by Garth Nix
49 Hampered by the body, the hag fails to intercept you. She howls abuse as you speed past, through the door, up the stairs, and out. Go to 79
50 ‘Ullo, ullo, ullo,’ says the Sergeant of the Watch. ‘Wot ’ave we ’ere then, sunshine? Is that an ’alberd sticking up out of your cloak?’
Do you—
Say ‘No, it’s a five-pronged fish spear’? Go to 25
Say ‘Yes, I am going to visit my mother-in-law’? Go to 72
Say ‘Take that, garboil!’ and attack? Go to 65
51 You lose your grip as you fumble one-handed for the saint, and you begin to fall. Fortunately, your shining white heroic teeth manage to clench on the sail. You pray for a miracle (silently), but the effort is too much. You drop the plaster saint and grab the sail. The saint falls on the hunchback’s head; he looks up and and activates the windmill again. You descend gracefully, land with elan, and cross yourself. The hunchback head butts you in a very sensitive region (he couldn’t reach higher) and drops a pile of plaster shards on your doubled-up form. You hobble away, groaning. Go to 54
52 THE SOUTH GAT E
A grim complex of towers, barbicans, murder holes, and dungeons, the Southgate Fortress was transformed into an amusement arcade several years ago. Now, from the Wheel of Fortune to the Headless Ventriloquist, you’ll find fun at the Southgate. Only twenty bezants for the whole family—forty if you don’t want the kids back at the end of the day . . . but this is all meaningless hype to you. Your mind is set on rescuing the fair lady. . . what was her name . . . Oiseaux. You ignore the Southgate, and go
South (sort of). Go to 16
Sort of east. Go to 88
53 Nice try, but it’s money up front at the Quay of Scented Rats. As you cannot possibly have the hundred bezants Yvette demands, she rings a little bell. Moments later, an enormous eunuch servant appears and escorts you back to the Main Hall of the bordello. Go to 61
54 QUAY OF SCENTED RATS (LANDWARD SIDE )
At last you have reached the Sleine! You can’t see it through the ramshackle warehouses and wharves, but that odor of muddy decay and raw sewage could only be the river. On the other side of the warehouses, you can just see a ramshackle bridge and the hundred lanterns that spell out ‘S en ed R ts’ (there should be a hundred forty lanterns). Loosening your rapier in its scabbard, you stride on. Go to 7
55 The guards take your bezants with suspicion, subject them to their beaverlike teeth, then reluctantly stamp the back of your hand with today’s date and the scented rat symbol of the bordello. They let you pass onto the rickety bridge, and warn you not to approach the old troll who lives underneath. You cross the bridge speedily and enter . . . the Quay of Scented Rats. Go to 61
56 ROLL ONE DIE
1–3 You’re running full tilt when you realise you can no longer hear the Bittern. You slow, look around, and see that it has gone into whisper mode, gliding along and changing direction by means of small puffs of air from its beak. Too late, you start to run again . . . and it strikes you savagely in the balls. You can’t believe how lucky that was . . . you hardly ever carry tennis balls around in your pockets. Lucky you were planning to have a game this morning. Relieved, you put on speed. Go to 93
4–6 You cross the square miles ahead of the Bittern—which, in fact, turns out to be a harmless Tittern. Very similar, but the Tittern’s beak is nonrigid, and the feathers on the back of its neck are more golden, and have a barred pattern. Its feeding habits are also markedly different, particularly on Wednesdays, when the Tittern is a familiar sight at the kitchen doors of many fashionable restaurants, pecking at paté de fois gras and trying to get the dregs out of champagne bottles. It is here that the Tittern’s remarkable flexible beak comes into its own. A Tittern found trapped in a bottle of Pom Derryong ’47 had a beak seven inches long (extended), and three inches long when rolled up on top of its head . . . but you have no time for ornithological observations. On to 93
57 You approach the hulking giant.
Close up, you see that he has a greenish tinge—but then the smell of this place is enough to make anyone sick.
‘Excuse me, peasant,’ you say nicely. ‘Point me to the River Sleine and be damned quick about it.’ He growls, burps, and raises his club to attack.
