through Anya.

I ran forward then, leaping onto the Lightning Bringer's back, lifting my hands above his, making the streamers he'd cast my own. He stumbled, and Anya fell away from him, rolling partly down the hill.

Then the lightning struck. In one split, incandescent second it filled me with pure light, charging me with Power, too much Power to contain, Power that demanded a release. It was an ache of pleasure withheld, the moment before o.r.g.a.s.m magnified a thousand times. It had to be released before the pleasure burned all my senses away. Suddenly I knew what the Lightning Bringer knew, knew how I could have not only the Power, but the ecstasy of letting part of it run through me to burn its way, uncaring, as I took my pleasure.

'You see!' he crowed, crouching before me, s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the blazing inferno that my aura had become. 'You see! Take her, spend the Power! Feed her to the Power!'

I looked down at Anya, seeing her naked for the first time, her pale skin stark against the black tar of the parking area. She was frightened now, partly free from the Lightning Bringer's compulsion.

I started toward her and she screamed, face crumpling. And somewhere in the midst of all the burning, flowing Power I remembered her fear- and something else, too.

'I love her,' I said to the Lightning Bringer. Then I kissed him right in the middle of his forehead.

I don't know what happened next because I was knocked unconscious. Anya says that both of us turned into one enormous blue-hot ball of chain lightning that bounced backward and forward all across the parking area, burning off her fringe and melting both the motorcycle and the bronze plaque on the stone. It didn't leave anything at all of the Lightning Bringer.

When I came to, I was a bit disoriented because I had my head in Anya's lap and I was looking up at her-but since her fringe was gone, I didn't know who she was for a couple of seconds. She had her dress back on again too, or what was left of her dress. It had some really interesting tears, but I was in no state to appreciate them.

'You'd better go,' I croaked up at her, my voice sounding horribly like the Lightning Bringer's. 'He might be back.'

'I don't think so,' she said, rocking me backward and forward as if I needed to be soothed or something. I liked it, anyway.

'I'm just like him,' I whispered, remembering when I wouldn't stop kissing her, remembering the feel of the Power, wanting to use it to make myself irresistible, to slake its l.u.s.t and my own on her, make her just a receptacle for pleasure . . .

'No, you're not,' she said, smiling. 'You always gave me the choice.'

I thought about that for a second, while the dancing black spots in front of my eyes started to fade out and the ringing in my ears quieted down to something like school bells.

'Anya . . . can you see auras?' I said.

'Sometimes, with people I know well,' she whispered, bending down to kiss me on the eyes, her breast brus.h.i.+ng my ear.

'What color's mine?' I asked. It seemed very important to know, all of a sudden. 'It's not blue and kind of . . . kind of . . . electric, is it?

'No!' she answered firmly, bending over to kiss me properly on the lips. 'It's orange, shot with gold. It looks a lot like marmalade.'

DOWN TO THE Sc.u.m QUARTER.

INTRODUCTION TO DOWN TO THE Sc.u.m QUARTER.

THIS IS THE OLDEST PIECE OF MY WORK you will find in this book. Written in either 1986 or 1987, it was published in two Australian gaming magazines, you will find in this book. Written in either 1986 or 1987, it was published in two Australian gaming magazines, Myths and Legends Myths and Legends and then and then Breakout! Breakout! It is not a story as such, but an interactive narrative experience: in other words, a 'choose your own adventure' in which the protagonist's story proceeds according to the choices the reader makes, which direct him or her to read particular paragraphs. It is not a story as such, but an interactive narrative experience: in other words, a 'choose your own adventure' in which the protagonist's story proceeds according to the choices the reader makes, which direct him or her to read particular paragraphs.

But unlike the 'Choose Your Own Adventure' or 'Fighting Fantasy' books, it is not a serious interactive narrative that is on offer. 'Down to the Sc.u.m Quarter' is a loving parody of the paragraph-choice game format. It's also something of an homage to one of my favorite books, The Three Musketeers The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, and to the best movie version of that book, done as two films: by Alexandre Dumas, and to the best movie version of that book, done as two films: The Three Musketeers The Three Musketeers and and The Four Musketeers The Four Musketeers, directed by Richard Lester, from scripts by George McDonald Fraser (whose own novels are also excellent).

