Through Darkest Zymurgia!

Language is an odd thing. This is a commonplace, I suppose, and absurd even to mention, yet it is true. I believe the culprit is untrammeled metaphor. During the course of this narrative, for example, I have referred to "phantail fodder"; I have spoken of Carbuncle's soothing the Hansen's geometer which had been scampering about the hold in distress; in general, I have spoken of phantasms as if they were alive, when they manifestly are not. Why do I do this? That's easily said: I picked it up from Carbuncle. But, more generally, why do we speak this way? True, phantasms do exhibit some of the symptoms of life. They frequently move on their own. Many consume some kind of stuff as fuel, which they use to perform some kind of work. Some phantasms are even capable of a kind of growth. And yet they lack other symptoms. They do not bring forth young according to their kind, but must be made; they have little independence of behavior; they certainly do not think! Nor do they build cities, drink sherry, or attend the opera.

I suppose the phantasts started it as a sort of misguided affection for their creations. Knowing full well that their little toys do not eat, they spoke of feeding them, and other phantasts understood. The phantast's motto is, "If it works, it works. Don't break it." The food metaphor worked for them: it was simple, descriptive and concise, even while being, in the strict sense, untrue. Other metaphors grew in similar ways. And those for whom phantastics is a closed book, like myself, came to speak the same way precisely because we did not understand. I know full well that the phantail doesn't eat...but please do not ask me to explain just what it does instead.

This reliance on metaphor rather than logic is one of the reasons why I find phantastics so dashed difficult to understand. My field is based, in part, on geometry, which is to say, on mathematics. You always know where you stand with mathematics. If you prove a theorem in one country, you know it holds good in the next country over. If a computation was correct yesterday, it will still be correct tomorrow. If a mountain is shown to be at a particular location relative to Pelham Observatory today, it is still there tomorrow--assuming the mountain itself didn't move in the meantime, as sometimes happens.

But I digress. It suffices to say that when I use such language I have no intent to mislead the reader; I simply have no better language to use.

On the 2nd of Melee, then, about a day's cruise out of Cuprios, Captain Halvorsen informed us that the phantail had sickened and could no longer work; moreover, we would need to stay in Cuprios Harbor for at least a week, to allow the phantail to recuperate in drydock. He thought that perhaps the phantail had picked up some kind of parasite, and needed a thorough drying out. I discussed this with Carbuncle that evening in the lounge.

"It's nothing of the kind, you know," he said, shaking his head gently. "The captain is a fine man, but I suspect his phantasts are teasing him a bit. There's no beast in the sea that would have any kind of a taste for a phantail, or on land either. You might just as well dine on your silverware, rather than with it."

"Do you think the crew are just conniving at a week in Cuprios?" asked Philpott.

"Not likely, I'd say," replied Carbuncle. "The Spaniel is new enough that every phantast in His Majesty's naval yard will want a look at her phantasmagoria. Being a guest, and in need of their care, as it were, Captain Halvorsen can't very well refuse them. They'd soon notice any such mischief. And Halvorsen's phantasts are sound men, good at their work. Any problem with the phantail reflects poorly on them; they'd never make it sound worse than it is. No, if they told the captain a week, a week it will be."

The phantail's indisposition was not an unmixed blessing, however ruinous it was to our schedule. For the first time in this voyage the gossamer sails were unfurled on the Spaniel's two masts, giant glistening triangles and squares of material so fine it could scarcely be seen. A more glorious sight can scarcely be imagined than a tall ship sailed as it should be, the breath of the ur-winds swelling the gossamer yet never touching a hair of my head. It was a sight I had been anticipating for many days, and had so far been disappointed. Three days we had to watch it, three days of beautiful, perfect sailing--not one day, for the ur-winds did not blow fast enough, or from the proper quarter. Thus, we reached Cuprios on the 5th of Melee, rather than on the 3rd as we had intended. Nor would we leave until the 12th.

