The Devil in the Dreaming Palace

by Hendrid Pratchett
 That that a latitudinarian such as I should show a growing predilection – nay, devotion even – towards one
particular aspect of divinity should not be inferred nor deduced to be a hitherto unknown awakening of a
wellspring of piety within my blackened heart. What a drole, predictable and, dare I say it, sentimental load
of poppycock that would be. No – instead, I devote this text and the actions described therein to Father
Skinsaw, the Reaper of Reputation, and other lesser faces and forms of Norgorber in both a celebration of
their power, and thanks for the river of inspiration that flows through my thoughts into my art, my craft, and
most of all, my joy. Let Norgorber hear my song!

Ha, ha, fooled you, what tosh. I devote this tome to nobody. I did it because I wanted to.
Chapter 1
It is traditional in such an account of one’s life to begin at the beginning: birth, parentage, the
apple-cheeked smiles of youth, sneaking off to play in the woods and being scolded-not-scolded with
a ruffle of the hair. Yawn! We can return to this time later if we need to though – spoiler! – I
killed them all in their sleep in the most horrific of ways, the details of which are indubitably
fascinating. We shall leave such thoughts there, a mouth-watering flashback to revisit when the
time is ripe.
Instead let us begin with today, Gozreh 17th, 4721. I’ve penned various pages already but have
been inspired to complete the opening chapter based on something one of my most recent guests
said to me (what, did you think great literature is written in the order it is read? Did you also
think Rodin the Ratfolk painted his masterpieces starting at the top and working down?).
His name is Bolar, a dwarf of quite prodigious levels of stupidity and inanity, so much so that he
was part of an ‘team’ called the “Red Dragon Pals” whom had insulted yours truly quite shockingly
several mornings ago. Yes, dear reader, that was a tiny flush of rage and indignity flashing across
your brow – how dare he! I jest of course, the notion that my art is purely driven by a motive so
petty as revenge is laughable. Regardless, Bolar was finding it somewhat difficult to speak, on
account of most of his skin having been removed. Picture peeling an orange with a knife: from
bottom to top is best, make several delicate cuts, and then pull gently, so it opens like a lotus
flower and long delicate strips lie resting on the plate (or slippery red floor in this case), not
forgetting to leave a small amount of rind one side of the orange (let’s call it the face) for artistic
merit, or in this case conversation.
“I hope you rot in hell.”
“The Gods will take you.”
“You’ll never get away with it.”
“My friends will destroy you.”
“You are beyond redemption.”
Bolar was demonstrating a periodicity of curses that will be familiar to anyone who has tortured and
vivisected their way through the sentient races. Heard one, heard ‘em all. Yak yak yak, snare
drum.
But then he said something else. “My ancestors will remember me!”, he gurgled. “And no one
will remember you!”. Then he spluttered a bit more, looked surprised at something, and died.
Or course what he said was gibberish of the highest order. Ones’ ancestors come before thine own,
it is one’s descendants who remember (prodigious levels of stupidity and inanity, remember). But
the general point was taken: In ten thousand years, when Bolar’s descendants, Absalom, and
everything around us is dust, who will speak the name of Hendrid Pratchett and recount his remarkable
and dastardly deeds? Why it is these words of course, this tome, and this story, and all it is
retellings and rewritings thereafter, be they textual, oral, performed, or even whispers on the wind.
So better get that opening chapter finished boyo, or you’ll be off to the ball with no hat, so to
speak.
So, there we are. Welcome to my world. I hope you are both enthralled and horrified in equal
measures.
Chapter 2 – Caliphas
My first gig, oh so long ago, was as Davey Dodd, the demon barber of Caliphas. I know! What a
terrible, derivative, name, profession and even city to choose. I apologise, it gets better, I promise.
In my defence, I was young and impressionable, still developing my craft, and had a lot to learn.
I had just read a well-known shocker-tome about a similar demon barber and thought – Caliphas!
– the gothic city of architecture, vampires, romance in the rain, and intrigue – where better to
create some art? Aw, shucks. How cute.
The truth is that being a demon barber is rather boring. There really is only one way to kill
someone. I mean, you could put down that razor blade already scratching the skin of their neck,
remove your presence from behind their ear so your breath no longer sits on their cheek like dew,
step to the back of the room, smooth yourself down, calm your erection, etc, then return a few
moments later with, say, a tea-kettle or sword-cane or the like, but once you’ve been so close to
the kill, jumping to the finish doesn’t illicit the same feeling of relief. One can also choke, poison,
club, or otherwise incapacitate one’s customers, take them through to a back room, and then chop
off fingers, toes, ears, hands, then feet, then limbs (in chunks), etc again. But is one really a
“demon barber” at such point, or more of a “demon butcher with some hair gel”? Trust me, its all
so wholly unsatisfying.
