Lost Soul

1. Eyes on the wall

The first thing the Inquisitive Musician did was going to the address where he had last written to his brother and from where he had received the last reply. There was a small bookstore where, in the dimly lit shop, two men in university robes eyed him fearfully. After navigating the maze of bookcases, the Inquisitive Musician found the owner, a graceless, plump man with a sad stare and a certain slowness in his movements.

"I am told that you rent out rooms," the Inquisitive Musician smiled broadly. The bookshop owner looked at the guest with a wistful look in his eyes and nodded slowly.

"Of course," he spoke slowly as well. The rooms have been vacant for some time now. Would a guest like to have a look?

As they made their way up the winding, dusty staircase lit by the only dimly flickering lamp, the Inquisitive Musician cautiously inquired of the landlord about the previous residents. But no, it was not his brother. The landlord did not recall anyone like the brother, but he did not deny that there might have been such a young man among the residents - his rooms were very popular and never unoccupied, he claimed.

The rooms included a bedroom and a modestly furnished living room. The walls were decorated with tasteless still life paintings and pastoral landscapes from the surface times. The Inquisitive Musician had agreed to take the rooms almost immediately upon brief examination. He expected to find something without being looked at. The landlord was rather indifferent to the money, but before he left he grabbed Musician's hand and whispered confidentially that he would be incredibly pleased if the Musician would tell him any news of what was happening in London. The Musician assured him with all the enthusiasm he could muster that he would be down for tea as soon as he had any news.

The Musician slightly adjusted his neck scarf before entering the Singing Mandrake, London's bohemian meeting place. At least that's what they said. The Musician looked around the motley crowd with a sharp eye, searching for someone normal, lonely enough and not drunk enough to be able to talk. The Struggling Artist, a young blond fellow with a carelessly tousled moustache, a little younger than the Musician himself, was ready to tell the new gentleman all about London for the price of the dinner. The underground mushroom wine was cheap and trashy, but the Musician did not yet know enough about the local delicacies to know what to choose. He smiled beamingly as he listened attentively to the Artist's careless chatter.

No music near the Palace. Yes, the Traitor Empress lived there with her family in perfect health. No, they rarely showed themselves in public after the Fall, but it was said that rumours of the The Traitor Empress' Consort's illness were exaggerated.

"The Traitor Empress?" The Musician glanced around the room.

"Yes, the Traitor Empress," the Artist did not try to lower his voice or otherwise conceal his words from public attention, but no one was paying any attention anyway. "She is the reason we are here, she sold London to save the Consort's life."

"To whom?" but the Artist only shrugged his shoulders and changed the topic of conversation. Never argue with cats, or the Duchess wouldn't give you an audience. Not that she was interested in the poor art subjects, but it wasn't worth arguing with cats anyway. They were vindictive.

"And devils? Are they real?"

Of course, there was a straight road to Hell in London - near Moloch Street. There's a lot of them, and if you don't watch out, you'll lose your soul. Lady J.'s salon ended with a huge scandal. Several people left for the Tomb Colonies straight from the mansion.

"Where to?"

The Colony to the north of London, in the Unterzee, where they're exiled for scandalous behaviour. A very dull place, the Struggling Artist grinned sadly as he remembered the times he'd been there.