The Alchemists Of Vra

By "Thomas" "Corfield"

In which the world’s governments are threatened by a fanatical cat with a disturbing cushion obsession.

When Oscar Teabag-Dooven stumbles across an arrogant bard named the Dodosette and the beautiful cat Vaasi-Vee, he unearths a plot to plunge the world into darkness. After some begging, lots of snow and an industrial vat of soup, the three animals argue all the way to the infamous land of Vra to do something about it. They did not, however, anticipate having to fight invisible Rottweilers, smash kitchens to pieces, lick frozen cars or fund taxi drivers’ sisters' eye operations. But for Oscar Teabag-Dooven, such things are n’t unusual. Except, perhaps, the bit about licking cars.

“Corfield keeps you guessing until the end, and then for some time afterwards.” - Nathan Fueruer, Uninsurable.

“These books are like a bad meal: in poor taste and unfinished.” - Oleg Vanastanovitski, Russian Mafia Hitman (unconvicted).

• Language: English
• Publisher: "Thomas" "Corfield"
• Release date: Jan 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310818561

"Thomas" "Corfield"

Thomas Corfield was born in London several years ago, definitely before last Thursday. This was a good year for all concerned, and for him in particular, because without it, later years would mean little. He owes a lot to that first year, and now lives because of it in undisclosed locations after having successfully absconded from probation. Although he finds making friends difficult, this is only because no one likes him. Including his mother, who didn’t bother giving him a name until he was nine. His solicitor describes him as having an allergy to apostrophes and an aversion to punctuation that borders on pathological. This makes the popularity of his books all the more remarkable. At least it would if there was any. But there isn't. So it doesn't. He was recently interviewed in Joomag's Meals of Food magazine, which didn't help anyone.

Book preview

THE VELVET PAW OF ASQUITH NOVELS

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THE ALCHEMISTS OF VRA

THOMAS CORFIELD

Panda

Panda Books Australia

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

—Sampson Braithwaithe.

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

—Heidi Maitland, Hard but Fair.

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

—Cavan Daahl, Royal Academy of Things in General.

VELVETPAWOFASQUITH.COM

Licence Notes

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Written in Australian English.

Thank you for purchasing this ebook. If you didn’t, and it’s pirated, then a pox upon you. I don’t do this for fun, you know. This is work. And it’s quite hard too. Especially some of the spelling. This book must not be reproduced, copied or distributed, nor can it be printed out to write shopping lists on. If you enjoyed this book, please return to ThomasCorfield.com to discover further books. If you didn’t enjoy it, then I suggest you re-read it and pay closer attention.

Consider visiting velvetpawofasquith.com for music, dancing and much merriment.

Copyright Thomas Corfield.

Contents

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Title Page

Licence

Excerpt

Important Note

Pre-order the fourth book

Cinematic Audiobooks

Opening Chapter

From the Next Book

About the Publisher

About the Author

Other Titles

Don’t miss out!

Excerpt

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AFTER some more deliberation and looking, she said, Look, can I just ask again—for the sake of clarity—that the name Dooven is not spelt with a G?

He sighed. Look. My name is Dooven. Oscar Teabag-Dooven. He spelt it out for her.

So there’s really no G in there at all, she said.

Not unless your spelling is atrocious.

Is your spelling atrocious?

What?

Is your spelling atrocious? she asked. If it is, then it explains why it might be spelt with a G.

No. My spelling is excellent. Especially considering it’s my name.

She frowned and thought again. Are you certain it’s your name?

His stare solidified. You can’t be serious.

I’m just trying to ascertain what reasons might lie behind Dooven not being spelt with a G.

Oscar put his little suitcase down and placed both paws carefully upon the desk. There’s only one reason Dooven is not spelt with a G, he said, and that’s because it isn’t.

How old were you when you learnt to spell your name?

I can’t remember.

Well, can you perhaps try? Otherwise this could go on all night.

I think it already has.

Some animals arrived at the desk nearby and checked in with no trouble at all.

Listen, he said, leaning closer. It really isn’t complicated. I’m sure my office has booked a room in the name of Dooven. After all, they arrange a taxi to pick me up from the station to bring me here.

Ah, but a taxi doesn’t have a desk.

No, but it does have wheels.

Are they spelt with a G?

When he tried pulling his ears, but missed, he had an idea.

G? he said, in feigned realisation. Yes, of course. G. Sorry, I thought you said M.

So Dooven is spelt with a G?

He nodded and tutted at his ineptitude, before pointing at the top of his head, I don’t hear very well, you see.

So, Dooven with a G then?

What? he said, to prove the fact.

From Chapter 6

Important Note

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The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels are international jet-setting adventures with large casts of characters. As examples of New Fable genre fiction, they do not have individual protagonists and antagonists, but instead have character couples known as protagona and antagona.

