Something that is very much like a man makes his way down an old stone passageway, letting his fingers trail lightly along the dusty wall. The thing that is not quite a man is ruggedly handsome, with silver-gray eyes and laugh lines at the corners of them. His clothes are travel- stained but of surpassingly fine make. His name—at the moment—is West.

He wears a weapon at his hip that he does not need, but appearances must be kept. There

aren’t too many creatures in these lost and broken days that can hurt something like West, but his father had always said that something worth doing is worth doing well. He wears the weapon with flair, a dashing jut of hip that shows off the fine gold filigree and hand enameling.

West has been traveling for days through the darkness beneath The Mountain, that monstrous edifice, so large that civilizations have risen and fallen on its slopes, never knowing about each other. The Mountain is offensive to West; that something so great, so huge in history and legend should find itself so fallen, lost, and trivial. But then, much the same thing could be said of the Wanderlands itself; much the same thing could be said of West.

He does not often entertain such thoughts, and it is a testament to his dreary surroundings that he is doing so now.

The worst thing about traveling to the Underlands is that there are no Doors here, no easy way to step from somewhere to somewhere else, no quick way to bypass the tedious business of walking. He had been forced to enter through the great rift that had opened in the side of the Mountain untold ages ago, exposing the warren of long-dark rooms and tunnels. Fortunately there was a backwater town called Cannoux nearby, and there had been a Door there. He is annoyed at this flagrant expense of his time, this pedestrian journeying, but an interesting invitation had been received.

And West is not the sort of creature that passes by an interesting thing.

Still, it is an unpleasant journey. He has the sense, and has had it for some days now, of descending down into the black belly of a decaying beast. He has had the unclean sensation of climbing into a grave. West cannot in any sense be described as a sentimental person, but it is impossible to walk through these empty halls and passages without thinking about the thousands and millions of thinking creatures that must have died here. Died huddled around failing lights, burning anything that would burn, praying to gods that didn’t care for a salvation that wouldn’t come.

West has been alive for a long time, but even he could not say how long the Underlands has been dead. Nor, even, how long it took to die. The Silver Age had been a finely crafted creature, and its corpse rotted slow.

There is a fire ahead; it is a thin flicker of light in a sea of darkness. A faint golden spark in a depthless black. West has sight beyond any mere man, however, and he perceives that the fire has been built into a large open area and that the backdrop is a helical curve that he cannot quite make out in the flickering light of the fire. He can see four figures at the fire, still little more than silhouettes. He makes sure his weapon is at the ready in case some braggadocio is required and,

after some consideration, adopts a jovial manner he’d absorbed from a particularly charming acquaintance.

He scrapes his foot deliberately on the floor to alert the others of his presence, and sees one of the figures straighten to look at him. It is a tall one, a clock-and-silver creature, but this does not worry West. It takes all types, his father liked to say, especially in dark times.

“Hello, friends!” West calls, into the quiet of the darkly flickering room. “Well met; and may I approach your fire?”

His voice echoes strangely in the big room; it feels dusty and ancient. The space is bigger than he’d guessed; the fire is not bright enough to show him its extents. There are vague silvery shapes scattered around, perhaps ancient sculptures or lightfixtures of some sort, but West ignores these. If there is any of the silver here, the motive force that once powered these sculptures and gave the Underlands light, it is long gone now. These silvery sculptures describe a loose ring around a massive circular stairway that rises in a ponderous spiral up into the ceiling above. The fire is small against it, and the figures around the fire smaller still.

The tall mechanical figure stands and bows as West approaches and it, too, is bigger than he had thought, nine span at least. It has a long flat-planed head and sharp, articulated joints. It is mostly white, a kind of glossy, flowing porcelain that gives the twin impressions of beauty and death. West recognizes the shape as that of a Jannissary, one of the old warmachines. The intelligence that lives in the body, however, is of another order. West, unfortunately, knows this creature, by reputation if not from experience.

The ancient machine nods its head as West approaches the fire, the language of its form conveying a sly smile.

“Hello, hello, and hello!” The creature says, giving West an ornate bow as he enters the

circle of firelight. Its voice is a reedy waver, a bellows-and-pump sound, rich and warm. “Welcome to our fire, my friend, and such comforts as it holds!”

West returns the bow, but much more shallowly. His eyes move around the others at the fire and judge them little threat at the moment. There is a beautiful servant of no consequence, a young boy, and a large man reclining on a walking-couch. He returns his attention to the exquisite, deadly mechanical creature. Fortunately, the proper mode of address is easy in this case. It is not always so with constructed creatures—or any creatures for that matter! The tall machine is known to prefer a male honorific.

