Log of Captain Deckard Hodges, January 3rd, 1887 So much has changed since the Cheery Man's half-blind go-between met me at Wolfstack Docks some two and a half weeks ago. Oh, dear gods, how am I to commit to writing all that has happened? After Jones' death, when we were once more to set sail, the mood among the crew was sober. My ragged passenger, in search of her tall tale, grew ever more impatient. My zailors all looked upon me with reproach; my abject terror in the face of the devils of Mt. Palmerston had swayed their confidence in me. I was inconsolable. Then that swarthy fixer approached me with a crate. "The Cheery Man," he says, "would be most appreciative if you would make us this delivery. Do not let the revenue men catch wind of it, but there is a great trade to be had in spirifage, my friend-- souls can be sold like boxed chocolates, to the right sort. These are bound for Palmerston's Reach." I only stared blankly at him a moment. Palmerston's Reach. That's what he had said. Haha. Ahahahahaha. In ink, I laugh now as I laughed at him then. His eyes narrowed and his hand went to his belt-knife, but I spread my arms wide. "Why not?" I said, half-mad. "Sure! Haul it aboard! Have at it!" He nodded curtly. "Do not disappoint us, captain."
With my new luggage in tow, I set out firmly eastward. Between the sale of the saber I had procured from my stab-happy passenger and the revelation of my reports to the Admiralty, I was able to set out having spent nary a penny. East and east and east we went, and soon came upon the rat-colony of Pigmote Isle. They asked our aid in settling a criminal dispute-- a fisher-rat had stolen some food to feed a child. I advocated mercy. They relcutantly agreed, and I set off not entirely sure I had done the right thing. East and east and east once more, and the Sea of Lilies grew lush and verdant around us. At this, Cookie became irrationally excited. He stamped up and down on the deck, joyously cleaving the heads from our lumpiest, most misshapen catches. He worked himself into such a terrible frenzy, which crescendoed when he saw the binding-nets of Nuppmidt Harbor, crowned by the prison where the knot-oracles brood. I begged him not to go. He was my oldest friend, served alongside me in the Campaign of '68. If not for his cheery manner, certainly my crew would, by now, have mutinied. But he was adamant. He promised me, in short, half-gibbered sentences, that I would be provided for. He didn't even look back as he scuttled into the prison's walls, taking his knives and old stew-pot along. Two hours later, the warden emerged from the heavy doors, regarded me with cold, fishlike eyes, and handed me sheaf after sheaf of stories, records, secrets, half-mad recipes. They were scribbled in the tight, crabbed hand of my old friend. I even found spy-codes and Admiralty stamps among them. My inheritance, said the warden. All the knowledge the oracles could draw out of Cookie. Everything he remembered was in there. I received only a dry chuckle when I asked if he was safe. East. East. I remember an island full of sunlight- sunlight, in the Neath! And six dead men round a table, beaten to death by the ceaseless rays of the Sun. I found a single soul between them, stoppered in a bottle, twisting and scintillating like mad. I still do not know if I dreamed the place. The Admiralty does not think I did.
It had become clear we were not to reach Polythreme at this rate. I told the seeker of Lady Black to pick a direction. She stared at me for a moment, grim concern lining her face. "North," she said, and I laughed and laughed. North it was, and north took us to a series of islands that were infested with spiders. Only one post remained, jutting out like lantern-glass from the cobwebs. They gave us a short reprieve, but had us lower our lights, so as not to disturb "the good neighbors." It soon became clear that they spoke of the spiders. No matter how they crawled and twitched and scuttled from every corner, the port-folk never spoke ill of them- or spoke of them at all, really, save to say that they wouldn't want to disturb their good neighbors. We docked at Irem after that. I will not write of Irem. Suffice to say that I have seen where it will lie, and I will visit it again. The fuel is what bade me to return to the western zee. I did. I did, and before long, there it was, looming above us, belching sickly green smoke into the sky. Though I quaked, and my mind screamed desperately that I should go home, home, far away from the devils, we docked. When I stepped onto the sands, all of the tension broke like a spine. I felt eerily calm. A bustling... thing... in a red cloak came and relieved me of my cargo, which clinked and hissed as the souls realized their final destination. None of the devils knew me, or if they did, they did not show it. My zailors scuttled off to find a drink, and the seeker of Lady Black cast a glance over her shoulder at me as she followed. I did not meet her eye, but instead wound my way up to the crater of the volcano. I do not know what I expected to find. Certainly not tea, but, well... a little cottage stood aloof on the precipice of Mt. Palmerston. In the garden of black roses and fly agaric was a deviless, who gazed upon me with sad orange eyes, and under that gaze I melted. She introduced herself with a name full of fizzing vowels and skittering consonants. We drank tea that she promised was not poisoned. I have no way of knowing how long we sat in that noxious garden and talked of souls and soldiers. I do not think I care. I returned to find the corpse of one of my zailors twisted into an unnatural shape around a brass harpoon. His death didn't bother me for long.
You know, I think I may make another delivery for the Cheery Man. Very soon.
