Professor Angus Trilby

I feel the need tae clarify a few wee points tae mae fellow players. No offence tae any of ye is intended. I hae said before, but I fear it needs saying again. I'm nae a doctor, nor am I an apothecary. There is nae a sign over mae door for anything. I am nae a merchant, but be a private citizen, wishing tae go about mae business with nary an interuption, if that be possible in this hellish town. I do hae supplies of rare herbs and such, for mae own personal use, but if someone is sent tae mae house for the like, then they would be sent by someone who kens mae ways. I hae nary a problem with that, but would prefer tae keep such commerce on the quiet, if ye get mae drift, as I want nae too much attention from the authorities. Sae, I hope this clears up a few things. Now, forebye, I must go purchase a new slops bucket, as mine has met with a slight misadventure.

"Old fool, am I? And I canna say who is worse, you and yon bully boys thrashing through mae house, or this dangerous man ye canna seem tae find. Turn up at mae door again, and I'll toss more than slops onta your head!" Trilby leaned over the half-wall even further, shaking his fist at the men below. "I've been in the wars. I know Greek fire. I know boiling oil. Ye should be lucky twas only slops ye had tae deal with!"

Trilby was in a foul mood. Mainly due to the fact that, just before dusk, six armed guards from the prison had arrived at his door, and demanded to search the place. "The deevil ye will!" he'd protested. "This place has been searched tae death lately. Go buggar someone else." They had pushed him aside and entered his house. When Trilby had asked what they were looking for, rather than answer the question, they had demanded to know if a man had been brought to him for treatment of injuries. Trilby had fumed, "How many times must I tell people, I'm nae a doctor!" The guards had stomped through every room, and in their zeal to catch whoever it was they were looking for, broke three beakers, tipped over a small table, scattering the bird bones which had been in a bowl, made rude remarks about the anatomy charts on the walls, helped themselves to a newly baked loaf of bread, frightened Souris and Cleopatra to death, and then left as rudely as they had entered. Rushing to the rooftop patio, Trilby had tossed a slops pot over the side at the invaders, splashing the leggings of the last man in line. "And nae come back, ye filth!"

Trilby hovered over the kitchen hearth, stirring a viscous gray liquid bubbling away in a heavy iron pot, which hung from an iron tripod. He added a bit of powdered conch shell, a sprinkling of dried pig's blood, a pinch of saltpeter, and gave the lot another stir. It burped and hiccoughed in a slow simmer. Lastly, he added the purplish leaves from the rare plant the Irishman had brought a few nights ago. The room was instantly filled with a foul stench worse than any midden. The mixture grumbled, sputtered, then proceeded to foam over the side of the pot, hitting the flames of the fire with a loud hiss and a billow of harsh smoke. The smoke got thicker, and blacker. Trilby backed away, fanning. It forced him from the room, as the miasma drifted into the hall, then the parlor. Choking and coughing, Trilby, Souris, and Cleopatra took refuge on the rooftop patio. Cleopatra, glaring, jumped to the roof peak where the air was fresher. Trilby scratched his head under the turban. "I nae ken what happened. May hap it were the wrong gender o' pig? The book did list female, but I didna think that mattered sae much. Ah weel, as soon as the smoke clears, I'll try again." Souris looked at his master in alarm, but said nothing.

