The Doctor considered his position, which was cold, dark, and almost as uncomfortable as it had been when he was strapped to the hindquarters of the beast of burden used to bring him to his cell. And it was a cell. Of that the Doctor had no doubt.
Still tightly bound, he sniffed. The sack may well have seen recent use carrying potatoes or some non-terrestrial equivalent, but the room beyond bore the indelible trace of disorderly drunks and daily swab-outs. "The one thing," he muttered to himself, "that doesn't change the universe over, is l'eau de Bastille."
Testing his bonds, the Doctor concluded that they had been professionally tied, but with a measure of complacency. The trick, he realised, would not be escaping, but doing so without knowing if he had an audience. Still, he consoled himself, if Harry Houdini could manage with an audience, he should be able to manage in front of a probable monitor system.
He willed the molecules of his bonds to shift sideways in time and space by about two minutes and six centimetres. When that failed, he relied on what he had described to Houdini as the "ancient art of Gallifreyan bone relaxation". He had therefore been even more amazed when the escapologist confessed to using the same technique himself.
Carefully sliding himself out of the sack, the Doctor blinked several times to adjust to the light, which crept in through high barred windows close to the ceiling. But for these and the mat he found himself lying upon, the room was grey and bare. No surveillance, no toilet or sink. Nothing.
The door was wood, but not like any he had seen before. It was smooth, grainless, and like everything else he had seen on this planet, peppered with metallic flecks. It was a secure and solid door, with no hatch or window for observation, and no accessible mechanism on the prisoner's side.
Placing his ear against the door, the Doctor thanked his lucky stars for the sheer ineptitude of his captors. Fancy bundling him up and not even checking his pockets. Grinning broadly, he reached into the folds of his coat to recover his sonic screwdriver, with which he would cause the lock on the other side of the door to vibrate open. Easy as…
The Doctor's hand came out empty.
He patted his pockets down several times before smacking his forehead. He had left the screwdriver with Romana. The Doctor then cursed his lucky stars for his own sheer ineptitude.
He checked his pockets again. There was always something useful beyond their lining. He withdrew a handful of small items. Besides the ubiquitous yo-yo and a relatively fresh Granny Smith, the Doctor found: one tooth, wrapped in tissue paper; his novelty pen-light-cum-laser pointer; one silver toothpick; two-and-a-half spent matches, of the everlasting variety; one battered pair of cardboard 3D specs, courtesy of the Odeon Leicester Square; one nearly empty tube of artist's gouache; one small battery-powered electric latte whisk; and one slightly used cellophane wrapper. Cheese and onion by the smell. Grinning again, the Doctor thanked his lucky stars for always having the right tools to hand, and set to work.
The Honour Guard settled down to share a hearty, but early breakfast. It would take the Oculus a good two hours to shift out of the blue spectrum into something useful. There might be a few early birds up and working through their household chores, but most of the citizens would be thinking of getting out of bed in about an hour.
Besides inflicting senseless damage upon alien life forms, there were other benefits to membership with the Honour Guard. The hours were short, if a little unsociable, and everyone was guaranteed the best meal of the cycle, because in lieu of pay, Commander Aldus was considered by many to be a gourmand, and he insisted that he treated his men to a full, traditional Demosian breakfast. Or at least as traditional as he could muster when living in a different universe to their home world.
Outwardly he may have been a giant of a man who rose to a position of authority by virtue of his size and talents with a club, but to those who knew him he was never happier than when he was in the kitchen preparing a good meal.
"Did you see the way that menk screamed?" said Creen, a local grocer, dipping some grilled corn farl into a bowl of double-yolked hurleen eggs. Their sticky juice dripped down his chin as he scoffed them down. "Gods of Profanity, it felt so good."
Another of the Guard, a surly, shaven-headed farmer agreed, nodding between mouthfuls of sea fruit goulash. "I still think we should be taking the fight to them," he added, topping up a tankard with some of the Commander's best morning ale. "They stink out the bay."
"Our time will come, Verus," said the Commander. Done with serving up the food for everyone else, he took his place at the head of the table, and settled down to tuck into a meal of his own. "The Elders are coming round to our way of thinking. Let the political process take its place."
"That's easy for you to say, Aldus. You don't live downwind of them."
The smell, he agreed, was bad. But there was only another season before the Council was due for re-election, and he genuinely felt that, within the city at least, there would be even more like-minded politicians. The culls meted out by the Guard a decade ago had been all but forgotten.
"Come on, lads," said Aldus. "Our cause may be just, but the last time the Guard got overzealous it nearly destroyed all the support we ever had. It set us back years. People don't take kindly to violence, even if they agree in principle. It's taken ages for to us to rebuild since then."