Because much of my work is serious and can be quite grim, people are sometimes surprised that I also write humourous stories and that I like to make people laugh when I talk to audiences. I also try to have moments of humour and lightness even in my grimmest novels, because life has moments of laughter and comedy even amid darkness and despair. Similarly, when writing humourous stuff, I approach it seriously and try to mix in enough solid, 'real' stuff to underlie the comic material.

'Down to the Sc.u.m Quarter' I wrote purely for myself, and then I looked around to see if I could find somewhere to publish it. It may be sad to admit it, but even seventeen years later a lot of it still makes me laugh. Possibly because the whole concept of the paragraph adventure game lends itself to parody.

And speaking of such, I should alert interested readers to the fact that there are three or four paragraphs in 'Down to the Sc.u.m Quarter' that you will never be directed to by other paragraphs. Paragraphs 96 and 97 are two examples. When I wrote those two, I thought there was a story waiting to be written from them, and even now I suspect there still is.

But enough of this rambling. Lady Oiseaux has been kidnaped and the night is yet young. Strap on your rapier, slap on your plumed hat, and sally forth!

DOWN TO THE Sc.u.m QUARTER.

A FARCICAL FANTASY SOLO ADVENTURE.

How to Play 1. Decide whether you're going to cheat or not. Most people cheat in solo adventures, even if they don't admit it. If you're not going to cheat, get a six-sided die.

2. Go down to the local costume rental shop and get a Three Musketeers outfit. This is called 'getting into character'.

3. If you're old enough, stop by the liquor store on the way back and pick up a few bottles of cheap red wine.

4. Rent a video of The Three Musketeers The Three Musketeers. Start watching it, and practice knocking the tops off the wine bottles with your plastic rapier. This is called 'getting the atmosphere'.

5. Give up after you break the rapier, and open a bottle with a corkscrew. Drink all of it.

6. Read 'The Prelude'.

7. Select five items from the list of equipment (unless cheating, in which case you presume you always have exactly what you need).

8. Go to 'The Adventure Begins!'

9. Carefully evaluate the situation, choose a course of action, and go to the paragraph indicated, rolling a die when necessary.

The Simple Method: Get a 6-sided die, and ignore steps 25.

THE PRELUDE.

Your beautiful mistress, the Lady Oiseaux, has been kidnaped. There is only one slim clue that may lead you to her-a brief message, scrawled in pale-gold eye paint across the side of her hijacked palanquin: Oh! This is awful! I am being kidnaped! They are taking me to sell to a desert chieftain at an auction, which I think is going to take place at midnight somewhere near the river, and I'll miss the party tonight. And I was going to wear my new dress with the ruby chips sewn on cloth of gold, and the peac.o.c.k feather fan from . . .

Those few words, and the 'For Sale' brochure you hold in your kid-gloved hand, lead you to suspect that Lady Oiseaux is being held at the infamous Quay of Scented Rats-a floating bordello now stuck in the mudflats of the River Sleine.

Pausing only to slip your trusty rapier into its scabbard, you draw your cloak around you and erupt out into the shadows of the night- toward the Sleine-and the vicious, nasty, disgusting . . . (roll of drums) . . . Sc.u.m Quarter of the Old City!

You walk a few yards with considerable bravado and then whip back to your townhouse. Only a complete fool would go down to the vicious, nasty, disgusting Sc.u.m Quarter without pistols and a dagger or two. Maybe you should call in on the lads at the Fencing Academy . . . but there's no time. Select five items from the following list before once again slinking out into the shadows of the night . . .

EQUIPMENT.