Once his portal was closed firmly and locked, Professor Trilby did a little jig, tossing the bag of coins to hear them jingle, his tattered and burnt robe flying around him like a dirvishe's cape, which caused his servant, Souris, to open his eyes wide in wonder. It also caused the cat, Cleaopatra, to bolt up the stairs. When the dance was done, and after Trilby gave a little whooping laugh of joy, he barked, "Souris, get you to the kitchen and fix us a fine meal. We're celebrating. When its ready, I'll open a bottle of my best Scottish whiskey, and you can join me on the roof terrace." Souris, too shocked at his employers actions to speak, merely nodded his head and rushed to the kitchen. Relying on what few culinary arts he knew, he soon had a large platter of grilled fish, fresh fruit sweetened with cane, and a few cold biscuits left over from the previous night. He took this banquet up to the roof terrace, where his employer was just pouring a dark amber liquid into two glasses. Souris put down the tray and stepped back, almost tripping over the mounted dog skeleton, which was currently wearing one of Trilbys ratty turbans slouched over one empty eye socket. "Here, mae lad," Trillby said, shoving one glass at Souris. "This is nae time tae stand on ceremony. Cock an ear, Souris, and tell mae what ye hear." Souris merely looked confused, and held the glass as if it would bite him. "That is the sound o' peace and quiet, decending once again on this household. Drink up, boy. Who kens how long it may last." Souris took a tentative sip, burst into a fit of coughing, dropped the glass, which shattered on the tiles, then he fled in horror back down the stairs. "Ah, weel," Trilby muttered, while refilling his own glass. "Sae much the more for maeself." Then he made himself comfortable and ate his celebration feast, while Souris, who had returned with a broom, and who kept his eyes downcast, swept up the broken glass. Cleopatra, unmoved and lying supine on the half-wall, pretended to ignor the strange festivites, but her amber eyes missed nothing. She then decided that grooming her nether parts was more deserving of her attention, and a dainty furred back leg suddenly pointed at the sky.

Trilby let out an exasperated sigh. "It's nae healin' arts she needs, it's a pair of shackles tae keep her in this bed. There's naught yea can do that hasnna already been done." The last thing Trilby wanted was for young Devon Burke to report to Sebastian that his paramour had been stabbed in the back. "You go on, now, and leave us to tend her. Tis rest she needs more than anything else."

As the black man took the woman away, Trilby turned to his first guests. "Oh, aye, yea hae questions. But all I can tell yea is that, should yon vixen die, your compadre Sebastian would nae look fondly on it. Now I must leave yea and see tae her. I thank yea for the delivery, and hope yea forget what yea hae seen here tonight. It be nothing illegal, mind, er, at least I nae think sae, but nothing that yea need prattle about." He gave the two Irishmen a last cock of an eye, then turned to follow the blackamoor.

"Lay by, lay by, yea blasted fools. I'll hae nae killin' in me kitchen!" Trilby stepped up to the Blackamoor. "Put your pistols away, yea heathan devil. Your mistress be a fool, but nea dead. Take her back tae mae study and I'll be there directly." When he saw reluctance in the black man's face, he ordered, "Go, I tell yea, or I'll nae lift a finger more tae help her." With a grunt, and a glare at the two strange men, Africa un-cocked his pistols and put them back in his belt. But his voice still held a lethal dose of hostility. "Who be you, and why you here?" Trilby waved a hand. "They're here on mae business, which be none of yours. Pay them nae heed, as they mean nae harm tae your captain, more's the pity. Now go, put the wretch tae bed."

"Service? Aye, yea can do me a service. Yea can explain tae me why folks keep bringing sick people tae mae door, when I'm nae a doctor. Yea can tell me why I am rousted from mae bed in the dead o' night and taken to a ship to nurse some bloke who isnna there. Yea can tell me why some hysterical actress nearly beats down mae door for succor, then leaves in a tizzy without a by-your-leave or puttin' a coin in mae hand for mae trouble. Yea can..." Trilby was distracted from his tirade by the figure of a woman suddenly appearing in the shadows of the doorway leading into the rest of the house. Her curly hair was Medusa wild, and at the end of her wavering right arm she held a cocked pistol. Before Trilby could utter a word, the woman wrinkled her nose, and demanded in slurred tones, "Who'r these men, and...wuz that God-awful smell?" Before he could answer her, she fainted dead away. The pistol hit the floor, and with a deafening report that rattled the crockery, fired a ball into the plaster of the opposite wall. The smell of gunpowder mingled with the stench coming from the parcel. With a crash, the kitchen door was thrust open, and the hulking presence of the Blackamoor stood in the doorway, cocked pistols in both his huge hands. Trilby raised his own hands in a sign of surrender. "Weel, as the fireworks hae already started, why don't I just throw a wee party and invite the rest of the town?"

At Devon's last remark, Trilby lost whatever patience he'd had left. He jutted out his bearded chin and glared at the two men. "Lover's spat! With that she-devil? Foisted on tae me by that black giant of hers. Stuck with playing nurse-maid tae that thankless, exasperating spawn of Beezelbub. I'd sooner be put on the rack than hae that hoiden as a friend, let alone a lover. And I'll thank yea tae take that grin off your face, Devon Burke, for I nae find anything amusing about the situation! I hae half a mind tae send her off tae that rich auntie of hers, and be done with the baggage."

