Six
With the mist reduced to the finest wisps of ground hugging precipitation, the Doctor found the transition from the green to yellow shifts quite pleasant. It was beginning to feel less like twilight, and a little more like morning. From his vantage point in what he assumed was the town square, the city seemed rather unique. Traders were setting up a wide range of market stalls, most of which were offering a little food, assorted bric-a-brac and all sorts of handcrafted goods. A large food barrow was being set up by a group of priests, whom he assumed had made their way down from the monastery to distribute supplies. Similarly, there was a single large seafood stall manned by a couple of elderly folk. They were attended by one of the crab-like creatures, which the Doctor seemed to recall was known as a m'n'ch'k.
For a morning market it wasn't particularly well attended, and beyond the stalls the Doctor noticed that many of the buildings appeared to be derelict and falling into ruin. There were, he realised, lodging houses available everywhere. More homes, he deduced, than there were people.
The Doctor crossed over to the seafood stall, where the pungent metallic tang of the fish assailed his above average sized nostrils. He considered switching to respiratory bypass, but resisted the temptation. It would have been bad manners. Smiling broadly to the old fishmongers, he walked over to the m'n'ch'k, and patted it gently on the shell, taking the opportunity to subject it to closer inspection. It flinched momentarily before settling under his touch. It reminded him of another race he had once encountered, the Macra. Yet this was somehow a much nobler creature and, he noted from the lack of a tether, one that was here by choice, not coercion. He was drawn to the odd depression and nostril sphincters set into the top of its exoskeleton.
"Good morning," he smiled, pulling out a paper bag filled with jelly babies.
"Morning," replied the old man. "Haven't seen you before. New here?"
"Yes," replied the Doctor, balancing a jelly baby on its head and offering it, palms open, to the crustacean. "Just down from the mountain."
"Careful," said the old lady, "they're nervous around most people. Only hang round us because we deal with the k'thellid."
The m'n'ch'k's mandibles twitched, and its mouth opened, sucking in air and the smell of the jelly baby from a few feet away. Almost without warning, a whip-like tendril flicked out of its mouth and lassoed the jelly baby. Its mandibles clicked in approval.
"He likes it," said the old woman, clapping. "That's a rare sight."
"Yes," muttered the Doctor. "And it's my last bag." He rested the paper bag on the creature's outstretched shovel-claw.
"Can we get you anything, sir?" asked the old man.
"No fish, I'm afraid. But perhaps you could tell me where I might find a pint of finest morning ale?"
The peal of a carillon alarum in the key of E reverberated through the mountain's corridors, and Romana knew the game was up. All she could hope was that she might have covered enough ground to make it to the TARDIS. Breaking out into a run, she jostled her way past ascending monks, desperately trying to recall her location in relation to the underground chamber where the TARDIS had been summoned. She was sure it wasn't too far away.
She was drawing too much attention to herself. She noticed that those monks like G'thon, with kraken-heads instead of human ones, were rallying those around them to pursue or stop her. As if they already knew who she was. Unable to proceed downwards, Romana ducked into a side corridor, entering a small warren of cloisters, each occupied with sleeping pallets, small desks and prayer mats. It was certainly a simple life that these monks led. Weaving in and out of increasingly thinner corridors, Romana found herself turning into more and more dead ends as her options started to evaporate.
She doubled back on herself, then took the left fork into an unfamiliar corridor, and then found herself in a wide open chamber. The walls were honeycombed and white, in a pattern immediately familiar, as was the gentle hum, which seemed to fill the room. There was no door, but Romana drew a white curtain across the entrance to the chamber.
Across the far wall were a couple of banks of old machinery, a large tank filled with liquid, and some racks filled with golden rods, each bearing old, long worn labels.
It was a zero room. Or possibly a morgue.
In the centre of the chamber, its most dominant feature, a row of stone pallets was set into the floor. Laid out on these was a pair of naked, human bodies. Both male. They were quite old, but perfectly preserved. The point of a zero environment was to slow cellular deterioration, and to provide the best environment for regeneration and recuperation. These bodies appeared to have died of natural causes, and were beyond the reach of the regeneration process. There were no marks to suggest foul play, but the bodies had been prepared for something. The heads were shaved, and a paste had been painted all over the heads and necks.
Romana then moved over to examine the equipment set against the far wall. The rack of golden rods, as she suspected, contained biodata extracts. These were the race banks which would allow the fallen to survive despite being cut off from Gallifrey. Regeneration here must have been a dangerous affair, and one by one it looked like these people were dying, never to be replaced.