Dagger Pistol (with powder & b.a.l.l.s for five shots) Bag of 20 gold bezants Portrait of Lady Oiseaux (3'6'' square) Scented handkerchief Halberd 20' rope Repeater watch Bottle El Superbeau Cognac 2 pairs silk stockings A glove puppet of Cyrano de Bergerac Small plaster saint Bottle Opossum perfume Five-p.r.o.nged fish spear THE ADVENTURE BEGINS!.

1 Moving from shadow to shadow down the wide Boulevard of the Muses, you feel very much like the intrepid adventurer hurrying to rescue his beloved lady. You are so caught up in this delightful little daydream that you don't notice the six Watchmen following your erratic shadow-to-shadow progression down the street till you go one shadow too many and find yourself caught in the glare of their lanterns. Moving from shadow to shadow down the wide Boulevard of the Muses, you feel very much like the intrepid adventurer hurrying to rescue his beloved lady. You are so caught up in this delightful little daydream that you don't notice the six Watchmen following your erratic shadow-to-shadow progression down the street till you go one shadow too many and find yourself caught in the glare of their lanterns.

If you are carrying a halberd or five-p.r.o.nged fish spear, Go to 50 If you aren't carrying either of these, Go to 30 2 Who do you think you are-the unnatural offspring of the Three Musketeers and Michael York? Roll one die. Who do you think you are-the unnatural offspring of the Three Musketeers and Michael York? Roll one die.

13 At least you feinted toward somebody's left eye. Pity it was your own. Then you stuck your rapier in your left foot . . . The bravo takes pity on you and lets you limp away. Minus one on all future combat rolls due to both stupidity and injury. Go to 52 4 Both of you fence away quite competently, crying 'Caramba!' and 'Take that! And that! And this little one! And that.' Eventually you become so tired, you lean on your swords and just whisper: 'Aha-foul blaggard!' etc. The bravo gets bored of this first, and leaves. You rest briefly, then continue on your way. Go to 52 56 Your fencing master would be proud- there's always a first time. You feint, parry, and riposte as if you knew Errol Flynn intimately when you were a young boy-and tried to keep him at a distance. The bravo is struck several times and retires bleeding to the nearest laundress. You continue on your way. Go to 52 3 Descending to the next floor, you find yourself in a barbershop, the walls lined with mirrors. There are four doors, sixteen reflections, and a trapdoor. Descending to the next floor, you find yourself in a barbershop, the walls lined with mirrors. There are four doors, sixteen reflections, and a trapdoor.

Do you go through the door marked with a tiger? Go to 85 Or the door marked with a lady? Go to 39 Or through the door marked with both a lady and a tiger? Go to 34 Or the one with two ladies and a tiger? Go to 92 Or through the trapdoor, which is marked with a lamb chop? Go to 58 4 It's not very nice up the Emperor August's nostril. Four or five hundred bats seem to have used it as a toilet for about a century. You wait inside for several minutes, then emerge as a grotesque mound of bat guano. The balloon is still there, but whoever is in it doesn't recognise you. Add one to all future combat rolls due to your repellent exterior. You head south. Go to 54 It's not very nice up the Emperor August's nostril. Four or five hundred bats seem to have used it as a toilet for about a century. You wait inside for several minutes, then emerge as a grotesque mound of bat guano. The balloon is still there, but whoever is in it doesn't recognise you. Add one to all future combat rolls due to your repellent exterior. You head south. Go to 54 5 You smile sickeningly and cross over to the tiger, mumbling 'nice pussums . . . good kit-e-kat . . .' You reach down to scratch its stomach, and it grabs you with both paws and bites your head off. As your soul becomes a delicate b.u.t.terfly and floats off to the transit lounge, you feel that this would never have happened if you had read You smile sickeningly and cross over to the tiger, mumbling 'nice pussums . . . good kit-e-kat . . .' You reach down to scratch its stomach, and it grabs you with both paws and bites your head off. As your soul becomes a delicate b.u.t.terfly and floats off to the transit lounge, you feel that this would never have happened if you had read The Jungle Book The Jungle Book as a child. The End. as a child. The End.