These character couples afford greater immersion into the books’ expansive cinematic atmosphere through carefully constructed shifts in character point-of-view. It is hoped that this cultivates greater vibrancy and depth to the books’ cinematic ludicrousness.

Pre-order the fourth book!

____________________

More cats and dogs and high adventure and romance and espionage and food fights and hotels and explosions and car chases!

The first in the Morigan Trilogy.

Available December 13, 2018.

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Cinematic Audiobooks

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The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels are available as award-winning audiobooks, with lush orchestrations and immersive cinematics. Find them at all good online retailers, and some less reputable ones.

Dedication

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For

Oliver and Jeremy, Tabitha and Natalie

1

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"We live through song of heart. Not calculation of head.

We remain equal with the Earth, with no desire to rise above it.

In our world, imagination is wholly rejected.

Far from the manner in which it has been embraced in yours."

– The Clandestine Alchemists.

THE city was dark and dangerous. Even its shadows had a reputation for violence. This night, a little dog scurried through its laneways, hoping he wouldn’t contribute to it statistically.

The place appeared desolate.

Abandoned.

But it was not.

The little dog knew that nasty things lurked nearby.

He stopped and fell against a wall, forcing breath still to listen for those in pursuit.

Silence.

Swallowing, he stumbled on through streets he knew little of, other than by reputation. Having been on the run for three nights, he had no choice but continue. There would be no reprieve in surrender, for those in pursuit knew the word, but spat at its definition.

Ahead, lanterns suggested others remained awake. But even amidst others he’d find no reprieve from the animals in his wake.

For one cannot hide from those already hidden.

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

He threw himself across the street and peered through the restaurant’s window. The scene was convivial. Animals sat at tables munching, while others waited. Several milled among them bringing dishes to some and taking orders from others. Waiters with empty plates disappeared through a doorway, before re-emerging with full ones. Steam billowed in their wake, along with shouts, clangs and thumps from the kitchen beyond.

At one particular table, a dog waited.

Though not in a patient manner.

Initially, he had been, until a meal of food was brought that wasn’t what he’d ordered. It was a mistake, he was certain, that arose because of all the milling going on. Having advised a waiter of this, he’d been relieved of said meal, but hadn’t yet received another in return. With paws folded, he scowled at waiters.

They ignored him.

It was policy to ignore disgruntled patrons, because when they lost their tempers, they could be thrown into the street as a succinct end to the matter. This was a popular means of managing disgruntled patrons in Talsik-Kerr, because there are so many of them. Indeed, the city is so rough that is hadn’t so much earned its reputation, as stolen it from elsewhere.

The dog’s temper was on the boil.

Where’s my chicken? he growled at a milling waiter.

I’m sorry? the waiter replied, in a graceful twirl of attention.

My chicken. I ordered chicken and some muppet got the order wrong and brought me fish instead.

From behind teetering crockery, the waiter looked at the dog’s empty table. I can’t see any fish.

It’s gone now. One of you muppets removed it.

Well, if you didn’t want it and it’s now gone, I fail to see the problem.

The problem is that I want my chicken.

The fish is very good.

I don’t want fish.

But you don’t have any.

What is wrong with you?

Me? the waiter exclaimed, as his colleagues stopped milling, all eager to end the matter succinctly. You’re the one making a fuss about nothing!

Nothing?

Yes. Nothing. It stabbed a free paw at the empty table.

The dog took a deep breath. May I, he said, deciding to start again. May I please have a serving of chicken? He smiled through bared teeth.

You may. I shall just distribute these meals of food, and then return to take your order.

But I just gave you my order.

Indeed, but the kitchen is busy and steamy, and so am I. So it is, I am sure you’ll agree, best to write these things down.

Write these things down, the dog repeated.

Indeed. To avoid confusion.

Confusion. What, like messing up orders?

A patronising nod. Exactly.

It didn’t help last time though, did it?

You must have said fish.

I did not order fish.

No, but you must have said it.

I did not say fish, all right? Why would I say fish? I hate fish. My mother choked to death on a fish. And what’s more, I am allergic to fish.

Well, you must have.

I. Did. Not.

The waiter turned to his colleagues. Who took this dog’s order please?

There was a pause, before a paw rose.

Do you have the order slip?

There was some fiddling, a bit of tearing and a small piece of paper made its way forward. Despite teetering crockery, the waiter read it, and then held it out for the dog to see. It says here: table eight: fish.

The dog stared at it, knowing he hadn’t ordered fish. I did not order fluffing fish!

Before the waiter could punch him in the face, the animal responsible for taking it piped up. It is true. He did actually order chicken.

The waiter turned. You are not helping.

