Why Hang a Man Then Save Him?

The Silvergrey Sea

Part One: A little Excitement

Why Hang a Man Then Save Him?

* * *

After arranging for Drago’s scan with Abram, I headed for the train station. Investigating his backstory was the next step.

I must confess I was looking forward to the trip. I generally enjoy travel and hadn’t had much chance, lately. The six hours it would take to get to Vita, Noir’s capital, and the only other sizable city, promised to be a relaxing experience.

Travel to the station turned out to be anything but. It was on the far side of town and too long to walk sober. After thinking of some two-dozen unpleasant things I’d rather subject myself to than the local public transit, I decided to spring for a cab.

I might have made better time if I’d walked. What the hell, at least I got a nap out of it.

Vita had been Noir’s first settlement. When the colonists expanded to this side of the island, they put the train station in first. It hadn’t had much in the way of upgrading in the intervening centuries. Everything worked, more or less, but there wasn’t much else you could say about it that didn’t involve cursing.

The first thing most people noticed about the station was that you had to go down several storeys to get to it. The city had been built over it and the tracks leading out of town in stages. This turned the first three miles of track into a de facto subway line.

The ‘elevator’ had no walls to speak of, just waist-high corrugated metal rusted through in many places. The lift was piston driven, so it had no overhead cables. Just as well because it had no roof, either. I descended to the accompaniment of a symphony of ear-torturing screeches as the platform scraped against the steel and concrete of the shaft walls.

I watched alternating bands of open ironwork, graffitied brick, and concrete rising past me as I descended, taking fast drags on the last cigarette I’d have for the next few hours. As the lift passed each floor, I saw a few glass-fronted shops, but this end of town had little in the way of charm for the law abiding; most of the custom was hidden and illegal.

The last twenty feet of descent was blessedly free of noise. I could see a dozen people below standing on blue marble, waiting to board and ascend to the street. Spread out behind them was the faded grandeur of Santo Mortis’s North Terminal Station.

The ceiling, which I passed close enough to touch, was elaborate fan vaulted granite, with delicately formed patterns in it. Chunks of it were missing at random intervals along the edges of the hole the elevator passed through. This was the result of contact over the years between the ceiling and assorted items such as arms, legs, backs, necks, and skulls—sometimes even accidently.

The lift finally reached ground level, bouncing gently several times before coming to a stop. I pushed the metal half-door open and stepped off quickly before the crowd could start shoving their way on.

I crossed the hypostyle hall to the row of ticket booths.

Ten minutes later, I had a window seat in coach. Ten minutes after that, as the train rumbled its way through the dark, I had a scotch in my hand.

* * *

It took four scotches in total to take the edge off my nicotine craving. I watched the featureless grey dunes of Noir’s polar region pass, brain fizzing with liquor dissolved synapses, thinking wordless existential thoughts. Sleep took me before we reached the North Pole.

* * *

The juddering deceleration of the train woke me. I straightened my frame, my face, and my hair; grabbed my hat from the floor; and stood, stretching, to wait for the other semi-conscious zombies shuffling their way to the exit to make a hole.

That first drag was always the most satisfying.

Past the exit, I walked to the front of the line of cabs, flicking a cigarette butt through a sewer grate. Five minutes later, I pulled up in front of the Hotel Hammett, an imposing pile past its prime, but in better repair than most similar buildings in Santo Mortis. Being close to the seat of power evidently made a difference.

The clerk was a neat, thin, balding cockalorum whose circumstances didn’t entitle him to the attitude. I let it slide. I showed him an image of Drago and asked if he’d been a guest.

I showed it again, displaying a bit less patience.

I calculated the cost/benefit analysis of a violent assault on his person, sighed at the result, and showed the image again, with a twenty-credit note superimposed over it.

The clerk’s memory improved.

I asked about the circumstances of my client’s arrival or, rather, I and another bit of paper money did.

He confirmed that Drago had arrived in the company of three Hermetists, who explained that Drago was ill and wasn’t to be disturbed. They, too, had made offerings of currency. They left him with the impression that Drago himself was a Hermetist; though, when questioned, the clerk admitted he hadn’t actually been told that.

A little charm and a few more bank notes later, I was in the suite formerly occupied by my client.

I lit another fag and stood in the middle of the main room. It hadn’t been occupied since Drago, though it had been given a cursory cleaning. I checked the closet. Three identical looking suits, in different sizes. All were the same as what Drago had been wearing. My confidence in my client’s veracity rose.

I searched the bathroom. The sink had been cleaned. Ditto the toilet and shower. I looked under the sink. The wastebasket had one item in it: a noose.

Alarm bells began going off. This wouldn’t have been casually left behind by whoever rescued Drago. Or would it? From his description, they sounded like Hermetists, but Hermetists had also been responsible for his hanging.

Probably.

I cursed.

Back in the main room, I sat at the tiny desk, lit the tiny lamp, and took out my tiny epad. I dropped my hat on the far corner and began to puzzle out what I knew.

Item: Drago had been taken here by Hermetists, or those who pretended to be.

Item: Noose in the room.

Item: Old hanging scar.

Item: Drago was from a world accessible by the Silvergrey Sea. Though there are other ways he could have arrived here (by Portal, e.g.).

Conclusion: Drago was likely telling the truth, as he saw it. It’s possible he was lied to or misled about some things. But to what end?

To-do: check out his back-story further.

I underlined the last word. I knew what that meant, and I didn’t relish it.

Now, I had to head back and check in with Abram. I’d need Drago’s scan before making any decisions on where to head next. I just knew it would mean leaving Noir via the bloody Silvergrey Sea.

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, September 2026

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