by Luke Arnold
“Any witnesses?”
“Only the host. Niles came in first. A few minutes later, a man joined him. He carried a cane and wore a bowler hat, black suit and thin mustache. They ordered drinks. The other man ordered a second. A few minutes later, the host heard a short, sharp explosion. When he came in, the scene was just like it is now, only fresher. The other guests say the same thing but with even less detail.”
The worst thing about the story was that it was almost normal. Six years ago, before the world got shot to shit, those events wouldn’t have seemed out of place. Two guys get into a drunken fight and one of them sets off a fireball in his friend’s face. It happened. But not in a place like this. Even back then, this club was for Humans. It was the last place you expected to see a bit of sorcery.
“What did the killer look like?” I asked.
“He had some facial scarring, apparently, but the staff can’t remember anything specific. No signs of magic: smooth ears, straight teeth, tight skin, flat shoulders, all his fingers in proportion. The staff here are trained to be discerning.”
“So, he was Human?”
“Or someone that could pass. Wizard or Lycum would have the most luck. After the explosion, he took off out the back door and nobody dared to follow. No idea which way he went, whether he had a horse, or if anyone was waiting outside. Niles made the reservation and had the membership so the killer never gave a name. We only know what he wore, and I doubt that it will get us very far.”
I nodded. It was nothing. Less than nothing. We were all picturing the outfit not the man underneath. Once he changed his clothes and had a shave, we’d be lost.
I finally had to ask the question that was tickling in my mind.
“Simms, why did you ask for me?”
She looked me over like I was the wrong food delivered to her table.
“Rumors move through Sunder like wildfire and you’re catching a lot of heat. Whispers about what you found in the library. Things you might know. You’re the new poster boy for magical mysteries.”
“And you believe that?”
Simms scoffed. “Fetch, if I thought you had real secrets, we wouldn’t be here. I’d have you tied up in interrogation with a hot poker between your balls. But if that story is on the streets, then people with rumors will find their way to your door. So, what have you heard?”
It was sound reasoning, I suppose, but a desperate move for a cynical detective like Simms.
“Nothing that would be helpful. Just misguided hope.”
“Anything that could be connected to this?” I shook my head. Simms didn’t seem surprised. “It was a long shot.”
“If I hear anything that fits, I’ll let you know.”
“You bet you will. Because now that you’ve seen this, you’re working for me. In an unofficial manner, of course.”
“I’m confused again.”
Simms chuckled, but I couldn’t find the joke. “You’re in a position to sniff around in places we can’t. People will come to you, thinking you’re the guy with answers to the questions we don’t ask anymore. And…” She threw a look up to Richie “And we’re gonna get hamstringed on this one. Lance Niles was making a lot of friends before he died. One of those friends was Mayor Piston. I’ve already been told to report everything about this case to his office. In a few hours, they’re going to tell me to leave it alone and by tomorrow he’ll have his own dumb thugs on the streets breaking down doors. When that happens, I want to have a dumb thug of my own.”
“But why? The Mayor has kicked cases out of your hands plenty of times. You’ve never worried before.”
She leaned in, and there was something in her face I’ve never seen before. It bordered on embarrassment.
“Because this looks like magic, Fetch. I know it can’t be but, if it is, I want to hear about it first.”
I nodded. I had to. She couldn’t have looked more naked if her clothes were off.
“I can’t pay you,” she said. “But there will be a reward. You find the guy who did this, or information that leads us to him, and I’ll make sure you get compensated. But come to me first.”
It was a strange proposal. As earnest as Simms looked, I couldn’t forget the dozen times she’d put her boots into my ribs. Then again, I was desperately out of work and it wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of cops on my side. But those reasons didn’t even matter. I was as curious as she was. After what I’d seen, I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d be digging around town anyway. If Simms wanted to pay me to do it, I had no reason to stop her.
“Consider me in your service.”
We shook hands and her fingers trembled against mine. I had a dozen tired lines I could have used on her. The same things I told every desperate creature who came knocking on my door hoping I could make them whole again. On top of that, I could have opened her eyes to the fact that only an insane person would see salvation in the bloody face of a dead man. I could have told her a lot of things. But I didn’t. I nodded, got up, patted Richie on the back, and made my way out onto the street.
The cops outside watched me exit the building like they expected me to make some big announcement, but it was the same story we’d been hearing for six years: death is an ugly son of a bitch and he comes for us all in the end.
Simms was kidding herself. I couldn’t prove that now but I would set her straight when I found the killer. The Human, non-magical killer.
Solving this case could fill up my wallet, get Simms on my side and put a murderous man behind bars, but most of all it would show everyone that I wasn’t trying to make my living pretending that magic was still out there somewhere. There would be a reasonable, scientific explanation for this murder and I was going to deliver it right to their door.