But it is true. He did actually order chicken.

The why did you write fish?

There was an awkward pause. I can’t spell chicken.

On the pavement outside, the little dog gasped at noises from somewhere behind. He slunk to the ground, peering at shadows, convinced he was about to be pounced upon and torn into long, thin pieces. He scrabbled at the restaurant’s door and stumbled inside.

Having not been in a restaurant before, he stood trembling and waited for something bad to happen. He was ignored, however, as attentions remained on the unfolding cabaret. With a lunge, he hid behind a pot plant.

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

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

None of you? the dog asked, flabbergasted. He turned to some patrons, who shrugged in admitting that it was rather absurd. I demand—demand, do you hear—to see the manager! Furious, he stood, and his chair skittled across the floor.

A chef burst from the steaming kitchen, demanding to know what all the fuss was about. What in fluff is all this fuss about?

Smaller chefs steamed after him, their irritation no less apparent.

I am the manager! he steamed. And I cannot hear myself yell in there, for all the yelling out here!

The furious dog strode toward him, pushing past those still patting themselves down. Oh, so you’re the manager, are you? You’re the creature responsible for this maelstrom of muppets passing themselves off as staff then?

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

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

Then you should come here more often.

I am warning you—

That won’t be necessary.

What?

It is not necessary. I’ve had my tablets, thank you very much indeed.

You’ve had your what?

My tablets. I’ve already been wormed. We all have. Do you think we could work in this place with itchy bottoms? It’s hard enough holding teetering crockery as it is.

The dog stared until realisation dawned. Not wormed, you stupid muppet! I said warned! I am warning you!

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

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

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

I just want some fluffing chicken!

One of the little chefs hurried back from the kitchen and tugged at his boss’ sleeve. The chef bent down and listened.

Nodding, he straightened up. Right. Well. Apparently we no longer have any chicken, he said. Would you like some fish?

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

Finding opportunity, the little dog darted through the chaos, shovelling bits of chicken and fish into his mouth, before skittling into a wall. He turned to see if he'd been noticed. He hadn’t. With mouth bulging and tummy grateful, he dared hope flee was possible after all. If he remained moving, kept his wits about him and didn’t lose his leather pouch, he might just save the world.

On the pavement outside, the dog stood and brushed himself down. When he lurched sideways as though pushed, the little dog froze, mid-swallow. What was left of the door shifted as though kicked, before tables and patrons were thrown across the restaurant by invisible paws. With a cry of despair, the little dog scrambled into the kitchen. Battling trolleys and pots, he scurried through smoke, over saucepans and around a sink until coming to another door. His paws found a handle, which he fumbled with until the thing opened. He burst from the restaurant’s rear and tumbled into garbage bags. Fighting them with flailing paws, he scrambled free and stumbled into a laneway. Racked with sobs and blurred with tears, he hurried on, desperate to reach lands further north. After fleeing around a corner, he collapsed against a wall and stared around wildly, no longer knowing which direction north was.

2

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TO ensure he looked the part, Sinson-Rascalian had ordered some special clothes made of Taper Silk. It was fitting, he’d told his minions, that he looked the part because he was the part. Those loyal didn’t dispute this. He’d shown them wonderous lands beyond the green sea, which proved he knew how the outside world worked, while they understood none of it.

In a dank and humid cave, Sinson-Rascalian tried on his new apparel. Extending his paws, he asked those loyal to describe what they saw. His minions said nothing, however, not understanding the question. He sighed at their stupidity. It wasn’t their fault, being more a result of circumstance.

Well? he asked, wishing he had a full length dress mirror so he didn’t have to. Speak then! How do I look?

Two Dark Alchemists glanced at each other.

He glared at them. I asked you a question, and I shall have an answer: how do I look?

Well, we’re not entirely sure of what you speak, Sinson, one tried. For you look as you always do; a cat of some persuasion.

He humphed. Having grown up in a reclusive monastery, the animals’ inability to understand anything meant such comment was as close to a compliment as he could hope to get.

He posed and imagined the effect.

Knowing he looked wonderful was one thing, but having no one realise was another.

He twirled a paw within silk until a claw caught and tore the fabric. He swore and ordered a Dark Alchemist to fetch some thread so he could mend it before the seam unravelled further. The animal hurried away, grateful to serve a purpose.

The cave was deep, dark and smelt like egg. Hidden within the bowels of monastery, few were aware of it, other than the forgers of amberstone, who ignored the antics of Sinson-Rascalian and other apprentices who pranced around the place, not least because it smelt like egg. When the fumes were particularly bad, Sinson-Rascalian would ensure water in a dish remained within reach, which he’d sprinkle in his eyes when they burnt too much.

Smell or not, this was his domain.