6 The Western Wall Originally built to hold out the barbarians, the Western Wall fell into disrepair when the barbarians became civilised and bought the city in an underhanded realestate deal. Now only a crumbling ruin inhabited by thieves, cutthroats, and defrocked clergymen, the wall is rarely visited by anyone else. The Western Wall Originally built to hold out the barbarians, the Western Wall fell into disrepair when the barbarians became civilised and bought the city in an underhanded realestate deal. Now only a crumbling ruin inhabited by thieves, cutthroats, and defrocked clergymen, the wall is rarely visited by anyone else.

You remember this as a defrocked clergyman bears down on you, swinging his incense pot with deadly intent.

Do you get out your five-p.r.o.nged fish spear, leer evilly, and say: 'How many p.r.o.ngs do you want, and where do you want them?' Go to 77 Run back to the Arc de Trihump? Go to 99 7 You stand in the line before the main entrance to the Quay of Scented Rats-a vast, overdecorated house-boat that is now firmly embedded in the mudflats of the Sleine. At the front of the line two burly men (who look suspiciously like beavers) demand the five-bezant entry fee. You stand in the line before the main entrance to the Quay of Scented Rats-a vast, overdecorated house-boat that is now firmly embedded in the mudflats of the Sleine. At the front of the line two burly men (who look suspiciously like beavers) demand the five-bezant entry fee.

Do you pay them? Go to 55 Say, 'Back off, bucktooth. I'm with Sc.u.m Quarter Vice'? Go to 36 Offer them the bottle of El Superbeau cognac? Go to 17 8 Hanging by one hand, you tie the rope to the sail and climb down to the next one. From this one you climb through a window to the inside of the mill. Go to 35 Hanging by one hand, you tie the rope to the sail and climb down to the next one. From this one you climb through a window to the inside of the mill. Go to 35 9 You wrench the door open and leap through it. But will you evade the tiger? Roll one die. You wrench the door open and leap through it. But will you evade the tiger? Roll one die.

13 d.a.m.n! The doork.n.o.b would be stiff . . . You half turn to meet your doom like a brave warrior, but the tiger smashes you to the floor, and you let out a pitiful little shriek instead. Fortunately, this is the exact cry of an orphan tiger cub! The tiger stands back, bemused, while you crawl across the room and out through the exit. Go to 79 46 The door slams shut just as the tiger slams against the other side. You lean against it, sweating in fear. Go to 79 10 You wrench open the bottle of Opossum perfume and scatter a few drops toward the awful hag. A beautiful aroma fills the room, and she steps back, spitting and cursing. 'Back, foul fiend!' you cry, throwing a few more drops, which burn through her outstretched arm like acid-so you throw the whole bottle and bolt for the exit. You don't look back. Go to 79 You wrench open the bottle of Opossum perfume and scatter a few drops toward the awful hag. A beautiful aroma fills the room, and she steps back, spitting and cursing. 'Back, foul fiend!' you cry, throwing a few more drops, which burn through her outstretched arm like acid-so you throw the whole bottle and bolt for the exit. You don't look back. Go to 79 11 Just as you are about to fleche across the room and drive your rapier through the poor unsuspecting woman's heart, a great gong rings . . . and time stops. As the echoes of the gong die away, a disembodied voice fills the room with the weary p.r.o.nouncement, 'The Age of Chivalry Is Now Officially Dead'. Time suddenly resumes, but your heart isn't in the wild attack, so you merely lunge at the tiger. It backs off snarling; you circle around to the other door and duck through it. As you leave, the woman throws the voodoo doll at your head. Subtract one from all future combat rolls due to wax burns on your face. Go to 79 12 F Just as you are about to fleche across the room and drive your rapier through the poor unsuspecting woman's heart, a great gong rings . . . and time stops. As the echoes of the gong die away, a disembodied voice fills the room with the weary p.r.o.nouncement, 'The Age of Chivalry Is Now Officially Dead'. Time suddenly resumes, but your heart isn't in the wild attack, so you merely lunge at the tiger. It backs off snarling; you circle around to the other door and duck through it. As you leave, the woman throws the voodoo doll at your head. Subtract one from all future combat rolls due to wax burns on your face. Go to 79 12 F 12 FISHGUT ALLEY FISHGUT ALLEY.