Trilby knew the Irishman was fishing, so he sidestepped the question. He picked up the rumpled package from the table, it's rather skunky oder beginning to taint the air. "Tis always good doing business with your clan, Burke. And as yea ken, I've already paid for this delivery at the bookstore." He gave the package a little wave, hoping the noxtious smell would speed the two men on their way. But lately fate always seemed to play him false. The sound of hoarse-voiced cursing suddenly erupted from his study.

Trilby finished changing the dressing on the wound of his uninvited house guest. The injury seemed to be healing nicely. The old dressing had smelled of blood and sulfur powder, but nothing putrid. His patient lay comatose, mainly due to the tincture of opium he'd laced into the rum he'd made her drink. It was the only way to get her to lie still, and stop cursing him. It didn't help that every time she made a peep, the big Blackamoor looked daggers at him. Fortunately he was off on some business tonight, and had left Trilby on his own. Then he heard the special knock on the rear entrance door. "Blast," he grumbled, not wanting anyone to know about the knifed woman lying drugged in his study. She'd brought down enough grief on his head, even if she had helped save his house from the fire. If the men at his door were who he suspected, then he'd have Irish curiosity to deal with, and quite frankly, he'd rather have a case of the hives. In fact, he thought grimly, this whole business with Ransom and her outcast first mate, Sebastian, and the upcoming hanging of that Sterling fella, would probably give him hives anyway. With resignation he opened the door to his late night visitors. "Ah, Devon, it's you. I'll take mae delviery, and thank yae, but I've nae time for a visit this night. Just a wee dram tae keep out the chill on your way home." He motioned for the two to enter the kitchen, then set the lantern on the table and pulled the brandy decanter and two glasses from a nearby shelf. Cleopatra, recumbant among clay pots and pewter tankards, her green eyes glowing in the flickering light, watched the three men from the high, warm ledge above the banked cooking fire.

Souris came in toting a iron kettle full of steaming water, which he placed next to the cot on which the limp figure lay. "Bout time," Trilby groused, as he struggled to pull off the woman's coat and bloodied shirt. From behind him, the big black man said, "She not goin' to like dat you took her clothes." "I doubt she'll bloody have much tae say about it at present." Trilby gave a final tug and the shirt came away. "There now, may hap I can finally see what damage has been done." Turning her onto her side, he probed the would carefully and decided it was deep, but noting vital had been damaged. As he lay her all the way over so he could dress the wound, she gave a moan. Suddenly his shirt collar was yanked from behind and twisted, so he could barely suck in breath enough to squawk, "What the deevil!" "What you do to hurt her?" The black man's voice boomed in Trilby's ear. "Let go yea heathen deevil, or I'll nae lift a wee finger tae help this she-witch. Yea can take her back tae your ship and let the injury fester till she stinks like rotting meat, for all I care." The black man released Trilby's collar and stood back. "You mend her, but I will watch." Cursing the day the woman had shown up on his doorstep, he bathed the knife wound in hot water, then poured into the opening a generous amount of sulfur powder, before wrapping her with bandages and throwing a blanket over her. When he was finished, Trilby turned to the black man. "Since your just standing around, why not make yourself useful and wash up these bloodied clothes." The black man looked down on him with contempt. "I not a slave anymore. You find someone who still is to do dat job." With an exasperated sigh, Trilby tossed the coat and shirt to Souris, who glared at the black man, but took the bundle away.