His den.

This was his lair.

In the Monastery above, three hundred Clandestine Alchemists roamed, all of them oblivious to his secret order of Dark Alchemists beneath.

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

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

Again, those loyal were confused. What? But I thought you had termed us Dark Alchemists.

Yes, that is true. We are Dark while those above are Clandestine.

So why did you say we are Clandestine?

He sighed and put down his sewing. I was just highlighting that the word clandestine befits us more than them, despite us being called Dark.

There was no change in the animals’ expression.

It’s to prevent confusion.

Oh, one said, as though that cleared everything up. It didn’t, however, so his expression remained unchanged.

Sinson-Rascalian sighed. He couldn’t admonish their stupidity. Their ignorance was a result of the Clandestine Alchemists’ teachings, rather than any cognitive deficiency.

He beckoned for them to come closer. As Dark Alchemists, we are brothers, he said. All of us who gather in this hidden place. Do not concern yourself with what we are called, you need only to accept it. After all, I have given you brilliant reasons to, have I not? I mean look at my sleeves, for a start.

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

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

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

Again, those loyal exchanged glances.

Yes, one said. You look even more like a cat of some persuasion.

Another agreed. Rather a lot of persuasion, actually. In fact— He glanced at his colleague. One might even go so far as to suggest a title for you, Sinson.

Sinson-Rascalian stared at the animal. Clandestine Alchemists forbade ideas, so for a Dark Alchemist to come up with one was remarkable. Perhaps his brilliance was contagious. He shifted upon bunched robe, deciding that because he looked the part, he might as well have it labelled.

Well? he said. And my title is, therefore—

The Dark Alchemist put down some rolled maps and stepped closer. How about Sinson-Rascalian—the Persuader.

After some blinks related to the previous paragraph, Sinson-Rascalian smiled. That is a most satisfactory title. In fact, I am never to be called Sinson again. You must always refer to me as either ‘the Persuader ’, or ‘Sinson the Persuader ’. Is that understood?

They nodded.

And you have to tell all the others.

Further nods.

He shifted on his throne, which was built from the same sharp, spiky rock that littered the ground. He could reside upon it for only short time before his bottom got sore.

Yes, he said, a claw to his chin, which had his sleeves drape regally. I am Sinson the Persuader, creator of Boundless Extensible Subterfuge. There’s quite a ring to that, is there not?

I have no idea, another said. What’s a ring?

Again Sinson-Rascalian sighed, wondering what it would be like to meet a mind that might know his own.

He stood, rubbed his bottom and turned to glare at the throne. I really ought to get some cushions.

Dark Alchemists looked at each other: yet another idea. It seemed there no end to their leader’s brilliance.

Turning to them, he changed the subject so abruptly, that they were left dizzy and one fell over.

Have those who have been sent across the green sea returned yet?

They stared in astonishment. How did you do that? one asked.

Do what?

Go from contemplating cushions to considering the wanderings of our brethren so quickly?

I’ve told you before. It’s called thinking. I’ve told you. I’ve discovered that it permits wonderful things.

But we are taught that thinking is terribly dangerous!

Certainly that is the case. Meddling with imagination, for those not understanding its power, can maim dreadfully. But for an animal such as myself, both brave and clever, playing with this fire has permitted me to discover wonderful things. Lands beyond the green sea, for example, and taper silk robes.

Oh, how your mind must work, Sinson! they marvelled.

He glared until they realised their mistake.

Sinson the Persuader, they said.

Indeed. Now, I expect our brethrens’ return shortly, and I would like this cave cleaned up. It looks terrible. It’s a mess. I mean, there are bits of stone everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

Exchanged glances again: such bravery!

At the cave’s entrance, an approaching argument arose. Sinson-Rascalian hurried back to his throne. He sat too quickly and winced, having forgotten to bunch the robes beneath his bottom first. Three animals arrived and hurried across the cave. When nearing the throne, they bowed and knelt, but said nothing. He glared at them: that a fourth was missing answered his first question.

He asked it anyway. Well?

The returned Dark Alchemists looked at each other. The question was succinct, which would only highlight their answer’s length.

Sinson, one began, there have been unexpected—

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

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

Delays? he said, in a manner demanding explanation should follow.

Yes.

Which didn’t suffice.

What sort of delays?

We can’t find him for a start.

That’s not a delay! It’s an excuse!

Well, they’re sort of related, really.

Sinson-Rascalian stood from his throne, which was a relief in itself. You mean to say, a silly little Pumbel has outwitted you?

The three shared glances again, but were allowed no time to confer.

A Pumbel has outwitted a horde of Dark Alchemists?

Not the entire horde, Sinson, for we three have returned only to inform—

THE PERSUADER!