Cuprios Harbor is a stirring sight. It is His Majesty's chief base in the eastern Sea of Dogs, guarding as it does the merchant shipping between Angland and the Bundi Nations, and therefore is home to naval vessels of all kinds. A few of the old, sail-powered frigates and line-of-battle ships remain there; the Admiral's flag officially flies over the aged Dauntless, though he is more usually to be found on land than at sea in these peaceful times. Cuprios also has a strong garrison of more modern phantail-powered warships, though none quite so modern as our own Sea-Spaniel.

There is an antipathy of long-standing between the Royal Navy and the merchant marine, and so I was rather surprised by the warmth of our reception. As we sailed into the harbor we were saluted by the castle that guards it, rising sheer from the water at the harbor's mouth, and also by the Dauntless. Sailors lined the yards of the sailing ships, and the decks of the modern vessels, and raised a lusty huzzah as we glided past. It was completely outside of my experience, and unspeakably delightful.

It was not until later (though fortunately before I remarked upon it in the wrong circles, and made a fool of myself) that Captain Halvorsen explained to me that they had not been honoring the Spaniel or her crew, but rather a certain small flag flying at our masthead. Evidently this small, striped piece of cloth proclaimed us His Majesty's courier, charged with the speedy delivery of dispatches of import to the Kingdom of Angland.

"And are we?" I inquired.

"Oh, indeed. Sir John at the embassy sent over a pouch while you were gallivanting around Lyricum Town. It's not that unusual a request, and of course it's always pleasant to have His Majesty's government owe one a favor."

"And that's why we received such a warm welcome, is it?"

"The seven sacks of mail we received with the pouch are evidently much anticipated," he expanded.

"Ah, I see. Anything of interest in the pouch?" I have always been inquisitive; that's why I am an explorer.

"Good god, man, it's a sealed pouch!" The captain snorted. "I haven't the faintest idea what's in it. Nor am I likely to find out, and glad I am to think so. An official dispatch that concerns me and mine is a thing to avoid." With that, I could only agree.

Whether it was because we were bearers of good news (if such we were), or whether we simply broke the tedium, the fact remains that we were treated warmly and generously for the whole of our stay. No sooner had we reached the dock than Carbuncle and I, and our suite, were invited to guest in the governor's palace for the duration of our stay. This was a great blessing, as no sooner had we disembarked with such belongings as we would need than the Spaniel was lovingly escorted to the drydock, to receive the best care that His Majesty's phantasts (and her own) could give her.

In all, our party consisted of myself, Carbuncle, Philpott, and Bruno, with Hodgins and Baxter to attend to our needs. Captain Halvorsen was also invited to guest at the palace, and I do believe he slept there, but we seldom saw him. It is an old naval maxim that unwatched work is never finished, and so he divided his time between the dry dock and the chandlery, sparing no apparent expense to get the Spaniel back in top condition.

I have referred to the governor's palace, that being the term with which my readers will be most familiar, and yet that is not the building's name. Cuprios being controlled completely by the Royal Navy, and having no indigenous population, is administered as a ship, rather than as a colony. The palace is more properly called the Admiral's Great Cabin, and the coach which took us up the cobbled road from the docks to the hilltop is affectionately known as the Ship's Gig. But though it lacks an indigenous population, it has a sizable population of transplants and transients both. In practice, Admiral Jamison is understood to be the governor of Cuprios, and while he is on dry land the more usual names and practices are used. With a few exceptions, of course.

The admiral held a banquet for us on the evening of the day we arrived; we, in this case, comprised myself, Carbuncle, Philpott, and Captain Halvorsen. Bruno, alas, was not invited, though I am sure he would have been willing to attend. Philpott himself was nearly excluded, until I pointed out that he was no mere secretary, but rather a scholar in his own right, and the youngest son of the Earl of Luton.

The company met at seven o'clock, and entered the dining room promptly at eight o'clock. Admiral Jamison declared that this was not a moment too soon; from long years at sea, his appetite still kept naval hours, and had been waiting since four. It was a hearty meal, primarily of seafood. There is no pasturage on Cuprios, and the so-called meat course was a large white fish; some kind of halibut, I believe. A fish chowder arrived for the soup course, and the fish course proper was a delicate flurry of baby prawns. The wine, alas, was unexceptional.