"Aye," Verus conceded, swallowing a beanswax toastie, before reaching for more ale, "and we wouldn't have managed that if it wasn't for you, Commander."
Aldus held up his hands in mock modesty. Verus, meanwhile, held up his tankard, re-filled with local brew.
"A toast to the Lord Commander, Sheriff Aldus," proposed Verus.
"To Sheriff Aldus," echoed the Honour Guard. Any excuse for another drink.
The Doctor gently closed the cell door behind him, slipping the cardboard of the 3D specs into the gap so the mechanism was unable to lock.
"Well that wasn't too bad, was it?" He whispered to Toulouse, the mutilated Granny Smith he was now using to double as his new companion. Toulouse's gouache mouth smiled back wordlessly from its pale green face, bobbing up and down in agreement in time with the Doctor's hand, which firmly gripped the toothpick which had been inserted into his neck. All in all, he was turning out to be a much better companion than Salvador, a dalek with whom the Doctor had once been forced to share a cell. Salvador did nothing but complain about the moustache the Doctor had painted beneath his eye-stalk. Toulouse agreed vigorously.
"Shhh!" whispered the Time Lord, holding his finger to his lips. "I hear voices."
They tiptoed along the empty cell-block to a second secure door.
"Excuse me," said the Doctor, retrieving the toothpick and switching on the lait-o-matic. Seconds later, the door was open and Toulouse had a body again.
The voices were louder now, and mixed with laughter. The source was just a few feet ahead, beyond a door that stood slightly ajar. Toulouse went first, sidling up to the opening, getting as close as possible without being detected.
"How many?" Toulouse snatched a glance and reported back to the Doctor, who didn't entirely believe him. Getting as close as they could, the snatches of conversation became more audible, and they settled in to eavesdrop on their hosts, who were drinking copiously, and were in danger of becoming a mutual appreciation society.
The Doctor and Toulouse weren't alone in making this observation, as the Commander, whom they had curiously just identified as the local Sheriff, called for a little attention.
"That's enough lads," he said. "We still have a little business to attend to. The Elders may be starting to see things our way, but the monks are getting suspicious."
There was a murmur of disquiet among the men. The Commander's morning ale was so called because of its low alcohol and high mineral content. The more they drank the more lucid they became. And the more serious.
"Last cycle," Aldus continued, "I received a letter from the abbot." The background whispers of parallel conversations ended as the men quietened down. Aldus had their full attention. "Do you want me to read it for you?"
Outside the room, Toulouse and the Doctor shared conspiratorial glances. Inside the room, the men of the Honour Guard nodded.
Reaching into his jerkin, the Sheriff withdrew a slender monocle, which he fixed into his good eye. He paused briefly, conscious that the combination of monocle and eye-patch might seem comical. Fortunately, the men knew better than to show it.
" 'Sheriff,' " he began. " 'It has been twelve cycles now since I last received a visit from the K'thellid, and I am concerned that the Honour Guard is again at large.' "
"So we've got them all so far?" It was Creen, clearly proud of their achievements.
The Doctor dropped Toulouse upon hearing the word K'thellid. He was sure he'd never come across it before, but a whole new body knowledge poured into him. Sounds, images, coordinates, field reports. A shocked expression appeared on his face as he realised that the marker stone he encountered in the forest had done its job. Blinking, he recomposed himself, retrieving his new companion from the floor and catching up with what was going on in the room beyond. Aldus was still reading the letter.
" 'I am sure I need not remind you that your Constabulary is been charged with preserving the laws of the city, and that you have personally sworn to support the integration of the fallen and the K'thellid by tracking down and prosecuting these vigilantes.' "
"Aye," said the Commander, breaking from the letter for a moment, "but it doesn't count if you stand on one foot while you're saying it!"
The men laughed at the joke, and the Sheriff winked at them. "It was my sworn duty, like that of our ancestors, to wipe the enemy from the face of this planet. And you can rest assured that that is exactly what we will do!"
The Guard raised their tankards again, laughing, quaffing stimulant beer, and exchanging side comments among themselves.
"Shush, boys. This is serious," said Aldus, not entirely seriously. There was more to come. " ' The Protector informs me that three initiates have been despatched during that time, but that none have arrived.' "
"I can't think why that would be," sniggered Creen.
" 'I appreciate your resources are thinly stretched policing the markets, and that violence towards the K'thellid has risen in recent months, but you were voted extra powers at the Vernal Council, and relations between our two races are at an all-time low.' "
This last remark raised a small cheer, and a few raised tankards.
" 'I urge you to increase patrols during the dark cycle. These criminals must be deterred at all costs.' "
Aldus again broke from the letter with another well-received wisecrack.