Beside the race banks stood a large tank of water, and beside that was a crude genethliacon or loom. Unlike the House Looms she was familiar with, this model seemed to have been hastily constructed, and was supported by only the most rudimentary of processors. And it was broken. She could see that the seals on the biodata mixer had deteriorated, and that the monitor screens were cracked. Even a fully stocked body shop would be unlikely to get this machinery working again. If all the looms on the planet were like this, there could be no children. Within a generation the fallen would go extinct.
Then she came to the metamorphic symbiosis regenerator. Type three and very much the worse for wear. Tapping at its dials and flicking some switches, Romana concluded that, like the loom beside it, the unit was dead, and probably had been for centuries. Without the luxury of reproduction, this technology had offered the only chance for the Demosians to extend their life spans, and without it the people living on this planet would die sooner, rather than later.
Romana sighed. These people needed her. She and the Doctor were probably the only people on this planet who still knew how to repair these machines.
The Doctor.
Romana turned, swept back the curtain, and stepped out into the corridor where an escort of monks was waiting to return her to her chambers.
The Sword and Staff was a sprawling inn situated on the very edge of the city. At four storeys high the Doctor felt sure that this most impressive of hostelries would be the perfect place for him to brush on his knowledge about the origins of the fallen. His knowledge of pre-colonial K'thellid may have been unsurpassed, but the marker stone had obviously been programmed before the humans arrived. The Doctor needed to understand who they where and where they came from.
Adjusting his coat and scarf, the Doctor braced himself for the attention his entrance would attract. He then proceeded to swing open the double doors to the Inn before adopting the stance of an American outlaw, surveying the lie of the Last Chance Saloon.
It was an impressive bar, built to hold a good number of patrons. It was also mostly empty.
To be fair to the Doctor, his entrance had attracted the attention of everyone at the bar. All four of them. The rest of the room consisted of weathered décor, stacked tables and lot of unlit corners. By the time the Doctor had crossed over to the far end of the bar, the drinkers' attention had returned to themselves.
"Barkeep," the Doctor said loudly, "a pint of your finest morning ale, please."
"Sorry sir, we serve by the jug," replied the barman, pilling out a large pitcher from under the counter. "Just come down from the mountain?" He asked, looking the Time Lord up and down.
The Doctor nodded, accepting the drink. "First day. I'm the Doctor. I'm afraid I haven't any money yet…any chance of a tab?"
The barman nodded, indicating a blackboard behind him. It had half a dozen names chalked up, and looked more like a scoreboard than a bar record. He added the Doctor's name and added a "/" beside it. "I'm Faranberth," he said, "barman, landlord, and innkeeper."
The Doctor sipped his drink. It tasted bitter, like a fermented energy drink made from girders. "I'd expected you to be much busier. Chap at the market said yours was the only pub in town."
Faranberth rolled his eyes. "Only one still open, you mean. Trade's been in decline for years."
"Oh," the Doctor leaned forwards, eager to absorb the gossip. "How come?"
"Numbers. Plain and simple," said Faranberth. "There was a time we'd get newbies from down the mountain all the time, but you're the first I've seen in weeks."
"Aye," one of the locals piped up. "It's all going to pot."
Draining his pitcher, the Doctor topped up his drink. "So the population's shrinking?"
"Shrinking? Listen, Doc, when we came here the Queen's army was twelve thousand strong, add logistics and support and you had, oh, thirty thousand men and women."
"Yes," said the Doctor, fishing a little, "but that must have been a long time ago."
"Aeons," agreed one of the locals.
"And how many are there now?"
"Five…" replied Faranberth, "maybe six hundred."
The Doctor whistled. "They never told me that up the mountain."
"And why would they?" Piped up a local. "They have everything they need up there. They're more interested in the menks than this city!"
"Ulfar, language!" Faranberth snapped, sternly. "Unless you want to live in the gutter I suggest you curb that filthy tongue of yours."
The man sheepishly turned back to his drink.
"I'm sorry about that," said Faranberth. "Moods are getting testier these days."
"That's alright," said the Doctor. "But I don't understand why people hate the k'thellid so much."
"Why?" Faranberth laughed. "Look at these men. They can't mine, because the monks won't like it; they can't farm, because the soil is poison; they can't build, because there's more houses than there are people; they can't play sandball, because there aren't enough players to field a half-decent team; and they can't fish, because the k'thellid complain. All they want is a decent lifestyle, and for two million years it's just got worse and worse."
"Good cycle, Faran," called a voice as another patron entered the inn.
"Good cycle, Nard," replied the landlord, drawing out a pitcher for the newcomer. Nard joined them at the bar. He was young, barely out of his adolescence. Sitting next to the Doctor, he offered his hand.
"I'm Nard," he said, "and you are…?"
"The Doctor." They shook hands.
"He's down from the mountain," explained Faranberth. "Nard here's not long since joined us."