“Hello to you, Mr. Turpentine, it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance; I have heard much of your exploits down through the years, and it is rare that someone can match their own legend.” West hides a smirk; if Mr. Turpentine matched his legend, he would be drenched in still-warm blood and the shattered teeth of children.

Mr. Turpentine flashes a knowing little smile; he clearly caught the jibe. West will have to be more careful; he is not used to the company of those clever enough to attend his humor and it would not do to make enemies just yet. The creature does not seem offended, however. It spreads its long, articulated limbs in a gesture of deference, itself only vaguely mocking.

“And you as well, the legendary Lourde- Ah! Forgive me, but you go by West, just now, I had forgotten. To think I might gain the acquaintance of such a large figure of history! You will forgive me, of course, if I betray my delight overmuch. Please! Be welcome. A few of us have gathered, but our circle is not complete, so we may waste some pleasant time in frivolities. Care you for some chûs, as I make our introductions?”

“There should never be a walker of the Wanderlands,” West agrees, “Who turns away a cup of hospitable chûs. And especially not in such a dark and forbidding place.”

The fat man on the walking couch shifts, restless; West gets the idea that he is unused to being talked around. West makes a point of giving the others around the fire a longer scrutiny, then. Advantage must be taken whenever possible; another of his father’s truisms.

“Speaking of introductions, I must fear to say the rest of our company are unknown to me. As our kind host says, my name is West, and I am in all ways at your service.” West gives those around the fire a general bow, appropriate for new colleagues of uncertain station and allegiance. The man on the walking-couch clears his throat, unable to wait for his turn.

“You can call me… ah… d’Alle.” He says, turning to West and giving him no bow at all, a mere inclination of his head from his mechanical couch. “I have the honor of traditionally being called ‘Master,’ but I suppose we can dispense with the bells and whistles for… ah… these proceedings.”

His speech is rough but supercilious, his voice high and piping. He has dusty, almost blued coloring that contrasts with his bright, almost garish robes and a long, thick queue of dark hair. His eyes are of no particular color, but they glitter in the firelight. He accepts a small lozenge from the servant next to him and pops it expertly in his mouth. This is a man used to deference and accustomed to his comforts. West notes these things as a warrior might note lines of sight and good cover. He smiles broadly and bows, far too deep. Giving them too much can be just as much of an insult as giving too little.

“D’Alle, then,” West says, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He ignores the servant; it is plain that it is so far beneath West’s station so as to make acknowledgment painful for them both. The man’s cantrait—the walking-couch—is a fine piece of work, a working remnant of the Silver Age, and he is genuinely amazed the man owns such a thing. It is a far more effective signal of his station than the ostentatious rings on his fingers or jeweled torc

around his neck.

“Master d’Alle,” Mr. Turpentine says, fussing with an ornate ceramic pot at the fire, “Hails from the grand empire of Cannoux, which resides on the lower slopes of The Mountain so far

above us. Perhaps you noted its lights as you were making your way in.”

“I did indeed,” West agrees. “The fame of Cannoux spreads far, even in these sad days. It is said you are the prize jewel of The Mountain! It is an honor to meet a citizen of that great metropolis.”

The fat man that likes to be called Master visibly preens at this, and West conceals a smile. Cannoux is no great empire; it is a twilight civilization at best, barely clinging to life on the very edge of the known world. West had never heard of it before he passed into the breach that had led him here.

“And of course,” Mr. Turpentine says, almost negligently, “You would know the child, Gray.”

The long blades of Turpentine’s fingers uncurl toward the young boy that has been perched on a stone, looking moodily into the flames. He is beautiful but motionless in a way that is very adult. West had paid him little attention other than to wonder what a child was doing in the company of a creature like Mr. Turpentine, but he looks closer now, The child has an odd coloration; almost pitch-dark skin and bright golden eyes.

West frowns without knowing he does it; an unaccustomed slip. It takes all sorts, as they say, and in the Wanderlands it takes all colors and shapes. ‘The Mother Spits Color’, is another way to say it; the peoples of the Lands were made in every shape and combination of hue and it is rarely a thing to notice or remark upon. But this particular combination… Or perhaps just those eyes…

West gets it, and feels himself pale.

“Not… That is not Primary Gray, of course?” West’s adopted, cheerful persona takes a blow; he is genuinely surprised, an emotion rare for him. The child raises his head slightly, looking at West, and there is a silent thing that passes between the two of them, a wordless thing that only the Wise ever need convey: We are both old, but I am older.