Then of course came the busy-bodies. Not the watch of course (this is Caliphas, dear fellow!),
but local snoops calling themselves Cassie, Quinley and Maximillian. Scrutiny and analysis revealed
these to be part a conspiracy by the name of the “Silver Lantern”, vomit-inducing do-gooders
driving out honest artisans of evil such as myself in a vain attempt to cover up their own feelings of
inadequacy, fear of mortality, sexual frustrations, desperation that the sands of time will reduce
their limited and pathetic lives to oblivion, and general confused and selfish justifications for praise
and acknowledgement at the hands of immortal beings to whom their lives mean literally nothing.
Bastards, the lot of them. So, I was forced to leave. Still, at least it gave me chance to dress
myself again.
Chapter 3 - Eldir
Much as a pendulum, once swung in one direction cannot but help itself to swing equidistant in
the other direction – it has no free will, being driven by gravity and other forces it cannot hope
to understand – so I found myself in Eldir, capital of Isger, as Lexington Grayman, city scribe
and junior servant in the King’s Ministry of Taxation. Oh, dear god, kill me now. Life as a civic
functionary, in a city without a soul, in a country cuckolded to a vaster more interesting yet out-
of-reach culture, every day tasked with menial, unceasing and repetitive scroll-work, obsequious
ministrations and illimitable drudgeries – well, it’s a real drag, dont’cha know? I sometimes think
the crown officials and other lay-people whom I murdered were grateful to be put out of their
misery, cast out from the purgatory-like tedium that is Eldir, and into a better place, wherever
that may be.
Of course, they weren’t grateful at all. They howled and cursed and spat and grovelled to the
last. Some things never change.
The one good thing about being Grayman was anonymity. Those I knew treated me with
pococurantism bordering on vulgarity, and to those I didn’t, I was a wisp in the wind. This
granted me opportunity to pursue additional studies in what passed for the libraries, clubs and
secret-societies of the tedious city. I learned the fundamentals of necromancy, engineering,
poisons, occultist-magics, demon-summoning, tailoring, lockpicking, and numerous other talents to
add to my already prodigious list of skills. All of these would be useful in what was to come.
But that would come later. First was Eldir, and why I was forced to leave. I would love to say
that I came to my senses, realised that I was being boring, that I had too much time to find for
myself, something lyrical like that. But the sad truth is, I was rumbled again. This time it was a
halfling named “Lem” (a stage name I’m sure, no one would actually name their child such
nonsense). Perhaps it was my fault: hanging the entire Office for the Oversight of Bardic
Performances from the ceiling while I plucked out their eyeballs, well, it wasn’t my most subtle
piece. But they stubbornly refused to a man to indicate which one of them was responsible for
borrowing my scroll ink, and, well, what can you do? Lem burst in, ran away howling and
screaming like a baby without its rattle, and I knew I had to act.
Killing him in public was out of the question, but erasing his memory through arcane scrollwork –
that was achievable. Such administrations rarely have permanence, shibboleths leak out, divinations
and counterspell work gets performed, and before you know it, uniformed men are knocking at your
door with “questions”. It is at times like this, that one is struck by a sudden sense of review,
like a man on a hill casting his eye over the trail he has walked. Am I at the top of the
mountain, striking my walking staff proudly as the eagles soar around me, tribal music playing in
the backround? I’m Lexington Grayman for fucks sake, I’m not even halfway up the mountain.
Time to go.
Chapter 4 - Almas
Another city, another name, another job, another plan. I’m adaptable, see. No stuck-in-a-rut
midlife crisis sad-sack of a broken marriage three kids working down the docks for the Fat
Controller. That’s not me. I make my own destiny (eyes twinkle, finger points to the top of
the theatre, etc). This time we’re in Almas, capital of Andoran, Birthplace of the Free, Home
of the Brave, the Place that Irony Goes to Die. I’m Fritiz Spiegelshtein, grocer, trader,
importer, and all-round good egg. I help neighbours with their laundry, keep an eye out for
near-do-wells, pass on compliments, and in turn get to play the role of the kindly but penny-
pinching merchant. “I’m sorry maam, but the price is the price”. There is a sense of community
about this place, I like it.
