"Ok, Jefferson," said Dr Mandrake, "are you ready to go under?"
Jefferson sighed.
"Yes. Yes, I am," he mumbled as the dubious doctor produced his pendulum.
This was Jefferson's fourteenth appointment with Dr Mandrake and almost certainly his last. So far he had uncovered a gamut of traumatic experiences: as an infantryman at the Battle of Fondu Dyke, as a bankrupt blacksmith in the remote mountain village of Ashling Potsville and as an exceptionally comely courtesan in the ancient kingdom of Mavlavia.
Jefferson did not believe in reincarnation, but he did believe in con men, and he was beginning to come to the conclusion that Marcel Mandrake "M.D." was making most of this stuff up. He was certainly no closer to triggering his memories of the blank patch between his altercation with Alfonso Barsquador on the road to Batahausen and his sudden arrival at the Quinto Rock Mining Collective seven months ago. What on earth had happened? Who the hell was "Marukash"? If he was ever going to find out, he needed a new and, if necessary, drastic approach.
He reached out and grabbed the swinging stone.
"Jefferson!" cried the quack.
"I'm sorry, Dr Mandrake. I don't think I'm getting anywhere here."
"But we've unearthed so much already. Please just give it one more try."
"No, Dr Mandrake. I need to tackle this head on. I'm going to go and see the Carletian Oracle."
"But she charges three hundred groats an hour! That's seven whole sessions with me!"
"I've spent six hundred on you already," Jefferson replied, as he donned his poncho. "Anyway, you'll thank me for this when I'm saving you from Marukash."
"Who's Marukash?"
"No flipping idea, mate. No flipping idea."
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