A pause. The Persuader, for we three have returned only to inform you of the delay in his retrieval. Certainly we shall find him. But considering it’s three nights since his absconding, he’s managed quite some distance.

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

There was a silence of ignorance.

How can a Pumbel, an animal oblivious to the workings of the world beyond this monastery, manage to stay a paw ahead of animals who currently influence said world?

The silence continued.

He shook his head. The very notion defied belief.

The Pumbel had to be caught before everything was lost.

Do you know how dangerous this is for us? he asked.

They had few words other than apology, which had no place in any constructive answer.

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

The little dog who held maps had re-gathered them. But surely, Sinson, he said, even if—

The Persuader.

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

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

The other Dark Alchemists suspended their stone piling, and listened also.

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

Those kneeling, wilted.

So do not underestimate what animals beyond the green sea are capable of seeing—especially when you are certain they cannot. For although invisibility is our strength, it is also our weakness.

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

After a sigh, he said, For three nights you have been unable to retrieve the creature. For three nights you have failed.

Sinson, we still have—

The Persuader.

—the Persuader, we still have our remaining party in close pursuit. Certainly he shall be returned here, we promise you.

With a sneer, he turned from them. Your promises are forged from no more than hope. Were they forged from something more substantial there’d be no need for them, as the Pumbel would already be here.

With claw against whiskers, he considered the options until a brilliant one dawned: one that would allow him to choose some Taper Silk robes and some cushions. Perhaps even a full-length dress mirror. Moreover, he could show off his Taper Silk robes to animals appreciative of such things.

He’d retrieve the Pumbel himself.

In a swirl of Taper Silk, orders were given, and his minions scrabbled to obey, despite not understanding a word. The little dog with maps was told to fetch more of them for an extended stay beyond the green sea.

When it became clear they didn’t know how to arrange anything of the sort, Sinson-Rascalian sighed wearily and set about organising everything himself. Several more Dark Alchemists arrived to announce dinner was served upstairs, and that it was chicken. There were murmurs of excitement from everyone, as it made a nice change from green soup. On Sinson-Rascalian’s orders they stopped scrabbling and hurried away to eat first.

3

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OSCAR Teabag-Dooven stood outside the Catacombs of Asquith and fluffed his pantaloons. Behind him, traffic rumbled. Above, the sky shone blue and in nearby trees, birds sang a glorious recitative of spring. There was an important reason he stood outside the Catacombs, and after a scan of his collapsible tummy, he entered the place to find out what it was.

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

Saving the world presumably changes opinion.

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

Apparently, his missing ears were evidence of the former.

It seemed the Loud Purr was right after all; others didn’t see his missing ears, but instead evidence of courage in having lost them.

At an authoritative burgundy lift, reserved for invitation only, Oscar again scanned his collapsible tummy. The lift pinged authoritatively and opened. Stepping inside, he was relieved when its doors closed on the foyer’s bustle. He got halfway through a sigh when the thing rocketed upwards, and before he’d any chance to re-fluff his pantaloons, its doors pinged open to reveal the Lair’s reception. It was refined and quiet. He’d once been here under very different circumstances; as a pawn in Masterful Posh’s cunning cruelty of scheme. After the sort of consequences the last book was written for, cat’s sudden resignation from the Catacombs had been welcome.

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

Good Morning, Mister Dooven. The Loud Purr has asked that you enter directly.

Oscar pointed down the hall to be certain.

Yes, that’s right, she said. You can go in now.

Now?

Yes.

He glanced at the brass doors at its end. Are you sure I shouldn’t wait until I’m bellowed at?

The Loud Purr asked that you enter directly, Mister Dooven.

With an uncertain fluff of pantaloons, he left the desk. When he knocked upon the doors, a grunt arose that he assumed was permission.

The Loud Purr was beneath his desk, with another animal beside him. They were either hiding or looking for something. Oscar purred loudly in case it was him they sought.

Looking up, the Loud Purr bumped his head. Growling, he reversed out and stood. Have you a pen, Pantaloons?

Oscar patted himself down, because he did. Along with some paper. As a poet, he never knew when verse might arise, so it was prudent to be prepared. He didn’t use either very often, however, as he preferred composition, rather than retaining its evidence. When he offered both, the large cat took the pen with a grumble. The second animal extricated himself also, and dusted himself down. He wore a purple sash, indicating that he was an Elder of Asquith, which left Oscar surprised and standing to attention.

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

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

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

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

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

Messington is the animal who suggested the method through which you proved your worthiness to the Catacombs, the Loud Purr said. In the last book. Chapter eleven, as I recall.

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

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

Mentioning the cat had the Loud Purr growl. I shall not hear that name within this place. Posh has gone, times change and we are all better for it.

