Ellis Knox [Knox - Into the Second World

Into

The

Second World

by

Ellis L. Knox

Copyright 2019 Ellis L. Knox

All rights reserved.

To my darling wife

without whom Altearth would still be

no more than notes and ideas

Acknowledgments

Thanks to the online communities for all their support, guidance, and wise counsel: to Mythic Scribes foremost, but also to SFF Chronicles and to the Fantasy Faction forums.

Thanks to my editor, Kristy Stewart, for an outstanding job, not only in working through the seemingly innumerable permutations in foreign words and forms of address, but also for spotting continuity errors. Any that remain are entirely my own fault.

The cover was done by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design, who are not at all deranged and are excellent designers.

Table of Contents

Salzburg Station

I was late and it wasnt my fault. Some fool of a dwarf had got the mix wrong coming out of IngolstadtI heard the coachman say something about impurities in the phlogiston tank that resulted in weak Steam pressure, or something like that. It could have been pixies in the fire box for all I cared. The train was already an hour latea scandalous breach of practice for the Royal Bavarian Steam Lineand only one thing mattered: would Professor Queller wait for me?

I was in a perfect frenzy those last miles, as the engine hauled its seven cars up from the Danube River toward Salzburg. Im sure I presented something of a spectacle to the other passengersan unaccompanied woman dressed in a split wool skirt with a heavy top and hunter green vestfor all the world like some naturalist out for a brisk country walk. I paced the aisle, asking the conductor the time, leaning over people to peer out a window, taking things out of my rucksack only to put them back again, and generally making a nuisance of myself. The fine gentlemen and two ladies who occupied the other seats stayed in them and gave me disapproving looks, but I didnt care.

This was a chancevery likely my last chanceto make my name as a journalist, a profession resolutely closed to women, unless we are content to write about Kinder und Kchen , as if females were interested in only those two subjects. I had, from my earliest years, been afire with a passion for Science, and scientific journalism was my life calling. I had spent years pounding on doors, enduring the skepticism of men (or worse, their leering patronage), and having a dozen sound articles rejected by a score of magazines.

But now I had a story, as the newspapers call it. I was working at a newspaper myself, the last refuge of writers, and had been sent to join an expedition to rescue the famous explorer tienne Fournier from the depths of Lamprechts Cave. My paper had agreed at the last minute to finance Queller when he encountered unexpected expenses, the terms for the financing being that a reporter (oh how I loathed that word!) must accompany the expedition.

Before the huge engine had passed the final signal post I already stood at the coach door, ignoring the coachmans urging that I should, for my own safety, please sit down. Drab warehouses and colorful shops slid past as the long, peculiar sigh of phlogiston Steam vented from a hundred valves, and the train eased to a stop on pure water vapor. At any other time I would have savored the display of magical engineering that is a modern Steam train, but today all I wanted was to get off as soon as possible. My feet would not stay still; my eyes darted this way and that; my hat was on, pack on back, walking stick in hand.

The coachman sternly refused to open the door, despite my scowls, until hed had the master signal. Once he finally opened the door, I nearly bowled him over. His your pardon, Frulein was not at all sincere.

At least I was out.

The Salzburg Station is newly built and quite striking, or so I am told. I scarcely noted the vaulted windows, the glass ceiling, or the colored phlogiston lightingmiracles of the Modern Age. I looked only at the people, a few score of them, who had come to greet the passengers. Fat businessmen stuffed into their suits were greeted by wives and families, students met chums, holiday makers got themselves snapped up by relentlessly helpful taxi men. All these milled in search of their luggage and then disappeared through the wide doors that led into the station and thence to the city proper. Soon all that remained was a handful of stragglers, plus two beggar gnomes, one sitting at either end of the platform.

I had the misfortune of being too near one of them.

The gnome stood silently, as they all do, back against the brick of the station wall, head lowered just enough to still make eye contact. She made the begging gesture, stretching out her hands with palms up, then bringing them in again so her fingers touched her chest, then out again. A slow, piteous rhythm.

The gnome caught me looking and ducked her head further. Fingers touched chest three times now before her hands extended. Pleading.

I fished two pfennige from my pouch and placed them in her hand. Her fur was badly mottled. The mewling sound she made might have been a thanks, but it set my teeth on edge.

I turned away quickly. Beggar gnomes may be found all across Europa. Most people, myself included, walk past them as if they were not merely small but invisible. I cannot speak for others, but for myself I usually hurry by, not least because of a vague sense of guiltfor what they have become, and for the part humans may have played in that sad transformation. Once in a while, though, the whole business catches up with me. A few pennies dont help me forget, but not giving bothers me even more.

The last of the passengers were exiting the platform, leaving two men. One, a human, looked like a character from some Bolivian adventure book: black boots knee-high and well-worn, khaki pantaloons, a wide black belt, a rugged brown shirt, and a gray felt hat. He was tall, well built, and even from a distance I could see his eyes were pale blue. He scanned the platform, searching for someone.

The other man was a dwarf. The green Tiroler hat on his head bore a ridiculous spray of feathers at its peaked top. Over a gray linen shirt he wore a leather vest covered in hammered designs. His face was dark, with deep-set eyes under a heavy brow. He looked at me, then looked past me, searching for someone else.

I looked past them in turn. They might be my contacts, but I didnt want them to be. I wanted a respectable German professor, his attentive assistant, and a few rugged bearers of respectful mien. These two looked less like members of an expedition of scientific exploration and more like they had just come from a local festival.

At last, however, the matter was unavoidably evident, and we approached each other, uncertain as children.

I spoke first.

Professor Queller? I asked, though I knew it must be impossible. The man was too young, too outlandish, and not in the least scholarly. That the professor himself had not bothered to come was a discouraging sign.

He snorted. Not hardly, he said in a pleasant voice. Im Niklot Thesiger. Professor Queller is my uncle. Are you from the Zeitung ? Despite his quick smile, he could not keep incredulity from his tone, and he glanced over my shoulder as if he would spot the real reporter striding up. I chose not to bristle.

I am, I said. My name is Gabrielle Lauten. I am the journalist who is to accompany you.

Herr Thesiger laughed out loud.

Im sorry, did I say something funny?

She cannot come, the dwarf declared.

I was prepared for the objection. I was not, however, prepared to be laughed at.

I have brought your bank draft, I said levelly. We had exchanged but a few sentences and already my defenses were up. I reminded myself to keep my temper.

Thesigers manner sobered. Sorry. I didnt know there were female journalists, or that a publisher would send one on so dangerous an enterprise.