"I came down two seasons ago," said Nard. "You don't look like a newbie though."
"I'm not. I decided to go travelling first. See the world."
"Beyond the island? That's brave. What's out there?"
"Oh. Water. More water. And a few bits of rock sticking up here and there. Nothing to write home about."
"Come on, Doc. There's no way a man could survive out there."
"Not for long, I'll grant you. Which is why I've come back."
"It's a waste, if you ask me. All that water. You know, if they'd vented some of it away like they planned we'd be living in paradise right now."
"Vented? I don't understand."
"What do you mean, you don't understand? Are you sure you come from the monastery?
"Come on, Faran," said Nard. "Where else would he come from? Rendulix is the only world in a one-planet system at the heart of a pocket dimension. Where else would he come from?"
Rendulix?
The Doctor started at the word. It meant Glittering Jewel at the Heart of Time, and it was a Gallifreyan name. Worse than that, it was an alternative name for Gallifrey itself. A special name used by travellers far from home, to remind them of their place in the universe. It also triggered something. New memories. The next mnemonic lock had been opened. He reached for the pitcher of ale. He estimated it contained three, maybe four pints. He put it to his lips and drained it in about six large gulps.
"I thought this planet was called K'thellid?" He slammed the pitcher to the table, nodding for another.
Nard sneered. "Not by us. It may be the name they use up on the mountain, where men and k'thellid live and work together, but down here, in the city, we remember the name Our Lady gave it when she claimed this world for the Time Lords, and they rewarded her with treachery."
Glancing around the bar, the Doctor was disappointed to see there was no local equivalent to peanuts or crisps. He grasped the second pitcher.
"Steady with that," said Faranberth as he raised the pitcher. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," the Doctor nodded, turning back to Nard. "What do you mean, Our Lady?"
He drained the pitcher in another seven gulps.
"I thought you said you were from the monastery?" Faranberth looked confused.
"Everyone knows about Pengallia," said Nard. "You're not one of us at all, are you?"
The pitcher fell from the Doctor's hand as the blood drained from his face.
Pengallia. The Silver Queen. Rendulix. K'thellid.
A third mnemonic lock clicked open inside his mind, and the Doctor's fears began to overwhelm him. He backed away from the bar, towards the door.
Carnifex.
The word echoed through his mind. All eyes were upon him. Despite his own uncertainty, Nard stepped forward with the offer of a steadying hand.
The Doctor turned and fled from the inn.
When she stepped back into her quarters under monastic escort, Romana found Teyamat, Abbot Gesar and Brother G'thon waiting for her return. Teyamat's ancient face remained unchanged, while G'thon's alien expression remained unreadable. The abbot's features, however, were harsh and angry.
"Who is the Doctor?" He demanded, getting straight to the point.
"The Doctor?" Romana was momentarily shocked by the question. How could they know? Perhaps the Doctor had already arrived? "Why do you ask?"
"You led us to believe that you came here alone," the abbot said, "yet Brother G'thon here tells me your thoughts were of finding your companion."
G'thon? She turned on the tall k'thellid.
"You dare invade my thoughts."
G'thon responded with a humble bow. Actually, he thought, you broadcast them. They were all I could connect with to alert me to your presence.
"That's alright, G'thon." Gesar interrupted. "You've no need to excuse yourself. It seems we've been lured into a Time Lord trap."
Romana began to argue. "I can assure you…"
Gesar ignored her platitudes, addressing those around her instead. "They hoped to lure us into a false sense of hope by dressing some spy up in the body of Our Lady, and then sneak an assassin in through the back door."
Romana lost her cool
"Abbot! That's enough!" She snapped, rising to her full height. "I'm not a spy, and neither is the Doctor." She stepped forwards, bringing herself nose to nose with her accuser, staring directly into his eyes. "You can hardly expect me to tell you my secrets when you've kidnapped me and tried to force me into taking the place of your old Queen without so much as a polite request."
Gesar flinched as Romana pressed her advantage, unaware of the slight smile which appeared on old Teyamat's face. "I am a Time Lady of a Senior House, appointed to my current mission by the President of the Time Lords himself. As for the Doctor, he has twice held the post of President, and retains that title as a diplomatic privilege when conducting business on behalf of the Supreme Council."
She paused briefly, letting her newly articulated credentials sink in. It wasn't as if she was lying. "That you forced me to skulk and creep through endless filthy corridors is your doing," she continued, "not mine."
She paused again. With no snappy comeback from the abbot, she risked a little white bluff. "Did it ever occur to you that the political situation on Gallifrey may have changed? Or that we might just be here to help reestablish diplomatic relations between our people?"
"What?" Gesar roused from his moment of apoplexy. "Are you serious?"