So, the murders. Davey Dodd was too stifled, too predicable, and Lexington Grayman (for all his
colourless mien) was too chaotic, too careless. I needed an approach that allowed control and
surreptitiousness while preserving the capacity for artistic freedom. I needed a canvas, but also
the paints. Or a block of marble but also the chisel. Or a stage but also the funny hats. [NOTE
TO SELF: these analogies aren’t working here – think more upon the truth of my art and update
as appropriate]
After trying a few killings over the course of the first few months – what works, what doesn’t, etc
– the best solution seemed to be a subscription service for groceries. No one expects the
delivery man, especially when: “pardon me, Miss, but let me carry these bags in for you, they
are frightfully heavy today”. The delivery service gave me two options: the first, a carve-up on
the spot, if I was feeling thirsty. Generally, I’m in their kitchen anyway and there are plenty of
places to hide a body in a big-enough estate. Previous deliveries gave me intimidate knowledge of
schedules, cupboards, best implements for piercing flesh, etc. And by now my illusion magics were
becoming advanced, so simple silence spells or illusionary scenes at windows to provide some
privacy while we tango for two – were second nature. There was an element of risk, for sure, but
it was managed risk. Like sex on a balcony.
The second option from the delivery service was the reverse-bagging. Vegetables and flour goes
in, person in bondage goes out. Sound proofed cart, some seriously strong manacles, ball gag and
rope – job done. Then it’s back to the tidy dungeon beneath the grocery store for you. I do
love a good short-term relationship, so much more satisfying than one-night-stands don’t you
agree?
And – wow! – it opened my eyes, man. Whole new avenues of art are available when you’re not
against the clock. For starters, there is the creation of necromantic creatures, born of hate, pain
and suffering, an almost inexhaustible variety with different flavours, spices, powers, and seasoning,
generally just requiring the key ingredient of a tortured soul (in various states of dismemberment
and suffering). I developed a new found respect for real necromancers (and a new found disgust
for garden-variety meglomanics with skeleton hordes. Can you be any more gauche?). But it’s
not just the necromancy: other forms of art become possible too. Screams, cries, shapes and
sounds, even poetry. When your pen is not just flesh and blood, but the very deconstructed
essence of the human mind and soul, the options are limitless. Once, after bleeding a particularly
fat gentleman over twelve days (using a human-juice machine of my own invention) I recorded his
dying gasps with a magical sound-rod. Mixing those gasps with the high-pitched screams of
another lady whose fingers I burned off, produced some kind of layered sound effect, not unlike
the ululating and drum beats found in Northern Tian, except with more urgency. It’s entirely
possible that on that boring rainy weekend, I single handledly invented a new musical tradition,
one which will be studied for years. I know it’s bad form to stroke one’s own trombone in public
but, dear reader, I AM a genius. Clearly.
Steady on, now. Let’s not get too excited. All things come to an end.
[TO DO: finish chapter with details about the Pathfinders that confronted me, making sure to
point out the zemblanity of this occurrence. Include roof-top chase, sword fight, some direct
speech, lots of peril. Everyone’s a hero in their own story, after all. Make it dramatic – show
don’t tell. Use all five senses. Edit, edit, edit. Finish with bad guys bleeding to death on the
cobbles while yours truly gets the last boat to Absalom as the sun rises over the harbour. Pithy
statement. End on a plosive. Boom.]
Chapter 5 – Interlude
Everyone’s always obsessed with the ‘why’. “Why are you doing this?”, she sobbed. “Why would
you do this?”, he begged. Drawing his sword, he pointed it at me, “Just one question,
Speigelshtein… why?”. Ad infinitum. Am I acting out some twisted form of creativity, some
immortality art project just out of reach? Or perhaps some deeply buried sexual frustration
acquired in infancy? Maybe an offering to Norgorber or insert-affiliated-evil-god-here? Or a
design flaw, an accidental connection between “hell, yeah!” and “eww, ick!” within the gears and
cogs of the brain? Or perhaps it’s just the natural response, the only response, the only correct
response rather, to the sheer fucking stupidity of the truth that we are all dust, always were and
always will be, that emotions and sentience – these things which “morality” claims to treasure -
are in actuality no more valuable than colour or shape or time or anything else that we break and
smash a thousand times per hour when we smoke, eat, dance, or even just talk; for sentience and
emotion are just dust, and toying with them is no different to throwing a log on the fire.
Everything, truly everything, is just wind and even wind is only chaos, and that really any
attempt to impose meaning on anything is irrelevant; like pretending that clouds are shapes – it’s
something only children do.
So reasons? Maybe all of the above? Maybe none? The point is that it doesn’t really matter.
Nobody asks why the composer composes, why the warlord conquers, why the inventor invents.