And you thought the Street of Fishmongers smelt bad. Obviously this is where all the fish guts end up after the beggars have tried to eat them-for the second time. At the other end of the alley, a hulking giant of a man is standing, a spiked club in his hand.

Do you approach him for directions to the Sleine? Go to 57 Or return to the Street of Fishmongers? Go to 41 13 As your hand touches the hilt of your rapier, you start, and the eyes in your head bulge dramatically. The hag is wearing the Black Ap.r.o.n of a Master of Cleaver-Fu-a deadly martial art you cannot possibly cope with! Go to 62 As your hand touches the hilt of your rapier, you start, and the eyes in your head bulge dramatically. The hag is wearing the Black Ap.r.o.n of a Master of Cleaver-Fu-a deadly martial art you cannot possibly cope with! Go to 62 14 There really is nothing like just messing about in boats. Pitting one's strength against the vicious tidal bores that sweep up the river, or the onrush of sewage from the city that sweeps down. But lo! There on the port bow you see a heavily decorated houseboat, firmly embedded in the mudflats. The heavy use of purple fur around the windows (and fake gold trim on the gutters) convinces you this must be the infamous Quay of Scented Rats. There really is nothing like just messing about in boats. Pitting one's strength against the vicious tidal bores that sweep up the river, or the onrush of sewage from the city that sweeps down. But lo! There on the port bow you see a heavily decorated houseboat, firmly embedded in the mudflats. The heavy use of purple fur around the windows (and fake gold trim on the gutters) convinces you this must be the infamous Quay of Scented Rats.

Do you heroically leap from your boat as you pa.s.s the Quay of Scented Rats, do a triple somersault in the air, and land upon its sleazy deck with an air of casual arrogance? Go to 64 Or cautiously pole up to one end, tie up your boat, and sneak aboard like a rat? Go to 26 15 You emerge into a long corridor lined with various prints of the activities of the Quay of Scented Rats. To your right there is a door marked 'Auction Goods.' To your left there is a door marked 'Not the Auction Goods.' You emerge into a long corridor lined with various prints of the activities of the Quay of Scented Rats. To your right there is a door marked 'Auction Goods.' To your left there is a door marked 'Not the Auction Goods.'

Do you go left? Go to 80 Or right? Go to 23 16 THE RIVER SLEINE THE RIVER SLEINE.

You sneak past the hustlers of the Southgate and out through a postern. Before you lie the winding, deep-blue waters of the River Sleine, alive with wildfowl amid the teeming rushes . . . Then your eyes clear and you realise you are looking at a picture tacked to the postern door. You open it, and there before you lies the turgid, coal-black watercourse that makes slimy pollution look good-the true River Sleine. Steps lead down toward the river, and you think you can see a boat tied up at the bottom.

Do you go down? Go to 27 Or turn back, you coward, only to be killed by a lightning-struck albatross falling out of the sky? (This is called a premonition.) Go to 45 17 'Before we descend to cra.s.s commercial tranactions,' you say suavely, 'you may care to have a drop of . . . El Superbeau cognac.' You hold the bottle in front of them as they drool and reach out with grasping fingers- then fling it into the Sleine! The two guards hurl themselves into the slime, desperate to reach it before it gurgles away into the murky depths. Seconds later, you are flattened as a horde of eager customers storms across the bridge. You get up wearily and hobble after them. Go to 61 'Before we descend to cra.s.s commercial tranactions,' you say suavely, 'you may care to have a drop of . . . El Superbeau cognac.' You hold the bottle in front of them as they drool and reach out with grasping fingers- then fling it into the Sleine! The two guards hurl themselves into the slime, desperate to reach it before it gurgles away into the murky depths. Seconds later, you are flattened as a horde of eager customers storms across the bridge. You get up wearily and hobble after them. Go to 61 18 The merchant reels back, a garfish sticking out of his left ear. Bleating with fear, he crashes into another merchant's stall. Within seconds, the Place of Plaice becomes a whirling ma.s.s of rioting merchants, customers, and airborne tubs of fish. You have to get out! You run toward the Arc de Trihump. Go to 99 The merchant reels back, a garfish sticking out of his left ear. Bleating with fear, he crashes into another merchant's stall. Within seconds, the Place of Plaice becomes a whirling ma.s.s of rioting merchants, customers, and airborne tubs of fish. You have to get out! You run toward the Arc de Trihump. Go to 99 19 R O L L O N E D I E . R O L L O N E D I E .