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

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

While Oscar stared in surprise, the Loud Purr shifted uncomfortably.

That’s all very well, the Loud Purr said. But we have more immediate concerns to discuss.

With a smile, the Elder returned to the Loud Purr’s desk. From it, he retrieved an assortment of papers, which he offered to Oscar. Do you recognise this animal? he asked.

Taking them, Oscar flicked through pages.

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

Oscar did not take to him at all.

The cat looked like a ghastly show-off.

Who is he? he asked.

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

The what?

The D’dôdôSette.

How in fluff do you spell that?

With considerable difficulty. It’s got some funny things over the letters; squiggly things.

Squiggly things?

Yes, you know; letters with squiggles over them.

Diacritical marks, said Messington.

Oscar looked at the pictures again.

He’s an adventurer, the Loud Purr continued. An explorer, if you will. Rather famous, in fact. He has a habit of gallivanting around the world, looking at things, climbing things, jumping off things—that sort of thing.

He’s rather good at it too, apparently, Messington said.

And he is the only animal in the entire world who has been everywhere.

Everywhere? Oscar asked.

Nods from both. Everywhere.

What, even here? Even inside the Catacombs?

The Loud Purr and Messington shared a glance.

Well, not in here, obviously, Messington said. But certainly in Asquith. Many times.

Oscar looked at the photographs again. The animal appeared insufferable. In each of them, his smile smouldered, suggesting he was not only brave and strong, but charming as well.

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

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

Remarkable?

Messington nodded. Indeed, because the photographer fell down a crevasse. See? He pointed at the blurry one. It’s a bit blurry when the ground beneath gave way.

Oscar peered at the image. Down a crevasse? Poor creature!

Oh, he didn’t die. The D’dôdô-Sette jumped down after him, apparently, and managed to lasso him with his tail, or something, before securing the animal’s paw with a splint improvised from the photographer’s own tail, a frozen lettuce and some snow.

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

He indicated a document under the photographs.

Oscar wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t heard of the animal, as he tended to avoid anything involving creatures as insufferable as this one was. He tended to avoid animals in general, preferring quiet walks by babbling streams with butterfly nets and a small thermos of hot-fin. May I ask as to the Catacomb’s interest in this animal?

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

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

The D’dôdô-Sette.

Right. He listens to poetry?

Actually, no.

I thought not! He hardly seems the sort to harbour such sensitivities! I rather suspect he’d have a clinical adversity to such things. These images suggest he’s a rather beastly show-off, dangerously egocentric, terribly arrogant, insufferably narcissistic—

The Loud Purr and Messington shared another glance.

—and appreciative of no creature other than himself. Oscar looked at them. Sorry, but I see such traits all the time, Your Great Illustrious Fluffiness, in those vying to become Velvet Paws.

They blinked at him.

We spoke about it recently. Perhaps you recall?

He doesn’t attend recitals, Oscar, Messington said. He gives them.

This time it was Oscar’s turn for some surprised silence, which he ended by a staunched, Pardon?

His poetry has him in high demand in the more exclusive social circles, apparently, Messington said. He does a bit of travelling and some brave exploring in far-off lands, and then shares it with audiences through poetry.

He writes poetry?

Apparently, yes.

Oscar stared at the pictures again. This animal is a poet?

Actually, not so much a poet, as a bard.

Oscar looked up and repeated the word.

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

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

Well, that’s quite the point; no one. It’s something he makes a point of telling his audiences. Apparently, only he is worthy.

He said that? After Messington nodded, he uttered the sort of profanity not befitting the Lair without written permission. He apologised, before asking, What possible interest could the Catacombs have in my attending this so-called recital?

The Loud Purr stood and wandered to his authoritative window, through which he peered authoritatively. For two reasons, Pantaloons. Firstly, this recital is part of the Affable Nations’ Assembly, which is being held in Plempt. It’s the most pivotal coming together of nations in the world.

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

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

Oscar stared. I’m sorry, but I didn’t understand a word of that.

The D’dôdô-Sette is rather rude. His poetry has a tendency to insult.

Insult?

The Loud Purr nodded. The cat has—as you deduced from those pictures—a smugness which is readily expressed through his poetry.

It is very likely, Messington said, that his recital will cause an affray at the Assembly, should he include any of the nations attending as subjects within his recital. And because Asquith has long been a member, we have a duty to defend not only our reputation, but the reputation of all nations represented.

And you want me to stop him?

The Loud Purr shook his head. No, not stop him. Just contain the situation should it begin fraying at the edges.

Contain it? In what way does the Catacombs expect me to do that?

You have an instinct for poetry, I understand, Messington said. Perhaps you could use that to anticipate when national affability becomes strained.

And then what. Punch him in the face?