"It's not as if I'd invite them round to my house for breakfast, eh, lads?"
He paused for more laughter, before continuing. " 'Should you require any help in pursuing these objectives, I am more than happy to offer my support.' "
The Commander screwed up the letter into a small ball. Throwing it at the waste bin next to the door that led from the kitchen to the cells. He missed, and it sailed through the crack in the door, landing a couple of inches from the Doctor's boot.
"What do you think boys?" asked Aldus. " Should we take the abbot up on his kind offer? Maybe I can get him to post a few of his brothers on the town walls."
The Doctor and Toulouse stared at the letter before exchanged glances. The Doctor reached up and wiped the grin from his face. It wasn't appropriate any more.
"Some of the menk brothers, perhaps?" Creen suggested. "I wouldn't mind nailing a few of them to the town walls."
The Doctor scrabbled to his feet, edging away from the conversation inside and looking for another exit.
"I've got an idea," said another of the Guard, Jerome. The hairs on the back of the Doctor's neck started to bristle. "Why don't we dress the stranger up as one of us and hold a trial. That might take some of the pressure off."
Slipping Toulouse into his pocket, the Doctor decided to run for it. He could burst into the room and be out through another door in no time. There was no way he'd let them…
"Absolutely not!" Aldus's response was a welcome one, and the Doctor relaxed. "As far as men are concerned, whether they're locals or not, I am still the law. I'll not treat him as an animal."
"So what will you do with him?"
"Well," explained the Commander, "I do have a plan…"
The Doctor winced, settling back down to listen to what his captors had in store for him.
A few short miles away, on the same planet but facing different captors, Romana had the feeling she was about to be confronted with some less than welcome news. As she always did in these situations, the more disconcerted she became, the more the imperious Lady Romana would emerge. She'd demanded answers, and now the abbot appeared to be settling down and giving them to her.
"We… our people, that is, came to K'thellid a little over two million years ago." He began. "They were recruited from the armies of Demos, to fight on behalf of the Empire."
"Empire?" Romana assumed that he was referring to the Gallifreyan Empire. That meant that while placing events two million years ago for the people of K'thellid, it was closer to eight million years ago in her own time stream. "You said Demos? The Demos? In the Kasterborus system?"
Gesar nodded. "We, like you, were once descended from the Great Houses. We have the same blood, the same heritage, the same history. All that made us different was our colonial status."
"You couldn't set foot in the Capitol if you came from one of the colonies." Romana remembered the period from her middle history lessons. After the Time Wars the Time Lords became isolationist, unilaterally withdrawing from most of their colonies, ending ten thousand years of history with a single decision. They still maintained a trade relationship, but it was a one-sided affair that led to one of many migrations away from the home world.
"Exactly. But we had a leader who wanted to change that. She negotiated recognition for the bloodlines of Demos in return for one last service in the name of the Empire."
"You're talking about the Silver Queen, aren't you?" Romana knew the story well, and had spent many long hours poring through the legends in her aunt's library back on Gallifrey.
"Pengallia, the Silver Queen," Teyamat clarified. Where Romana felt mild embarrassment about one of the skeletons in Gallifrey's closet, the old crone beamed with pride as she said the name.
"She was the founder of your House, Romana," continued Gesar. "The House of Devouring Hounds."
"I know my family history, abbot. Are you saying that you're my kin?" The Doctor was doubtless used to this sort of thing, but landing on a planet full of exiled distant relatives was, at best, a new experience for Romana.
"No. There were a handful from your House, but for the most part our ancestors belonged to martial houses, like Kaydengarde and Iboritrix. They were proud warriors; the backbone of the Demosian military."
Romana recalled a time when the Time Lords denounced violence. Since then their intervention policies meant persuading others to act on their behalf. It was a policy that continued even to the present, when another member of her House, the renegade Morbius, was defeated by an alliance which smacked of Time Lord interference where none was apparent. To this day the identity of its Supreme Commander had evaded the history books.
"But they were a loyal House, and when Pengallia's regime was overthrown, they were by her side. They were here with her when she was cast her into the outer darkness."
"But I've never heard of K'thellid," Romana said dismissively. "It certainly doesn't appear in the House Register. That just says that Pengallia was exiled, never to return."
"The Time Lords erase their enemies from history all the time. Come over here." The abbot stood, gesturing for Romana to join him as he turned to a wooden panel on the wall behind him. Sliding the panel to one side, he flooded the room with unfiltered blue sunlight. Standing beside him, Romana looked through the window. The view was breathtaking. She saw the slope of the mountain, the tops of the trees, and the ocean, which stretched around the island in every direction.