The boy returns his disconcerting golden eyes to the fire, dismissing West from his attention. West is too shocked to bristle at the slight. Primary Gray! He would have bet a great deal that this child had been dead for two—or maybe three—ages of the world.

Pretending that the boy isn’t ignoring him, West gives him a careful and deferential bow.

He fixes his smile as best he can and turns it upon Mr. Turpentine.

“I do remember the legendary Primary Gray, of course,” West says, “Though I met him long ago and Lands away. Still! Still. It is excellent to meet you all, even under such conditions. Is our circle-group complete, then? I confess to a great desire to try your no-doubt excellent chûs, Mr. Turpentine. However, I know that to pour a session before all are present is, in some Lands, known as a bad omen.”

West finds himself adopting some of Mr. Turpentine’s over-flowery cadences of speech and decides that this is no bad thing. He has the sense that this meeting in darkness will require something of a melodramatic air, and even clock-and-silver creatures are lulled by seeing themselves in a mirror.

“Alas,” Mr. Turpentine says, pulling the pot from the fire, “Our circle is not quite complete. Still, there is no need to go thirsty! I would never dream of pouring to a broken circle in normal times, but I daresay we will be safe in this case. Any bad omens the Underlands had are long since paid for, and there are only corpses to care.”

Without waiting for either assent or dissent, the old machine pours steaming liquid into cups. D’Alle coughs and the cantrait shuffles, restless. It forces the servant next to it to move, startling West. He has forgotten they were there.

“While we wait,” d’Alle says, fumbling at delicacy, “Why don’t we… ah… broach the topic of our meeting? I’ll confess to ignorance, and I’ll confess further that I don’t care for that sensation.”

“Information is the currency of the Wise.” West agrees, accepting a cup. D’Alle nods, fatuously, in no way understanding that for him to be considered one of the Wise is ludicrous to the point of insult.

“It is indeed,” Mr. Turpentine says, handing Gray a cup, which the boy sets aside, “And all thinking creatures should hew closely to that sort of wisdom. However, I fear that our true host is yet to arrive, and I daresay she would care little for me speaking out of turn.”

D’Alle grunts at this and accepts a cup of chûs from the cheerful old monster. He sips it and grimaces; he covers the reaction quickly but Turpentine sees and stiffens slightly. It is small reaction but West revises d’Alle’s life expectancy sharply downward.

Not a good one to slight, my friend. Not if the reality matches the reputation—which is as

considerable as it is dark.

“I confess to curiosity myself, then,” West says, sipping his own drink, “As to who our host is. Considering the august company already around this fire, I’d hardly be surprised to find it was one of the Nine themselves!”

Mr. Turpentine laughs. “Oh, wonders await, my good West! Friends of friends, companions fresh and worn, delightful newcomers and, dare I say, a surprise or two.”

“Certainly no one more surprising than the legendary Mr. Turpentine,” West says, “And

the incomparable Primary Gray. Two creatures who cast long shadows across the Lands.”

“You set yourself too lowly, sir!” Mr. Turpentine cries, re-filling the pot and setting it back into the fire. “You are by no means an insignificant figure yourself.”

West’s smile grows easy, liquid. He can sense the faint hint of an insult, here, perhaps more in the creature’s tone than words. “You confuse me with my father,” He demurs, “Or,

perhaps my brothers and sisters. I myself am merely a servant of all, notorious only by proximity to greatness.”

“I’m sure your siblings would say the same.” Mr. Turpentine demurs, and for a moment, West’s smile freezes. Is the machine taunting him? But no, this servile monster wouldn’t dare, dark reputation or no. West chooses to laugh, a rumble that echoes around the room.

“My brothers and sisters have many fine qualities,” West says, finally, “But an over-burden of humility has never been one of them.”

“Surely,” Mr. Turpentine says, perfectly correct, “The sons and daughters of Hunter Fine have no need for humility?”

The fucking thing is taunting him. West’s fingers flex, just slightly. He imagines that he sees a smile on the immortal Primary Gray’s face, but—no. It is just firelight. And that’s all right; West is just here to learn what the point of this invitation—this meeting—truly is. Once he does, perhaps he’ll teach someone the dangers of sly manners.

“I’m sorry,” d’Alle says, squinting at West, “But did someone say… Hunter Fine?”