Trilby hunched over his desk, carefully measuring. To the side was a small contraption of vials, glass tubing, funnels, and evaporation globes. Under one of the vials an oil lamp burned with an intense blue flame. On a piece of smudged parchment were scribbled dozens of arcane figures and symbols. Trilby leaned a bit and consulted the book he'd been studying. "Ummm...axionmes of maturation...temperate heat...tangible parts...not subsultorily...to the tenth part..." He added a drop more to the measurement beaker. A sound like a battering ram hitting his front door made him jerk, dropping the beaker. Beads of quicksilver jumped around his desk like luminous fleas. "What in God's bloody teeth was that?" Another crash had Trilby rushing to the foyer. Souris opened the door. A black giant filled the empty space revealed. In his arms was a limp figure which Trilby recognized at once. "Oh no. yea'll nae bring that she-witch in tae mae house! If she's drunk, take her back tae your ship, or dump her in an alley, makes nae matter tae me!" The black giant pushed his way into the house. Souris scurried to hide within the folds of Trilby's robe. Trilby jutted out his bearded chin. "Can yea nea understand the King's English? Be gone, and take that drunken hussy with yae!" The giant stepped further into the room. "She not drunk. Some dog-eating coward threw a knife into her." Trilby then noticed the blood on the black man's hands, and the crimson stain running down the woman's left sleeve. With a resigned curse, Trilby pointed to the study. "Put her on the cot." Then he turned to his servant. "Souris, stoke up the kitchen fire and put some water on to boil. Then fetch mae needles and thread."

Trilby was still fuming as Ransom made herself comfortable in one of his cushioned chairs. The afternoon sun blazed down on his bald head, so he reached for the straw hat currently shading the vacant eye-sockets of the skeletal dog standing by the door into the house. Trilby had put down the roof tile he had threatened Ransom with, but kept it close by as he sat across from her, in case he had a sudden change of heart. Despite his enjoyment of the new spyglass, Trilby's week had not gone well. None of his experiments had turned out as he'd hoped, soldiers had attempted to search his house - a situation that put him in a fury of anxiety, lest some of his more rare and illegal items be confiscated, or get him arrested - and there had nearly been a mass shooting just down the street. Although he knew she was not at fault, he lay the blame for all these catastrophies at Ransom's booted feet. As if reading his thoughts, she remarked, "What are you looking so sour about?" "I thought tae have a bloody wee bit o' peace and quiet this fine day. I had nae intended tae be entertaining pyrates." She rolled her eyes. "You're not back on that old saw again? Yes, I've done my share of pyrating. I've also done smuggling, trading, and legitimate business. You, and your like, have taken advantage of all those lines of work in order to procure your little bits and bobs of evil, and most probably illegal, liquids and powders." She leaned in toward him. "Just what the hell are you tring to create in that sulfurous study of yours?" He retreived his roof tile and raised it threateningly. "That's nae any of your business. And I'll thank you tae be leaving these premisses forthwith!" She leaned back and grinned at him. "Oh, I've plenty of time for a nice visit. The Rakehell is being careened, so I've all the time in the world to keep you company." Trilby slammed the tile to the floor, where it shattered. "I'd rather keep company with the deevil himself." Ransom merely cocked a brow. "Who said the devil was a 'him'?" With a huff, Trilby flung back, "Nae doubt that's why you call that murderous ship of yours the RakeHELL!"

With his new spyglass trained down the street, Professor Trilby saw the encounter between the guards, Sebastian, Ransom, and one other, as clear as if it were happening at his front door. He was certain the three would be shot, and could not imagine what had possessed them to confront the guards in the first place. Unless it had something to do with the chained prisoner. When the drunks burst forth from the Blood and Hanger, Trilby lowered the eyepiece of the glass, not wanting to watch a whole-scale massacre. When no musket fire followed, he put the glass back to his eye. The drunks had stopped dead. Ransom ran back into the tavern. Sebastian was hurridly dragging the third figure away, and the prisoner, face crushed to the cobbles by a booted foot, finally lay still. Then another figure shouted something to the drunks, and they all pelted back into the Blood and Hanger. "Humph," Trilby muttered. "Nae doubt, that she-devil has a knack of stirring up a ruckus. But she better nae bring it tae my house this time." The sudden thought that she might had him quickly setting the spyglass aside, rushing down the stairs, bolting the front and back doors of the house, and latching the wooden storm shutters over the windows. He then returned to the roof top patio, and prepared to drop broken roof tiles on her head if she attempted to climb up.