The conversation was such as might be expected from such a gathering: Admiral Jamison himself, and his flag captain, Michael Wyburn; a smattering of other captains; and an old friend, Douglas Willoughby. Willoughby and I had met on my first expedition. He was second on a dingy old tub of a merchantman, and I was second to Ambrose Elliot, of unlamented memory. Willoughby and I became close friends on the strength of shared misery. He'd gone east and joined the Chartered Bundi Company, keeping the natives down and the profits up, and making an enormous pile with it. I, on the other hand, had remained in academia. I hadn't seen him in years.

Time had treated Willoughby well, time and patience and hard work. He was resplendent in white linen, with a monocle and a fine gold timepiece in his waistcoat pocket.

"Willoughby, old fellow, you're looking well," I exclaimed.

"And I'm better than I look, Thintwhistle, I'm better than I look. You should have come with me to the Bundi while you had the chance." He smoothed his mustache, and struck a pose. "You wouldn't know it to look at me, Thintwhistle, but you are looking at Lord Willoughby of Bundiyal, His Majesty's latest peer of the realm."

"A peer, is it? His Majesty's reward for years spent helping the company build a paradise in a savage land?" He smiled, and agreed that it was so. "You're right, I should have come with you. It would have been more peaceful. But what brings you to Cuprios?"

"I'm just in port for a few days; I'm heading home for my formal investiture as peer before the House of Lords. And how are things in Angland?"

This led to a popular outcry for news of home from all sides. "Well, let me see," said Captain Halvorsen. "The Derbies are back in power again, I believe. Cranford is a Derby, isn't he?" There was general laughter.

"This year, Captain, I believe you are correct," said Admiral Jamison. "Of course, you've been away from home for several weeks. Perhaps he's a Topper by now."

Politics had the floor for a considerable time after, focussing, as I recall, on Government's failure to deal forcefully enough with Eporus. As this had been a familiar refrain for lo these many years, I paid little attention until I was hailed by the admiral himself.

"A glass with you, Dr. Thintwhistle," he said. I raised my glass in return, and as they were being refilled by a silent young fellow in brass buttons, he continued, "I am eager to hear of your latest expedition. Will it be Seros again?"

"In part, Admiral," I said. "We will be traveling through Seros, and I've no doubt we will observe many interesting things. Our ultimate destination, however, is Zymurgia."

"Zymurgia? Refresh an old sailor's memory, will you?"

"It is the country directly to the south of Seros. Carbuncle and I made a brief visit some years ago. Thanks to a generous grant made to the University, we are finally able to return and spend some real time there."

"What's it like? Sand and tombs and things, like Seros?" asked Wyburn.

"With luck, I'll be better able to answer that on our return trip. It's greener than Seros, and it is inhabited. There's a certain amount of trade between the Zymurgians and the Serosans, but beyond that little is known of them."

"Trade, really?" asked Willoughby. "I was under the impression that they discouraged visitors."

"That's one of the stories, but it's hard to say," said Carbuncle. "We had no trouble from the one Zymurgian we met on our previous trip."

"Zymurgia is on a plateau," I said. "There are few paths to the top. It's possible that the fabled reclusiveness of the Zymurgians simply reflects difficulty of access."

The admiral sat back in his chair. "What do you expect to find?" he asked.

"Beer," I said.

"Beer?" asked Wyburn, in surprise.

"Beer," I said. "That's what Zymurgia means, you know...the land of brewing. They've been selling beer to the Serosans for thousands of years. The trade is only carried on in a small way these days; just with the folk at the base of the plateau."

"It seems a long way to go to get a drink," said Wyburn.

"The ancient rulers of Seros might have agreed with you," I said, "but they apparently bought large quantities nevertheless."

"Beer," said Admiral Jamison. "The beer of the ancients. A remarkable thought, that, Dr. Thintwhistle. I wish you luck of your expedition. Now," he continued, "it is late, and time for the loyal toast. Perhaps you and your companions are unaware, Dr. Thintwhistle, that we follow naval custom here on His Majesty's Ship Cuprios, and drink the toast while seated. Gentlemen, the King!" We drained our glasses, and the banquet came to an end.