It is clear d’Alle does not know who West is, but he knows that name. Mr. Turpentine is known only in certain unpleasant circles, and Primary Gray is more a legend than a name, but Hunter Fine…

West feels that old stew of conflicting feelings, half pride and half bitterness, bite at the

back of his throat.

“He was my father,” West says, reluctantly. “In a manner of speaking.”

He hears a chuckle from the darkness beyond the fire, and the scrape of someone shuffling towards them. West’s hand goes to his weapon, but Mr. Turpentine does not startle, nor seem alarmed. The voice—oddly familiar, to West’s ear—chuckles again.

“I think what you mean,” The voice says, still in the darkness, “Is that after he killed himself, he stuffed all his worst qualities into you.”

West tenses, perhaps more than the insult itself calls for. There is something familiar in that voice, but he cannot immediately place it. In a life as long as his, this is a common sensation, but nevertheless alarm prickles at his skin. A shambling figure enters the circle of firelight and falls into a seated position on one of the chunks of rock dragged there for that purpose. The voice belongs to a man, nothing more and less. He is certainly not one of the Wise.

He looks quite bad. His clothes are barely rags, and old savage scars the color of ash and mulberry wind across what can be seen of his chest. His right leg looks to have been broken and badly set; it has been fixed at an angle that looks uncomfortable at best. He is wearing no shoes; his toes are broken and poorly aligned. When he yawns, West can see that several of his teeth have been broken off and left uncared for, sharp shards still housed in blackening gums. He looks like a broken dog. When he stops rubbing his eyes West can see something is unsettling about them, something wrong, but in the firelight he cannot tell exactly what. The broken man heaves a sigh as deep as the darkness around them and straightens up a little. He looks first at d’Alle, then at West.

“Hullo, Lourde.” He says finally, with an effort at cheer. “Or is it West, now? Hello, d’Alle! Fancy seeing you here. Mr. Turpentine, might I have some chûs before these two try to

kill me?”

Mr. Turpentine titters, his long bladelike fingers covering his mouth. “Nothing like that will be permitted, Mr. Candle.”

“Just plain ‘Candle’ is fine.” The man says. “I lost my honorific years ago. Right around the same time I lost my honor. Eh, d’Alle?”

Suddenly the fat man on the walking-couch stiffens in recognition. Shock and rage crease his broad face, and a trembling finger raises. “You…”

“Me.” The broken man agrees. “You’ve gotten fatter, d’Alle. You shouldn’t let something else walk for you.”

The cantrait dances on its slender clockwork legs, reflecting d’Alle’s agitation. He is near apoplexy, his face red and flushed, his eyes staring.

“This… this is… Who allowed this… this creature into this meeting?”

“I will remind you all,” Mr. Turpentine says delicately, “That we are guests and under something of a flag of truce? Old enmities must be set aside, gentlemen, if only for the span of this meeting. As difficult as it may be.”

West is still puzzled. There is something familiar about the man, but…

Then he gets it. The face is the same, if bruised and broken, but the supreme arrogance that had once animated it is gone. West should be happy about this, but he can’t be; he had wished to wipe that arrogance clean himself. He hasn’t seen this man in years. He would have laid good coin on him being dead twice over.

Candle has been watching West’s face, and now he grins. “There it is. Recognize me, eh?

You might want to let your family know they can stop mourning.”

West goggles at the broken man. “How are you here? We thought you were dead!”

“Oh, I am. Dead as shit.” Candle says, holding his arms up, limp, and waggles them. “Someone attached some strings and are dancing my corpse about.”

“My brother,” West promises grimly, “Will have your head.”

“He is welcome to it.” Candle grins again, a ghastly sight. “If he can get it off my body.” D’Alle growls, interrupting. “I swore that if I ever saw you again…”

“Oh, hush.” Candle waves his hand in a shooing gesture. “Both of you. Any revenge you ever wished upon me, consider it paid with interest. Even if you could get past Turpentine, here, the worst you could do to me would be like gentle kisses compared to my morning routine. So calm down and enjoy the sight of me, brought so low. I’ll even allow you to leer.”

“This,” West says to Mr. Turpentine, turning with icy courtesy, “Had better not be our host.”

“Oh, no, dear West. I fear the days of Mr. Candle making grand plans is… ah… quite firmly in the past.”

Candle makes a face but doesn’t disagree. He accepts a cup of chûs from the mechanical monster, blows on it, and sips.

“This… this creature…” d’Alle is calmer now, but far from easy, “Is more dangerous than you know, and if you think he is done with plots, you are very mistaken. I have experienced his plots firsthand.”