You have already proved your discretion, Pantaloons, the Loud Purr said. Therefore, you will use your judgment accordingly.

But if his subject matter is liable to cause problems, then why have him speak at this assembly at all?

The Loud Purr returned to his desk and leant upon it as though intending to push it uphill. Here we come to the second reason the Catacombs are interested in him. The D’dôdô-Sette is cheap. In fact, he is free. The animal seeks no fee for giving his performances and never has. Which, as you might imagine, has contributed enormously to his popularity.

Oscar couldn’t imagine anything contributing to the cat’s popularity, other than a freak accident with pruning shears.

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

Well, that’s certainly curious.

Which is why it’s to be your curiosa.

When a knock at the door arose, the Loud Purr grunted permission. His receptionist entered with a pawful of pens and did not look pleased at having to.

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

Yes, thank you. That will be all,

Pens do not just disappear, Loud Purr. I am happy to administer them on a singular basis once their contents expire, for that is my duty. But I take issue with having to do so regularly, and in the plural!

Turning on her paw, she strode from them.

Perhaps we ought to order some more? he asked after her.

I have already done so, Loud Purr, she said, without stopping. And a length of chain to attach them to.

She slammed the door upon leaving.

Uncomfortably, the Loud Purr looked at Messington. An excellent secretary, he said. Quite efficient, of course.

Of course, Loud Purr. One sees it immediately.

A little later, once details had been discussed, Oscar stood to leave.

Perhaps I might have my pen back, Your Most Esteemed Great Wonderfulliness?

The Loud Purr grunted and looked for it upon his desk. Unable to find it, he rummaged through the pens just delivered, before standing and patting himself down. It was nowhere to be found, however. For a second time that morning, the desk had animals rummaging beneath it.

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

4

____________________

MOST would find it disheartening to discover that after a fourth mug of hot-fin, the bleakness felt in needing a third hadn’t lessened. Vaasi-Vee put down her empty mug and stared at a mess of articles upon her desk. Around her, animals clacked at typewriters in response to approaching deadlines, before making telephone calls hoping to staunch them. Vaasi-Vee, however, did neither, no longer caring. Her colleagues might thrive in the vibrant fashion industry, but she did no longer.

She watched them with sadness and envy, having known the thrill of working for the prestigious magazine, Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars.

Recently, however, that thrill had waned.

The only excitement she’d experienced over past months was discovering that broccoli could also be spelt with one c. She looked away, their fervour grating in a manner that required bandages, and stared again at the articles upon her desk. She picked one up. Collars This Month Will Be Blue, it read, with a blank space underneath that she was supposed to fill in with reasons why. She considered submitting it empty with the suggestion that readers fill it in for themselves.

With a sigh, she looked out a window. Sky shone in a blue far more inspiring than any hue that collars could offer. Recently, the sky had held her attention more than the drivel her editor demanded. There were no clouds today, and its blue made her think of seas she’d never seen and probably never would.

An animal laughed and broke her reverie. Taking a breath of tired office air, she wondered what other parts of the world smelt like. She stretched to dredge enthusiasm from extremities. Finding none, she glared at the articles and fought an urge to sweep them from her desk.

She pawed through the papers to find a pen, before realising there wasn’t one. Their habit of disappearing recently did not help her demeanour, and she glared at nearby colleagues who clearly found amusement in hiding the things. Approaching deadlines left them too distracted to notice, however, until one reached for a telephone.

Being head feature writer for Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars, Vaasi-Vee was revered by her colleagues. In addition to natural talent, her sheer beauty and style rendered her amply qualified. However, her growing air of reluctant tolerance left them wary, and many found her more recent reclusiveness disconcerting.

A neat little dog hesitated over the telephone when noticing her glare. Yes? she asked. Can I help you?

Well, let’s see, said Vaasi-Vee, a well-manicured claw to her chin. I’m certain you know why I’m glaring, so why don’t you tell me?

I’m sorry?

That’s better. Under the circumstances, apology is far more appropriate than feigned ignorance, isn’t it?

A receiver was put back on its cradle. I really don’t know what you mean.

I think you do, though I am rather surprised that you haven’t tired of such games, considering I haven’t risen to their stupidity.

Stupidity?

Yes. Stupidity. Hiding pens is stupid. And because you’ve been hiding them for some time, then you must be stupid also. If this is your idea of amusement, then I feel sorry for you and suggest you get a referral to a specialist before you’re legally obliged to.

The little dog looked around worriedly, as colleagues stopped their staunching to watch. I’m sorry, she said, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.

Vaasi-Vee had no interest in playing games. Where is my pen?

I have no idea, the little dog said. Have you tried looking under that mountain of paperwork? After all, it’s been growing for some time.