"Yes." Romana wasn't sure if her promises could be honoured, but it was surely worth trying to foster a little reconciliation. "I'd be serious about representing your case to the Lord President. It may have been two million years for you, but your exile was closer to ten million years ago where I come from."
The abbot shook his head. "You've no way to prove this isn't a trick, Time Lord."
"Perhaps not," agreed Romana, "but…"
Teyamat interrupted her. "We can tell if it's a trick."
Romana looked at the old woman. She was smiling. "I won't submit to a mind probe," she added, defensively. "I'm trained to…"
"No mind probe will be necessary." Teyamat reassured her. "You must simply complete the Ceremony of Investiture."
"What?" Gesar was surprised by the suggestion. The idea of crowning a possible traitor seemed ludicrous. "How can we proceed when she might be a spy?"
"The Ceremony is more than just a ritual, Gesar." She retrieved the leaflet she had earlier passed to Romana. Unfolding it, she pressed it into the abbot's hands. "Think," she said. "The Communion. The Embrace."
Gesar complied, flipping through the pages as Teyamat spoke.
"Of course," he replied. "Each of the rites is a test which only Pengallia herself can pass." Teyamat nodded, sagaciously. "If Romana is a spy shaped to fool us, she will be exposed. But if the body she wears is truly her own, and she is truly a Scion of Pengallia, then Our Lady will return, and all that she offers may be possible."
"I see, yes." Gesar understood, and so did Romana, who was starting to worry about what tests may lie ahead. "But will she submit? And what of this Doctor?"
Romana swallowed back her doubts and uncertainties. "I'll submit to your ceremony," she agreed. "I've seen that you need me, and I think I can help. As for the Doctor," she added, "he's harmless. His weapon of choice is the mixed metaphor. Once he understands your situation he'll be more than willing to offer you his help."
"In return for your assistance my Master will be willing to offer his assistance," said K9, allaying the k'thellid's remaining concerns about helping a Time Lord. "His preferred means of resolution is conciliatory, and while I am unable to determine how he is able to do so, his chances of bringing matters to a satisfactory conclusion are favourable."
Several warm shades of pink played across the surface of the Protector's skin.
I have agreed that we will render assistance. I shall despatch a troop of k'thellid to find him.
"Query." K9 processed the response, considering the probable scenarios involving the Doctor's rescue. "Is it common for k'thellid to enter the human city?"
No, the Protector explained, a few m'n'ch'k enter the city for the purpose of trade, but we have avoided direct contact for millennia.
"Query." K9 continued. "How would the k'thellid recognise the Doctor-Master?"
I see your point. Protector K'thellid paused, considering the options for itself. I can relay a visual description to the m'n'ch'k. Through their symbiotic link the k'thellid will be able to visualise him.
"Query. Would access to the Doctor-Master's alpha-wave signature be of use to you?"
It would, thought the Protector. I can relay it to both k'thellid and m'n'ch'k. He should be easy to find.
"Confirmed. Transmitting signature now."
K9 dipped his head. Activating his exitonic circuits, he began to transmit.
Cardinal Pengalliadvoramiel, Silver Queen of Demos, Genetrix of Dvora, and Grand Marshall of the Imperial Time Battalions, stared out of the mirror to lock her gaze with the Lady Romanadvoraterlundar. They were in agreement that the coronation robes fit perfectly.
To Romana's right Teyamat, the old mother of Madronal, concurred. Her broad smile and twinkling eyes communicated her silent approval. There was no doubt on her face that Romana and Pengallia were as one.
Romana dipped forward slightly to allow one of the attendant monks to slip the silver sash of office, inlaid with the glittering seals of Demos, Patrex, Dvora and Rassilon, over her head. The seals, like the devouring hounds motif etched into her breastplate, were picked out with violet gemstones which matched the shimmering folds of heliotrope which flowed from beneath her armour. As Teyamat added the final touch – the hitching of the Queen's twin swords to her girdle, she considered just how well the clothes had aged. Two million years old and they still looked, and felt, fashionable.
"Well?" asked the old crone.
"Impressive," she noted, rubbing at her ankles. "But I hope we don't have too far to walk. These grieves are chafing."
Teyamat smiled, remembering that Pengallia had said the same thing. She ushered Romana towards the door.
"You've been to the Shrine of Pengallia before," said Teyamat. "It's where we summoned you and your TARDIS."
"It is? But that's about three kilometres! I can't walk that far in this costume."
"It's alright, Romana," said Teyamat. "We can use the abbot's paternoster."
"Paternoster?" Romana snorted as she was led towards the lift. "You mean to tell me you do have a lift after all?"
Teyamat's cackling laughter echoed through the upper reaches of the Monastery.