Do you run back to the Place of Plaice? Go to 83
Calmly fix him with your steely gaze, poke your tongue out, and finish him off with a single lunge? Go to 28
Back off and look for an opening? Go to 38
Get out your halberd (if you have one) and go for his kneecaps? Go to 48
58 You drop down a long chute, accelerating through several twists and curves, then explode out into a dimly lit room. A cackling old hag is lifting a body from another chute, a huge, evil-smelling pot is bubbling on a central stove, there are pastry pie shells laid out on the table, and a big autographed picture of a nasty-looking barber is in the corner.
Do you run for the door? Go to 49
Try and climb back up the chute? Go to 78
Attack the hag with your rapier? Go to 13
59 MA’ S F I E L D Heading north by northwest, you arrive in Ma’s Field—a small patch of greenery, where many aged women farm market gardens. At the other end of the field, a resplendent red-and-gold Montgolfier is drifting along, with a man throwing primitive fertiliser over the side—it is obviously one of those new-fangled crop-dusting balloons. It drifts closer, and the occupant seems to take an interest in you.
Do you run away toward the Carved Heads of Past Emperors? Go to 31
Stand there like a ninny? Go to 22
60 You hold the piece of paper to the light from the window—or you would, if the window were there. You stare around the solid, windowless walls, and then back to the paper. In the dim, unearthly light, you see it is an invitation—an invitation to ‘spend the rest of your days in Monsieur Moorcock’s Mill of Mazes.’ You sigh heavily and open the nearest trapdoor. Why, oh why, you ask yourself, is there a maze in every adventure? Go to 3
61 THE GREAT HALL You enter the Great Hall of the Quay of Scented Rats and are stricken with awe! The basilica of St. Peter’s, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Fabled City of Gold—they cannot compare . . . as they are far more awe-inspiring. But the Great Hall is a splendid exhibition of bad taste. Purple fur lines the walls and floor, growing like some sort of fungus between the huge plaster sculptures of Aphrodite and Eros. Glass Cupids swing on chains of worn silver-plated steel and tangle in the papier-mâché ferns. Red plush couches line the walls, where gentlemen and lady customers leaf through the catalogues of men and women of ill repute and an old madam constantly sprays the lot with gallons of cheap scent from a mammoth atomiser.
Do you stride through the Hall and out the door at the other end? Go to 44
Or stride through the Hall and out the door at the other end, feeling as if your life is somehow being manipulated by unearthly powers? Go to 44
62 You draw your rapier, expecting certain death at the monstrously skilled hands of a Cleaver-Fu Master. But the hag is strangely motionless, and you realise that by some quirk of fate, you will be spared. You edge past the hag and out the door. Go to 79 (Please note: Only one quirk of fate allowed per adventure.)
63 You pass the tiger in an adrenalin-assisted blur. Obviously it was just trying to lull you into a false sense of security, because it leaps at you, snarling, as you pass. You wrench the other door open and fall out into the street, babbling, ‘Nice Mr Tiger. Nice Tiger, don’t bite. I give to the World Wildlife Fund. Sixty bezants every full moon. At least I will. Starting next year. Honest, Mr Tiger . . .’ You stop babbling as you realise the door has swung shut behind you. Go to 79
64 As your boat makes its closest approach to the houseboat, you leap from its prow! Roll one die.
1–2 Splosh! You manage to perform one and a half somersaults before entering the Sleine at an obtuse angle. Various courtesans, gigolos, and guests come to the rail of the houseboat and laugh as you are dragged away by th
e current, thrashing and cursing. Mortally embarrassed, you decide to sink to the bottom of the Sleine and end it all. However, when you do sink to the bottom, it is so disgusting that you change your mind and swim ashore. Go to 7
3–5 As you leap, you wisely decide to dispense with the somersaults, and your leap carries you to the prow of the houseboat, where you cling for dear life. You prepare for another leap onto the deck, but that last one really took it out of you, so you slither under the rails and crawl across the deck instead. Go to 44
6 You hurtle eighteen feet into the air, do three full somersaults, flourish your hat, and land on the deck in front of several guests of the establishment. Astounded, they can merely gasp as you calmly light a cigarillo and stride toward the Salon door. Go to 44
65 As you struggle to get the halberd out from under your cloak, the Sergeant steps back, and all four Watchmen lower their blunderbusses and fire.
Your last thought before you shuffle off this mortal coil is whether you left the mulled wine on the fire. Maybe it’s boiled dry . . . The End.
