DAYS 8–10
When you’ve had enough of watching miserable creatures haul themselves across a yawning expanse of slime, it’s time to board the ship again and set sail for a three day Kraken-hunting expedition, at their breeding grounds in the Pontoppidan Deeps. It’s at this point that you’ll read the small print on the itinerary and be crushed with disappointment that you’re hunting the Kraken to watch them, rather than fill them with harpoons. Even so, be certain to know where the lifeboats are.
WELCOME TO CHUGHOLME
Or, alas, not. Poor Chugholme. Until recently this was – for me, at least – one of the undisputed jewels of all the Worlds. It was a thoroughly civilised place, where one could enjoy the finer things in life – gilded with the trappings of fantasy, no less – without being troubled by baser concerns. Now, however, Chugholme has rather gone to the dogs. It’s been under a no-go advisory by the authorities for months now, and Eliza has insisted on abandoning the double-length chapter I had initially penned for it. Nevertheless, I refuse to let its passing go unremarked, so I’ll use the thousand words Eliza has accorded me ‘if I really feel I must’ to celebrate what it once was.[1]
Chugholme: An[2],[3] Eulogy by Floyd Watt
Chugholme, the great capital of the Pretanian Empire, sat proudly at the heart of its domain, importing luxuries, treasures and coal from every corner of the world, and exporting good manners in return.
Around it sprawled the bucolic delights of Chalmondesleydale[4] – a comfortable county with no dirty coal mines, which managed to maintain the vibrant social claustrophobia of a well-to-do rural community while still covering hundreds of square miles. In Pretania, social standing was everything, and the manors of Chalmondesleydale were where the most eligible of the eligible went to court, scheme and dance their silk socks off. There were balls every night: wild galaxies of lace and candlelight that attracted swarms of brooding bachelors like moths – for it was always debut season in Chalmondesleydale.
City Living
And then, when you became jaded with even the wonders of the countryside, you could travel into the city – with its steam-cranes, its steammills, its steam-groceries and steam-newsagents – to experience truly imperial splendour. As your train pulled in to one of Chugholme’s four-hundred railway terminals, you’d see crowds of the young tear-aways who called themselves ‘Steampunks’ on the station concourse,[5] guffawing and competing to see who could affix most cogs to a hat.
FULL STEAM AHEAD!
Perched at the giddy pinnacle of industrialisation, Pretania was an empire powered by coal – and by steam. Even though more advanced technology had long been in reach, Empress Pretania,[6] in all her wisdom, always understood that an aesthetic is an aesthetic, and so passed ordinances that severely restricted electric technology. As early as the fifth year of her reign, electricity was only being used for spectacular crackling orbs in the laboratories of eccentric scientists, and to power the Mk IV ‘Bulldog’ electro-truncheons employed by Pretanian police forces in the imperial colonies.
Once in the heart of the city, one was at leisure – providing one had a little cash to flash. There were few things more genteel than sipping fresh tea from fine porcelain in the saloon bar of the Botherstone Club while watching zeppelins unload at the steam-warehouses across the river. Yes, it was a little silly that most of the clientele wore goggles at all times for no discernible reason – and I really did never get the business with the platform boots – but it didn’t do too much to detract from the atmosphere of refinement. The banter, needless to say, was tremendous.
The aforementioned zeppelins weren’t on one-way routes, either. For a reasonable sum of Pretanian guineas, you could book passage to anywhere in the colonies, and enjoy the capital’s suite of luxuries in a more tropical climate.
All Good Things …
Of course, that was where the trouble started. A few years back, you started hearing about trouble overseas: rabble of one kind or another, using cannibalised engine parts to make armies of crude steam-mechs.[7] There was simply no elegance to what they were doing, but it was effective: places started dropping off the map, and it happened more and more often.
Then, suddenly, the trouble wasn’t overseas any more. Out of nowhere, a militia called had occupied half of Chalmondesleydale, and there were columns of smoke-puffing assault vehicles advancing on Chugholme itself. Pretania had seen off invasions of tentacled aliens in five-legged walkers before now, but this was a different story. Battalions of commoners – largely conscripts from the northern mining towns – were sent out to repel the transgressors, but most simply dropped their weapons and turned coat. The city fell within days.
Chugholme Today
I know trouble when I smell it, so I was out of there pronto.[8] The last I heard before I bugged out, the Imperial Palace had fallen into enemy hands, and its giant golden lion statues were in the process of being dismantled. After that, I heard plenty more – but all from excitable adventure tourists who had found a way past the entry blockade, and who told too many tall tales to be believable. Reports of invading steam-brigands from all corners of the empire seemed conceivable, but the yarn I heard about a volunteer brigade of Orcs, of all things, seemed ludicrous.
Who