13 The man in black is entranced. Your fingers manipulate Cyrano's arms brilliantly, and his rapier flickers back and forth, gleaming in the light from the two-hundred-watt chandelier above. Z draws closer and closer . . . then you strike. The puppet's sword shears off half of Z's mustache! Shrieking, he bursts past you, smashes through the door, and runs away. Go to 100 46 You are a little nervous, and Cyrano moves jerkily, producing a very second-rate display of swordsmans.h.i.+p. Z watches for a while, then exclaims: 'Non! Non! Ziss iz not ze way ze Thibault iz exerzized! Give eet to me!' You hand over the puppet. Soon Z is totally occupied, putting Cyrano through the seventy-seven Lunges of Senor Ricardo. You slink past. Go to 100 20 'Twenty!' you exclaim, exhibiting profound knowledge of history that hasn't happened yet, the current year being a sort of alternate 1624. Still, 'What's an anachronism between friends?' you mutter to yourself. Z takes this as a riddle and begins to knead his forehead in deep thought. Six hours later, still unable to answer your question, he overexerts his brain and faints away. You step over his unconscious form and go through the door. Go to 100 'Twenty!' you exclaim, exhibiting profound knowledge of history that hasn't happened yet, the current year being a sort of alternate 1624. Still, 'What's an anachronism between friends?' you mutter to yourself. Z takes this as a riddle and begins to knead his forehead in deep thought. Six hours later, still unable to answer your question, he overexerts his brain and faints away. You step over his unconscious form and go through the door. Go to 100 21 AVENUE OF CHAMPIGNONS AVENUE OF CHAMPIGNONS.

A broad and leafy avenue, much frequented by bands of rioters from the Green and Blue factions of the donkey-cart races. Many bravos stalk the avenue, seeking opponents from rival factions.

Are you wearing a blue one-piece body stocking? Go to 33 Are you wearing something else? Go to 33 anyway 22 You stand there, gaping. The shadow of the balloon looms closer and closer, and the stench of manure is overpowering. A man in a pin-striped suit looks out at you and says, 'Nah-he hasn't got what it takes,' and the balloon flies on. Sometimes it pays to be a ninny. Go to 54 You stand there, gaping. The shadow of the balloon looms closer and closer, and the stench of manure is overpowering. A man in a pin-striped suit looks out at you and says, 'Nah-he hasn't got what it takes,' and the balloon flies on. Sometimes it pays to be a ninny. Go to 54 23 You open the door marked 'Auction Goods' only to be confronted by the giggling eunuch you may have been unlucky enough to see earlier. The thin, sickly man accompanying him carries a gladstone bag in one hand and a gleaming scalpel in the other. The eunuch t.i.tters, 'That's him, Doc!' and leaps forward to pinion you in his blubbery arms. You open the door marked 'Auction Goods' only to be confronted by the giggling eunuch you may have been unlucky enough to see earlier. The thin, sickly man accompanying him carries a gladstone bag in one hand and a gleaming scalpel in the other. The eunuch t.i.tters, 'That's him, Doc!' and leaps forward to pinion you in his blubbery arms.