It’s their actions that matters, not their motive. Would it have made a difference if I’d been
mind controlled? If I repented at the end? So lets draw a line under this “motive” nonsense
and get back to the story. Let’s look at what happened.
Chapter 6 –Absalom
And so, Absalom. The final chapter. (Metaphorically). (Probably). In reality, it was always
going to end here. The other cities just weren’t big enough for me, big enough for such a story.
When you are blazing a trail across the stars, writing a message for the universe to see in the
largest letters possible, painting the picture to eclipse all other pictures, well, you need the
biggest canvas you can get.
Enter Hendrid Pratchett: Dapper, cowardly, suave but slightly disingenuous. Self obsessed,
gregarious, snobbish. A one-man self-promotion machine. Really, sir, you’re making this too
easy. The gig: a hotel. But not just any hotel – this hotel would be unique. An exploration of
death, dismemberment, sleaze and torture. An unholy site of murder, necromancy, pain and
hopelessness. But with nice furnishings, some happy clientele, and a respectable reputation
nonetheless. Newspapers with your morning coffee, then execution after lunch. Banana cocktails
in the lounge? They come with a paper umbrella, madam. And so, the Delightful Daiquiri was
born. A triumph! I feel my Pratchett would like Daiquiris – it shall be his signature drink.
I’ll spare you all the sordid details of the construction. It took a long time, involved many many
meetings with both legitimate and illegitimate business people, lots of greased palms (to both
groups), and a mind-numbing array of paperwork, most of it destroyed now. I was careful; only
three people had to be killed (and the last was kinda just for kicks anyway – NEVER take my
lunch order without writing it down, it’s not clever, and you’ll just end up hurting someone).
Eventually though the hotel was complete – and just in time for a Grand Opening as part of the
Radiant Festival! Project Management – it works, bitches.
So, on that first day, Ralso and I welcomed our first guest, Mrs Honeywell. And what a sweet
lady she is. Not like all the others, the dead ones.
Wait – I haven’t told you about Ralso.
Or the Thieves Guild.
Or the Murder Cult.
Or the secret plot to destroy the whole of Absalom.
OK, fine. SIGH. I’ll do a non-linear narrative. It seems to be all the rage with the bohemians
these days. But its not a flashback. I hate flashbacks. Let’s just retrace our steps slightly,
walk back over a few skipped streets, return to when I first entered the city.
Chapter 7 –Murder Cult
So sometimes even a tormented genius needs friends. And occasionally, just occasionally, you
walk into a coffee shop with the latest novel and see another customer across the floor reading the
same book… a kindred spirit! You swap notes on your favourite characters. Discuss what
happened next. How the author is going downhill (a little, but you’re still a fan). Will he ever
finish the series before he dies? And… exhale. You’ve made real human contact. Fingers
tingle.
So it was with the murder cult. We had lots in common: an obvious love for the hobby so deep it
doesn’t need to be stated; a general appreciation for Norgorber (although in their case, it was
best described as fanatical devotion, I’m more a fair weather style of worshipper); interesting
fashion choices (wearing the skins of your enemies – it’s fun for all the family!); and a general
and practical goal-oriented outlook on life that I do I find refreshing. We all knew what we
wanted, and how to get it.
So, sure, I signed up to their cult. Hidden beneath the Undercity, we prayed on victims across
the Puddles, the Coins and the Docks. Mainly the Puddles – no ones misses the poor. (Really,
it’s their own fault. They CHOSE to be poor. Didn’t they? Didn’t they?!). One by one,
faces were removed, blood was drained, prayers were said, the embarrassing-but-traditional dance
was performed, and they all went into the Vat. Glub glub.
But after a while it became boring. Really – the Vat again? Come on guys. We all enjoy a bit
of killing, but isn’t there space for a little artistry here? Yes, I get it, the sacred texts, yadda
yadda yadda, but surely you’ll agree that holy words of Gods are more of a guideline. They’re
brochures, really. Oh, you don’t agree? Well, sadly I do, so lets agree that we can’t agree to
disagree and part ways. And really, they needed me more than I needed them (such is the
curse of the talented), so it was my decision. By this point I had bigger plans, and none of
them were invited to the party that was to be my murder hotel. I’ll show them!
They’re probably still there, under the city, killing and draining and skinning. I guess when you
find a restaurant you like, you don’t need to try all the others (if you’re boring, which they
are). Maybe we’ll hook up one day, for old times sake. Probably not though. I’m a realist,
after all.
Chapter 8 –Ralso not Ralso
The best thing about being in Absalom is everyone else is so bent and twisted. The shopkeepers
are bent. The guilds are bent. The watch is bent. The city officials are bent. Even the
churches are bent. The best place to hide a tree is in a forest, etc.
