The Alchemists Of Vra

Opening Chapter-3

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.