Professor Trilby had so enjoyed his new spyglass, that he'd squinted through it long enough to give himself a headache. He only put it away when it got to dark to really see anything other than the drunks down the street, and the magnified vision of one of them relieving himself on the side of the building. Finally setting the glass aside, he rubbed his tired eyes and settled back into his new cushioned chair - his original one had burned to a cinder in the fire. Cleopatra jumped into his lap, and he absently stroked her soft fur as he thought. It had occurred to him that, ever since that she-devil calling herself Ransom had darkened his door, strange happenings and people had interfered with his usual solitary routine. Most surprising was the circumstance of having Sebastian show up on his doorstep roaring drunk. Now that was a mystery, and no mistake. What would possess a member of the Rom to turn to him instead of his own clan? And how, blast it, had an exchange of smuggled goods led to...to...what? Romance? He snorted at the thought, but couldn't deny what his own eyes had seen. "Weel, I canna see how they can expect much happiness, Queenie," he addressed the cat in his lap. "They're like oil and vinegar. Good in a shake up, but bound tae separate eventually."

The Spaniards had only continued to glare at him, so eventually Trilby became bored with trying to listen to their conversation. Spindlethorpe was too upset over the fact that Spaniards were in his establishmet to be much use as a form of entertainment. All of Trilby's attempts to rattle the man had gone unregistered. With an unbecoming snort, he rose from the table, finished off the last of his whiskey, and left the Royal Grace. He stopped at a street vendor and bought some sugared fruit, and popped the pieces into his mouth as he walked along. Most of the residents of the town knew him, if not personally, at least on sight, or by his volatile temperament. Some nodded their head in greeting, others scurried past him quick as frightened mice. At one storefront window his eye was caught by the gleam of a brass spyglass. Intrigued at the thought of being able to spy on the town from the safety of his rooftop, he entered the shop to inquire as to the instrument's price. It was high, but Trilby knew the shopkeeper, and after some judicious haggling, a trade was made. Trilby got his spyglass, and the shopkeeper got a cure for boils, and a remedy for a fluxy stomach. Happy with his new purchase, Trilby rushed home to test the range on the shiny new spyglass.

Trilby glared at the two men. "Why is your lot in Port Royal, eh? Lose your compass? Sextant fall overboard? Big ol' bathtub of a galleon run aground somewhere's? I sure cannae think of any other reason you'd be takin' up space in the Royal Grace." With a flourish, Trilby plopped himself down at a nearby table, more than a litle intriqued to know just what a group of Spaniards would be doing lurking in the common room — stupid as sea worms, or plotting something? He didn't know a word of Spanish, but cocked an ear in their direction anyway. Never could tell what he might decipher from all their gobble-patter. "Oi, Spindlethorpe. Bring me a nice Scottish whiskey. And nae try tae foist off any of that Irish piss, mind!" To emphasize his point, he banged his fist on the table, making the oil lamp jump and the flame flicker and smoke. Then he turned his bearded countenance toward the next table, gave the scowling group a toothy smile, and muttered under his breath, "Popish bastards."

As the day progressed, and more knocks on his door interrupted his doings of the day, Professor Trilby, cursing a blue streak, decided to leave his house. Hopefully, by the time he returned, the foolish goings on would be over, and he would be left in peace. Donning his much abused robe, and a brown, squashed-mushroom of a hat, he exited his front door and headed for the bookstore. Unfortunately, it was closed. Fuming at all and sundry he met on the streets, he finally , against his usual inclination, decided to have a drink at one of the inns. It had been a long while since he'd put his ear to the ground, and he liked knowing all the latest town gossip. In his current disgruntled mood, he dicided on the Royal Grace. An evening spent tormenting Mr. Spindlethorpe was sure to put him in a better mood. As he entered the commn room, he shouted, "Oi, Spindlethorpe, yea noddy. Where are yea?" Like a weasel, the proprietor slunk from behind his counter, his pale hands clasped together, a look of abject horror on his face. "Oh, not you. Is it not bad enough I have Spaniards in my common room, but now I must perforce, deal with you? Truly, I must have offended God today." Trilby's thatch-like eyebrows rose. "Spaniards, by God!" He let his beetle-brown gaze scan the room. It came to rest on a table in the back, where a group of men scowled over their meals and talked in low tones. "It's nae bad enough the town be swarming with redcoats, but I'm tae share mae evening with a pack of popish bastards, eh?" Mr. Spindlethorpe's face went white as a sheet, and his hands waved frantically. "Please, Professor, I beg you, make no disturbance. In fact, may hap it would be better of you took yourself off." Trilby pushed out his chest, jutted his bearded chin, and in a voice heard as far a Cuba, announced, "I'll nae be denied a drink because of a bunch of rosary fiddlers!" Mr. Spindlethorpe, appalled, scurried back behind his counter, knowing full well that Armageddon was about to arrive at the Royal Grace.