So it was no surprise to me (nor, I suspect anyone with any knowledge of the real world) that
the slave organisations didn’t just pack up and go home after Abolition Day. For starters, slavery
transportation and commerce is all perfectly legal, just a few hundred yards out into the harbour.
Load up boat 1, sail it next to boat 2, and Thorin’s your uncle. But it’s hard to run a proper
business just on ships, so of course things spill out into the city, and flow through the streets like
an invisible river, running backwards.
Ralso and her contacts indicated that one such organisation, The Corridor, was sourcing and
shipping slaves from Kortos itself, with underground marketplaces for buyers and sellers, even
banking its profits in disguised accounts. Private invite-only clubs exist where one can browse
wares, all covered up nicely through corrupt officials and watch officers. I’ve never really been
into slavery myself. Don’t get me wrong, I can see the appeal, but I prefer to get my hands
dirty, if you know what I mean. Or pay someone for a one-off job and tell them to piss off.
Having the same person hanging around every day, like a bad smell? Can’t see the appeal, even
as a sex-slave. Doesn’t the rape become a little samey after a while? But if The Corridor was
going to be making people disappear, then all the better for my guests and I. The best place to
hide a tree is in a forest, etc.
(“You’re repeating yourself”, said Ralso. “Yes, my dear, that is the point. It legitimises the
statement. It’s a call back, call backs legitimise. Sigh! There’s no educating some people”)
Ah, Ralso.
This chapter was supposed to be about her, wasn’t it?
Well tough titty. I make my own rules.
Chapter 9 –Ralso (for real)
OK, OK, Ralso.
Yes, I have an apprentice. No, we’re not in love. I mean, she undoubtedly loves me, would lay
down her life for me, of that I’m sure, but one cannot fake what’s in the heart, so I can’t in
good conscious say the reverse holds truth. Still, she’s a sweet girl, her heart is in the right
place after all, at least given her oh-so-tragic backstory. Yes, yes, she may have murdered a few
people, a few being a lot, but she had reasons, she has regrets, and surely that’s what matters
these days. So, I do my best, look out for her, help her get what she wants (or at least my
interpretation of what she wants, but isn’t that always true, for any relationship?).
I won’t deny that having her around helps. Her connections with various thieves guilds mean we
can get the scoop if anyone is snooping around (redraw the upstairs illusions, give out free
weekend tickets, etc). And it’s so much easier to move a body with two.
But it would be unfair, disingenuous of me to say she’s a mere assistant. A protégé, an
apprentice, an heir: all these would be more accurate, but yet – and this is the sad part – not
accurate at all. She’s not a genius like me. Were I to disappear, she wouldn’t have the creative
talents, the vision, or even the drive to see things through. So more of a muse, perhaps? Not
really. The best that can be said is that it’s a relationship hitherto undefined by a single word.
That’s something I think we’d both agree on. No, really.
And of course it’s more than just a one-way thing. It turns out you can teach an old dog new
tricks. Case-in-point: it turns out watching can be fun, even when there’s no murder involved.
Watching strangers wrap themselves around one another, while someone else is wrapped around
yours – you can’t say it’s not enjoyable. Doubly so if you know their continuing life and
existence is purely on your own choice.
Second case-in-point: necromancy. (I’m really getting into this necromancy thing you, know.
Frequently I find myself rising in the morning and saying: “self, what shall I further myself in this
morning? Illusion? Sword-play? Interior decorating? Foreign cookery? Vivisection?”, and the
answer, something that would in times-past zig-zag between the categories, ends up more often
than not landing on necromancy. It’s just so much fun). But, yes, second case-in-point:
necromancy. Ralso, being both figuratively and literally haunted by the death of her sister
murdered and betrayed abused junkie sister Cora (tragic backstory remember), has managed to
channel that into the creation of necromantic soul-dolls. I was stunned, I didn’t think she had it
in her. No honestly dear reader, patronising glibness has no place in these halls, I was genuinely
impressed. And try as I might / try-and-try again / etc / I still can’t recreate said dolls.
Maybe… maybe, just maybe… love and succession and triumph and hopes and dreams…
maybe they are possible, after all.
And yet, when it comes down to it, surely we all know I will sacrifice her to make good my
escape. The real truth: it hurts both ways.
Chapter 10 – The Big Reveal
And yes, the secret plot to destroy the whole of Absalom. I suppose I should at least cover
this, before getting back to the HOTEL PLANS! (my favourite topic these days. Have I told you
about the “Mwangi Room” yet?)
My knowledge of this plot started when…