Mr. Turpentine’s only reply is another titter.

“Well thank you, d’Alle.” Candle says, with mock courtesy. “I’m glad to have made such an impression; I’d nearly forgotten about you and your sad little Cannoux-Town. But Mr.

Turpentine is all too correct; I am nothing but a tool these days, broken and re-broken until I fit the hand. I fear my days as a motive force in this world are done.”

“Nevertheless,” West says, having calmed himself, “You’ll resign yourself to going back with me, once our business is concluded. My brother will want to have words with you.”

Candle winks at him, a tired gesture, and takes another sip of chûs.

“If you can manage that, I’ll go gladly. My new master might give you a little trouble, though.”

“And who is your new master?” d’Alle says, tightly. “What dark force do you serve now?” “Oh, the darkest, d’Alle. But you’ll be re-acquainted soon enough. In the meantime, might

I have more of this excellent chûs, Turpentine? I’m afraid I’ve quite drunk it up. This new master of mine isn’t much for supplying creature comforts, and it’s been a while since I’ve had anything sweet.”

“Certainly, Mr. Candle!” Mr. Turpentine has reverted to the honorific; if stories are true the creature delights in the strictures of polite society, nearly as much as he enjoys committing horrors upon it. He sets about fussing with his pots again. Candle, for his part, seems lost in his own thoughts for a while. Finally, he straightens himself. This appears to take some effort, and then he looks around the fire. His strange eyes flicker in the light, disquietingly. He adopts a mocking, faux-grand tone and spreads his arms, highlighting broken fingers.

“So! Here we are. An idiot, a fool, a psychopath, and a child-god.” Candle says. “I bet you wonder why.”

“Our host wished…” Mr. Turpentine warns, but Candle waves him off.

“I wasn’t sent ahead for nothing, Turpentine. You know her; she wishes us to get all the tedious exposition out of the way and not waste her precious time. Never fear that I betray our host, my friend; if you think my body is broken, just wait until you see my spirit.”

He spits into the fire, looks briefly at his dirty hands, and looks around again. His words

have the flavor of a prepared speech, but not one that is eagerly given. West is again amazed to see the man fallen so low; he cannot imagine what has befallen the creature since he knew him. Candle clears his throat, a rough sound.

“In any case, what are we doing here? What a motley crew! What possible purpose could this convocation of personalities—this Convox, if you will—serve? What opportunity, in all the Wanderlands, could bring us to meet here in the darkness, out past the edge of the world, and deep beneath the skin of the Mountain? What force could cause us to congregate in this dead

grave of a buried civilization?”

“You haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic,” West says, a little sourly.

“Well, I shouldn’t,” Candle grins, jerking his head at d’Alle, “I learned it from him.” D’Alle shakes his head. “If I must listen to you speak, I’ll listen to as little of it as possible.

Say what you mean to, boy.”

“You never were any fun, Master d’Alle.” Candle says. He looks around the fire again, then up at the big circular helix of the stone stairway, rising into darkness above them. He looks tempted, for a moment, as if he could run for it and escape. But he sighs and looks back down at the assembled worthies.

“We’re here,” Candle says, finally, “Because far below us, so far below our feet that it

would beggar a man’s imagination to consider, the most dangerous creature that ever existed lies bound, in the greatest prison built by the greatest magicians of the greatest age of the world. A creature that nearly ended our world when it was full of light and life; one that, if it were to get free, would snuff out our existence as easily as I might snuff out a candle-flame. I speak, of course, of the Giant, who lies even now restless beneath us.”

West snorts, incredulous. What nonsense is this? He shakes his head. If this is what he has

been dragged across most of the known world to hear, he has wasted a trip. “The Giant is dead,” He says, flatly, “And has been for a long time.”

Candle smiles, a ghastly sight with his broken teeth. His strange eyes glitter. “I disagree.”

West stands. He cannot believe that he has traveled so far for this! He decides to put an end to this nonsense.

“The Giant—and let me be clear, for those less informed of us, the Giant once named Kindaedystrin, the deadliest creature that the Mother ever cursed us with, yes, that one—is dead. He has been dead for two ages of the world. There is certainly a prison below our feet; my father helped build it. But I did not come all this way, under such conditions, to entertain nightmares and fairy-stories. I am in a position to know, perhaps better than any creature living, and I assure you—The Giant is long dead.”

Primary Gray, the ancient creature, raises his golden eyes. “No,” The boy says, quietly, “He is not.”