66 You treacherous little worm! Okay—leave Lady Oiseaux to the tender mercies of a desert chieftain. Don’t sample the delights of the Quay of Scented Rats or . . . or . . . words fail me. I hope you get a part as Minotaur bait in ‘Theseus Does Knossos: Choose Your Own Adventure 288.’ And you can leave the El Superbeau cognac behind.
67 You fling yourself toward the lovely Yvette, only to be met by an upraised knee. You bounce back, whimpering, and she calmly rings a little bell. An enormous eunuch servant enters, giggles, and picks you up. ‘A new recruit for uth, Mithtreth,’ he lisps. She smiles, and you are carried away, still whimpering. Go to 90
68 Failure! You go for the trip, but the eunuch isn’t as slow as he looks! In the blink of an eye, he has you in a half nelson! You struggle uselessly in the eunuch’s deceptively strong grasp. The doctor snaps open his gladstone bag, pulls out a pair of shears, and grins evilly. Suddenly, adrenalin you never knew you had shoots through every muscle in your body, transforming you into someone who makes Arnie Schwarzenegger look like a wimp. Roaring with berserk fury, you pick the three-hundred-pound eunuch up over your head and throw him at the doctor, before smashing through the wall into an adjoining room. Go to 93
69 ‘I demand twenty bezants for my ruined clothes, you ghastly lump of lard!’ you cry indignantly at the merchant. He rubs his hands together obsequiously, offers four trillion billion humble pardons, and begins to bargain with you.
Five minutes later, you leave without the bezants, but with your clothes replaced by a bright-blue one-piece sealskin body stocking with bronze buttons, which the merchant assures you will be the perfect disguise for the riverside slums. You walk toward the Arc de Trihump, glad that you got the better of the merchant. Go to 99
70 Could you really be that stupid? You trip, recover, and just manage to grab hold of the trapdoor’s iron ring—saving yourself from certain death. Shaking with relief, you crawl back and pick up the piece of paper. Go to 60
71 You cry out: ‘Sir Galahad, come to my aid!’ Suddenly, a white light fills the room, there is an explosion of white petals, a miniature snowstorm hurtles past, and there is the knelling of a great bell. A man appears and bows. He is six feet six inches tall, incredibly handsome, and has a smile that blinds at thirty paces. It can only be . . . Sir Galahad! He takes one look at Yvette (who sits up and puts on her Ray-Bans), and says, ‘Right! I’ll take care of this one!’
Yvette says, ‘Yes please!’ and you exit, with the slight suspicion that Galahad might not be as pure as everyone thought. Then you see him getting his prayer book out and pointing to a particular illustrated psalm, so you know he will reform the fallen woman. You open the other door and dash through it, in search of Lady Oiseaux! Go to 15
72 The Sergeant raises his eyebrows for a moment, then waves you on. You walk past, down to the Street of Fishmongers, which marks the beginning of the Scum Quarter. Behind you, the Watch are discussing halberds and, possibly, mothers-in-law.
‘Of course, you’ve got to get in with an overhand . . .’
‘Nah, what you do is get one with a six-foot handle . . .’ Go to 41
73 There’s no point beating about the bush on this one. I’ll tell it to you straight, without circumlocution, shilly-shallying, or avoiding the subject. It’s bad news, but what isn’t these days? What with the price of El Superbeau up to four hundred bezants the tun, the king frolicking in orange orchards, the country going to the dogs . . . it’s all bad news. Oh yes . . . Z——O kills you. Right through the heart. Thock! And it’s all over . . . and you were so close to success . . . The End.
74 You hear the groans and moans of the eunuch and the doctor on the other side of the splintered wall. Dimly, you hear your brain telling you this is going to really hurt later. There is another door.
Do you wrench open the other door? Go to 80
Or take advantage of your berserk strength to smash through the adjacent wall? Go to 93
75 You hear the eunuch backing off, then galumphing forward to batter the door. You fling it open and step aside, as a huge blubbery mass hurtles past and smashes against the other door. The doctor, seeing his protector lying unconscious on the floor, begs for mercy.