"There," Gesar pointed beyond the forest, where Romana could make out an old and weathered walled city. "The population is fairly constant. About six hundred people. This island restricts our growth, and what technology we had is in decline. Out there…" he pointed to the sea, "is the under city. Its population numbers in the millions. And we were at war with them."
"What happened?"
"A miracle," said Teyamat. "The Queen sacrificed herself for the sake of peace, so her people… yours and ours, could survive."
The abbot slid the shutter closed, and returned to his desk.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "with such a tiny population, and land unsuitable for agriculture, they have been forced rely on others for the resources they need to exist. The Monastery grows their crops, while the meat is provided by the K'thellid. They've become demoralised. Broken. They don't even call themselves Demosians anymore. They call themselves the fallen."
"So how did Pengallia sacrifice herself?"
The abbot shrugged. "She just vanished. Nobody knows for certain what happened. The fallen blame her disappearance on the Time Lords, and they've created a legend that she will appear in their time of greatest need."
Gesar reached into a drawer beneath his desk and took something out. It was a small glass orb of some kind.
"Now, after nearly two million years," he glanced at the orb, then back to Romana, "she is returned to us."
"I don't understand," said Romana. "How?"
"Here." The abbot held out the globe. There was a small image trapped inside. "Take a look at this. What do you see?"
Romana looked. She looked again. "This is… me?"
"That is the image of the Silver Queen," said the abbot, "and it was captured on the day she left us."
Romana was stunned. Even the Doctor would find landing on a planet full of exiled distant relatives, loyal to the memory of a great, great, grand-ancestor who just happened to be his exact double, to be a little disconcerting.
K9 was in a sorry state. Even in optimal condition the change in surface when he found himself in a waterlogged bog would have caused the Doctor to pick him up and carry him. But without his master, or his head, he had struggled on. His skirt was caked with peaty bog, and his visual sensors had long since been rendered useless. Decapitated, sensors incapacitated, the little robot had pressed on. He had reached the edge of the city, and was considering his options. He was unable to determine the Doctor's whereabouts in his present condition, and was uncertain of what reception he might receive from the city's inhabitants. There was insufficient data for him to determine whether the threat was posed by a small group of men or the entire population.
When he scanned for life-signs, K9 found two distinct patterns. In the main town, there were many alpha-wave signatures which resembled those of the Doctor's own people. This, he calculated, was his master's most probable location.
To the east of the city, on the coast, K9 found a very different pattern. It was alien, with only the barest similarity to that of the Time Lords. In numbers, despite occupying a much smaller surface area, K9 calculated that the beings he had detected must outweigh the town's human population by more than twenty-to-one.
K9 headed east. He came to a halt after several hundred metres, realising that the street, despite being hard and smooth, was waterlogged. By the sparking electricity dancing around his head shortly before he shut down, K9 calculated that he was trapped in a body of water approximately eight centimetres deep.
With the last of the morning ale gone, and a dozen very vicious, and very stimulated vigilantes wanting to make their way home to prepare themselves for their work cycle, the Doctor retreated to his cell.
It was a hasty retreat, in which poor Toulouse had been an early casualty, falling from the Doctor's pocket in their haste. The Time Lord had only noticed a few moments after the satisfying click of his cell door. He cursed himself for the loss; a fruit from another world, especially one with eyes and a nose still painted on it, could draw a lot of attention to itself. Fortunately, the Doctor consoled himself, he had heard Aldus' cunning plan, and had no illusions about the ineptitude of his captors. He'd not heard anything so stupid since Professor Zaroff had planned to raise Atlantis from the ocean floor.
The sack and bonds lay where the Doctor had left them, but his plans had changed. The secret of a good escape, Houdini had agreed, was keeping up the pretence that you were still incapacitated by your bonds. Slipping back into the sack and binding it from the inside was certainly been a challenge, but not insurmountable for a 759-year old Time Lord who once trod the variety boards as 'Doctor Tempus – Lord of Illusion.'
Slipping back into his dark, cloth cocoon, the Doctor focused his thoughts upon the wave of new information that had entered his time brain. He sorted it, then he indexed it and, finally, he assimilated it.
To another species, the forcible insertion of unwanted data into the neural pathways would be the mental equivalent of rape, but to a Time Lord this technique had first been introduced as a time tot. Back then they called it brain buffing, and the Doctor had experienced his more than his fair share over the years. But this had been different. He sensed that even more elusive information had been buried deep inside his mind, and that so far he was only aware of the information unlocked when Aldus mentioned K'thellid.
Rolling his eyes into the back of his head, the Doctor slipped into a trance, desperate to explore his time brain, and to see what else may have been hidden away there.
When the Honour Guard returned to take him away, he would be otherwise engaged.