The room fell silent when everyone stopped to watch, and one took notes.

Vaasi-Vee stood and sat on the animal’s desk, relieved to find boredom had been replaced by animosity. My pens, she whispered. Where have you put my penssssss.

When she hissed the plural, the little dog shrank back and glanced around for support. None was given, however, her colleagues intimidated by proxy.

You must have accumulated quite a collection by now, Vaasi-Vee said.

Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Even though I just told you? Well, that is unfortunate. I’m generally a most tolerant animal. but I take exception to those who believe that persistent inconvenience is amusing.

When the dog’s bottom lip began quivering, she relented. She didn’t want embarrassment, she just wanted her pens, their absence an unnecessary addition to withering interest. She glared at their audience. Where are my pens, pray? she said. Which of you has been hilarious enough to remove them?

Although there was no confession, more notes were taken. Her interrogation was cut short when their editor, having noticing the absence of work-related cacophony, strode from his office to find out why.

What’s going on here? he growled at them. Why have you all stopped clattering and scribbling?

Someone held up a notepad to indicate that they were doing the latter.

There’s no point scribbling if there’s no clattering, is there? he said. I’m not interested in scribbling unless you do the clattering. We can’t print scribble, can we?

He pointed at a sign on the wall that read, We Can’t Print Scribble.

There was a murmur of agreement.

I want to hear the clattering that comes after the scribbling. Your deadlines are approaching like express trains driven by your editors. And I should know, considering I’m the chief one. You should all be well past scribbling and getting on with clattering!

More murmurs.

So come on! I don’t want Patterns of Fluff Weekly and Whisker Style in Colour Bi-monthly getting a paw-hold on our readership!

The murmur became a fervent cacophony of clattering.

Vaasi-Vee, he said. May I see you in my office immediately.

Without waiting for an answer, he returned to it. With a glower suggesting that upon her return, pens had better be waiting, she left the desk and strode toward his office. Her colleagues watched, wondering what would unfold within it.

With an air of inconvenience, Vaasi-Vee stood in front of another desk even messier than hers, and considered asking for more pens.

Her editor was a large dog with unkempt fur, and although he pushed them hard, he was kind. He sat behind his desk and looked at her for some time.

Are you not going to take a seat? he asked.

I’m hoping this isn’t going to take long, she said, staring at the wall above his head, as I’ve got some clattering to be getting on with.

Would you like to tell me what was going on out there?

Her anger felt warm. After feeling nothing for ages, it was welcome. Not really, she said. But I’m thinking of putting it in a feature. You can read it then, if you like. Provided I can get back to my clattering.

Outside, the din of typewriters had returned, which only highlighted her derision.

Tell me, Vaasi-Vee, he said, are you no longer happy here?

She shrugged and continued staring at the wall.

He stood and went to a window, where he peered at the clattering beyond it. Most animals would give their right paw to work here, which is really saying something, considering it’s a prerequisite for clattering. He looked at her. You know, of course, that our triumph in circulation over Patterns of Fluff Weekly and Whisker Style in Colour Bi-monthly is down to you.

Yes. I know.

You are highly valued in this place, Vaasi-Vee. I don’t need to tell you that. But your waning enthusiasm hasn’t gone unnoticed. Frankly, I worry for your wellbeing in general. He returned to his desk. Although I’ve done my best to ensure that you’ve been assigned stories that might appeal, it’s clear that your excellent standard has become a struggle to find of late.

Her stare dropped to the floor.

I must say, he continued, that I’m rather relieved at your outburst, as it’s healthier than your recent months of stagnation. Tell me, is being head feature writer not what you’d hoped it might be?

She relinquished the floor and looked at him instead. He deserved some explanation, even if she didn’t have one herself.

With a sigh, she sat on a chair. Some animal out there keeps stealing my pens. It sounded petty and she regretted it. After all he’d done for her, it bordered on tantrum.

He sat also. Well, personally, I don’t think it has anything to do with missing pens.

While he waited, she looked at the ceiling, hoping to find explanation on it. The incident over pens was the most she’d interacted with anyone for months.

I think, she said, that I am entirely bored.

Bored? He scoffed. Bored with what? You’re head feature writer for the most prestigious fashion magazine in the world. You travel to exciting places, meet interesting animals and write brilliant articles for those having no chance of experiencing either. How can that be boring?

She thought further. It is not the work itself, she said. I know how much you have tried to give me stories of interest. It’s more a disappointment at the world in which they occur.

His frown deepened. Disappointment?

After another sigh, she stared at the wall again. Perhaps the world is not what I imagined it to be.

In what way?

I think I’d hoped things in it were going to be more interesting. I mean, what’s the point of writing about which coloured collars go with which pattern of fur if next month it’s going to be a completely different combination?