It had been a trying day for Professor Trilby. Bad enough that his expeiment that morning had gone sour, and had taken forever to clean up, but then the town became all in a dither over escaped slaves and a murdered overseer. Guardsmen had come pounding on his door, wanting to know if he were harboring anyone suspicious. "Suspicious! Yea daft noddies. I'm nae harboring anyone but yonder feline." He pointed to Cleopatra, who lay supine on the floor, ignoring the ruckus. "Who's that, then?" One guard pointed at Souris, who cowered behind Angus's robe. "That's nae any of your red-coated business. Now, take yourselves off mae doorstep." He had slammed the heavy oak door, and refused to answer it when, later in the day, it was pounded on again. Taking refuge in the roof top patio, Augus watched the guardsmen, like so may red ants, scurry from one end of town to the other. They were still making a nuisance of themselves way after dark. Augus retreated to his study, muttering, "Bloody town is getting worse and worse. If all this murdering and theiving keep up, I'll be forced tae move someplace more peaceful — like a lunatic asylum!"

Heat waves radiated into his face, and sweat trickled at his temples, but he held the heavy metal tongs steady as he removed the crucible from his backyard furnace. With careful deliberation, he turned and poured the molten metal into a series of molds laid out on a table, then set the crucible and tongs on the stone hearth. His attention was quickly drawn back to the table. In the order in which they were filled, each mold, with the sound like a walnut being trod on, cracked, spilling its contents over the table. The cooling substance congealed into dull gray pools firmly adhered to the table top. Professor Angus Trilby scratched his beard, looked back at the glowing coals within the furnace, as if they could expalin why they had not produced the desired results, then glared at the mess on the table. "May hap I put in a wee bit too much goat's urine."

With the empty wine cup in his hand, Trilby watched the woman rush out the door. He turned to Ransom. "Now, what do yea ken that was all about?" "Hell if I know. The woman is unstable at the best of times." Trilby shook his head, and chortled. "Well, she'll nae get far. I'd hae warned her if she hadn't bolted. That was powder of tin I put in that port. It's a purge, for ridding the body of foul humors. The first place she'll be heading before too long, will be a privy."

Trilby's first reaction to the encounter between Sebatian and Ransom was one of confusion. How had a business arrangement progressed to this obvious mutual admiration and teasing? He could think of no two people who would be less compatable. A pirate and a gypsy? Said pirate now sat across the table from him calmly nibbling on a piece of cheese, as if she saw naked men every day. He shook his head. "Yea hae nae morals at all, do you?" She dropped the bit of cheese and grinned at him. "My morals are the highest. You observed that I didn't throw myself at the man, make lewd remarks, or drag him upstairs to your bedroom. Just seeing a man naked is not going to send me to hell for enternity." "Nae, it won't, for I ken you're already there!" he snapped. "I dinna think you could sink any lower than pirate. Which brings mae tae ask, why are you here?" She shrugged. "Wanted to see how you'd faired the storm. I would have come yesterday afternoon, but I ran into Sebastian at the Royal Grace, and was...delayed." He threw up his hands. "I dinna want tae ken how." "We had dinner. That's all. It was quite pleasant." "Ha! Sae pleasant he went out and got himself drunk afterwards. I fine effect yea hae on the male species." "I would suspect that bruise on his jaw is the reason he got drunk," she replied, then picked a mango from the plate and began to slice it. "Humph," was Trilby's only answer to that.

Now Trilby's interest was piqued even more. The Devareauxs never had idle interestest in anyone. What had occured between the two that would have Sebastian asking such questions? The fact that Sebastian had turned his back, so that Trilby couldn't read the expression on his face, told volumes. Trilby chuckled, shook his head, and thought to himself, "Sae, that's the way of it." He said nothing of those thoughts to the man still sitting on the edge of the spare bed. Instead, he turned toward the door. "Souris will bring yea a basin of hot water and a towel. Make yourself presentable. By that time I'll hae some breakfast ready, along with more coffee. Within a half an hour or sae, yea might begin tae feel like a human being again." Then he withdrew to give the young man some privacy.