‘Where are the auction goods?’ you ask sternly. Shaking, he points at the door marked ‘Not the Auction Goods.’ You nod and continue to stare at him. The slight smile you learned from Clint Eastwood creeps across your face, and you take the shears from his nerveless fingers and click them twice. He looks aghast and faints. You use the shears to trim the end of your Van Dyke beard, then go to the other door, stepping on the unconscious eunuch. Go to 80
76 Roll one die for a highly realistic resolution of this situation.
1–3 He doesn’t start laughing. Your eyes clouded with forced tears, and mind numbed by the effort of concentrated blubbering, you hardly notice his rapier has cut you from your guggle to your zatch (don’t ask). You blubber for real . . . then it is all over. Your last thoughts are of the stupid guidebook that said this dopey maneuver never failed. The End.
4–6 He guffaws. He nearly chokes with laughter. His eyes pop out of his head. Before you can even draw your pistol, he’s lying on the ground, kicking his legs and giggling inanely. You stop blubbering and continue on your way. Go to 52
77 If you don’t have a fish spear, your head is bashed in by the ex-priest. Tempus has fugited. The End. That’s it.
If you do have a fish spear, roll one die.
1–3 Your spear is longer than the ex-priest’s thurible. He is pronged several times before retreating.
4–5 You entangle the thurible’s chain in your prongs and whip it away. Bereft of his weapon, the defrocked clergyman retires to contemplate the infinite.
6 You trip; the thuribler hits you with his thurible. It doesn’t hurt that much, but the incense makes you feel sick. He steals your fish spear.
Unless you are deceased, you return to the Arc de Trihump. Go to 99
78 You try to climb back up the chute, but it is too steep. From behind you comes the sound of a body being tipped into the pot. You turn, and the hag is advancing upon you brandishing a cleaver. Your stomach churns as you realize that she is wearing the Black Apron of a Master of Cleaver-Fu.
Do you have two pairs of silk stockings? Go to 32
Or a bottle of Opossum perfume? Go to 10
Or will you draw your rapier and try and fight your way past? Go to 62
79 Once again, you stand outside the mill. A hunchback looks at you curiously, then wanders off, muttering, ‘She gave me water. I ordered wine . . .’
You may go north by northwest. Go to 59
Or south by southwest. Go to 54
80 You wrench open the door, and there before you is a great gate of bronze, studded with rubies and emeralds. In front of the gate stands a mighty Djinn, clutching a scimitar of mirrored steel in a fist of Herculean proportions . . . oops, that’s ‘Down to the Sleazy Sandpits of Samarka
nd,’ Adventure 31 in this series. Actually . . .
You wrench open the door, revealing an antechamber. There is another door, marked ‘Secret—The Real Auction Goods.’ You step into the room, and the door swings shut behind you with an audible click that certainly means it is now automatically locked. A man steps out of the shadows, brandishing a rapier. You have only a moment to take in his black hat, black mask, black shirt, black trousers, black boots, black cape, ‘Z’ signet ring, and stupid little mustache before he cries ‘En garde!’
Do you swear at him in Spanish and lug out your own rapier? Go to 24
Whip out your glove puppet of Cyrano de Bergerac, entrance him with an impromptu display of puppet swordsmanship, then stick the puppet’s sword up his nose? Go to 19
Say, ‘Violence is the last resort of the incompetent, you childish fellow!’ and attempt to walk past? Go to 86
81 This was originally a brilliant paragraph detailing a combat with an enraged Purple-Assed Baboon. However, when Adventure 46, ‘Down to the Chlorophyllic Jungle,’ ran short, it had to go over to it. Also, if you are reading this, you must be cheating.
82 Eighty-two was also a brilliant paragraph, describing the awesome Slime Serpent that was going to emerge from the Sleine at a strategic moment. Once again, that paragraph had to go over to ‘Down to the Chlorophyllic Jungle.’ Honestly, I don’t know how Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone do it. They must be good with numbers or something . . .
83 PLACE OF PLAICE
This is the upmarket part of the Street of Fishmongers—a pleasant, open area, strewn with rancid squid carcasses and buckets of prawns left out in the sun. Smiling merchants offer you slightly fresher wares.
You walk through haughtily, oblivious to this crass business—when, without warning, a fat merchant emerges from behind a crate and knocks you down with his enormous silk-wound belly!
Do you leap up and stick the fellow with a convenient garfish? Go to 18