Do you trip the eunuch, use him as a springboard, hurtle through the air, head b.u.t.t the doctor, somersault, and land on your feet whistling 'Dixie'? Go to 68 Or pirouette gracefully and bolt back through the door? Go to 47 24 Your rapier is barely out of its scabbard before the black-clad man has reduced your clothing to tatters. Little 'z's have been cut in every available piece of cloth and leather. Your trousers fall down. Your rapier is barely out of its scabbard before the black-clad man has reduced your clothing to tatters. Little 'z's have been cut in every available piece of cloth and leather. Your trousers fall down.

Do you attempt to continue this rather farcical duel? Go to 73 Or say, 'Sorry-wrong door,' and back out, holding up your trousers with both hands, rapier clutched between your teeth? Go to 94 25 'You sure it's only a five-p.r.o.nged fish spear?' asks the Sergeant. 'Because a six-p.r.o.nged fish spear is a different kettle of . . .' 'You sure it's only a five-p.r.o.nged fish spear?' asks the Sergeant. 'Because a six-p.r.o.nged fish spear is a different kettle of . . .'

'Halberds?' you suggest.

'Right. That's a different kettle of halberds. Now, be on your way.'

You leave the Sergeant and his men discussing what a kettle of halberds would actually look like, and proceed to the Street of Fishmongers. Go to 41 26 You pole to the southern end of the gaudy monstrosity and carefully tie up your boat. Several guards look over the railing at you, but you remember your Mandrake lessons well. A few hypnotic pa.s.ses convince them you are a harmless moron who thinks he's a rat. Squeaking feverishly, you swarm up the bowline and onto the deck-then it is but the work of moments to chew a gaping hole in a nearby door. Go to 44 You pole to the southern end of the gaudy monstrosity and carefully tie up your boat. Several guards look over the railing at you, but you remember your Mandrake lessons well. A few hypnotic pa.s.ses convince them you are a harmless moron who thinks he's a rat. Squeaking feverishly, you swarm up the bowline and onto the deck-then it is but the work of moments to chew a gaping hole in a nearby door. Go to 44 27 You leap into the boat just like Captain Silver used to-but he only had one leg, so it was excusable. Eventually you get upright again, s.h.i.+p the oars, hoist the topgallants, splice the mainbrace, cast off, and purl three. That all taken care of, you push off with a piece of old stick and head downstream. Far off, you can see pink lights on the water and smell cheap scent. There lies the infamous Quay of Scented Rats. You pole on. Go to 14 You leap into the boat just like Captain Silver used to-but he only had one leg, so it was excusable. Eventually you get upright again, s.h.i.+p the oars, hoist the topgallants, splice the mainbrace, cast off, and purl three. That all taken care of, you push off with a piece of old stick and head downstream. Far off, you can see pink lights on the water and smell cheap scent. There lies the infamous Quay of Scented Rats. You pole on. Go to 14 28 ROLL ONE DIE . ROLL ONE DIE .

12 As you poke out your tongue, you slip on some slimy fish and bite the end off this valuable appendage. The pain is intense! You drop your rapier and stagger about howling. The hulking giant runs away in terror. Go to 95 34 To cut a long story short, the hulking giant gets in a few good blows and gives you a black eye before you see him off with some little cuts to the face. Subtract one from all future combat rolls due to partial blindness. Go to 95 56 The tongue goes out . . . the rapier goes in. The hulking man is surprised. So are you-you nervously let go of your rapier. The giant staggers off with it still in his chest. You chase after him, and pull it out when he falls over and expires. A quick search gains you a silver Bixby-a pair of long-handled biscuit tongs. Go to 95 29 The tigers settle back down as you sit, and the two women explain that they're playing a local variation of poker, where a red two is called the tiger and can be used as any other card. There are a number of other special rules, but you're sure you can get the hang of it. Roll one die. The tigers settle back down as you sit, and the two women explain that they're playing a local variation of poker, where a red two is called the tiger and can be used as any other card. There are a number of other special rules, but you're sure you can get the hang of it. Roll one die.