4
I’d been avoiding The Ditch all winter. A few months ago, I got a whole group of Dwarves kicked out of their homes. In exchange, I was given the deed to a mansion with nothing in it but the frozen body of a long-dead Faery. It’s one of those choices that feels wrong every time I think about it but if you gave me another chance, I’d do the same thing again.
To make matters worse, the Dwarves were regulars at my favorite bar and I’d been too scared to show my face there since. They say that time heals all wounds, but that’s only if you sew them up first. Otherwise, when you come back, they’ll be septic, infected and angry.
I kept my head down as I entered and only spotted one of them. His name was Clangor. His red beard and unwashed hair were twisted into braids and he still wore his steel-worker’s uniform, even after years of unemployment. He was sitting at the bar, drinking the cheap dark ale that tasted like grease. He hadn’t seen me and I wanted to keep it that way so I turned left towards the back of the building where they kept the dartboards, payphone and booths.
The Ditch wasn’t warm anymore. Not without the fire. The patrons moved less than they used to. Laughed less. No dancing or folk music, just quiet customers drinking jars to block out the memories of better days.
The only noise came from Wentworth, one of the few Wizards who styled himself with a mustache but no beard. As usual, he was being a nuisance: leaning on one of the tables, yelling at a bunch of Banshees who, voiceless, had no way to tell him to shut up. My guess was that they were Boris’s family. Boris was the post-Coda bartender who’d bought the place cheap after Tatterman retired. He spotted me from behind the bar and his look said, I’m glad to see you, but you should probably get the hell out of here.
I didn’t like making trouble for Boris but I hoped that saving his family from Wentworth’s onslaught might buy me some favor. The Wizard was in the middle of a rant when I approached.
“… they’ll tell you it was an accident, but who really believes ’em? Not me, that’s for sure. A convenient bloody accident for them, I tell you what. Taking my powers away. Your voice. All those things that once put us above ’em. This was an attack, I tell you, and it ain’t over yet. We’re in the middle of a war but our side thinks it�
�s over so we’re laying down and letting them win. We need to wake up. We need to fight back with everything we’ve…”
The eyes of all the Banshees looked over his shoulder, up at me, and eventually he noticed.
“Hey, Wentworth. If you’ve got a moment, I’d love to ask your advice on something.”
Some people might be embarrassed, being caught out like that. Not old Wentworth. He scowled right into my eyes to let me know he didn’t care that I’d heard him talking about my kind.
“I could be persuaded,” he said.
Boris was watching me carefully so I signaled him to bring over two drinks. He knew our usuals, and Wentworth softened his scowl when he saw the glasses being filled.
“Come over to the corner,” I said. “I want to keep a low profile.”
“Oh, I bet you do.”
The family of Banshees nodded their heads in thanks once the Wizard had turned away. We got into the corner booth and our drinks arrived shortly after. Wentworth didn’t give me his attention until he’d had a good sip.
“So, young man,” he said, with froth falling from his wet mustache, “what brings you before me today?”
I looked down at the burnt milkwood that Boris had put in front of me.
“I want to know how magic worked. Back before it dried up.”
“It didn’t dry up, boy. Your lot cut it off.”
I’d learned a long time ago not to argue with Wentworth over anything. Especially when he was right.
“Yes, before it was cut off. I want to know how spell-casting worked. Specifically, the kind that could be weaponized.”
“Since you’ve had enough good judgment to come to the right source, I will give you the information you seek.” He took another large sip, happy to be asked to speak for a change. “There are three types of spells, each performed by a different category of caster. Sorcerers make up the first two classes. Those are Wizards – who are trained, and Mages – who are not. You can tell a Sorcerer by his white pupils, white hair and flamboyant fingers. Most Sorcerers were born to Human parents. Nobody ever proved how or why they happened. The best we could surmise was that atmospheric magic built up in the mother’s system and was passed on to the fetus before birth. Many twisted minds tried to force the process but, as far as I know, none succeeded.
“These white-eyed children could sense the energies in the world around them. Natural abilities varied, but the basic talents were often the same: pushing waves in water, conjuring gusts of wind, coaxing sparks to grow into mighty infernos. Sorcerers have an instinctual ability to listen to the magic inside the elements and give them a little push. These talents, when practiced in the wild, create what we call a Mage. Well, they did.”
He wanted to have another dig but the ground he was going for was all mined out.
“A Mage with training becomes a Wizard. These are the most powerful, skilled and hardest to explain of all the spell-casters.” He made a gesture, signifying himself, without any hint of irony. “Some say that only a student of Keats University is a true Wizard. That’s where I studied, of course, but I’ve never been that much of a snob. What’s important is the level of ability. Wizard training teaches a Mage to reach out beyond their immediate vicinity, latch onto the elements in their purest form, and summon them into the space between their hands. When I needed fire, I opened up a portal to a world of brimstone and flame. When I wanted to fly, I brought wind from the unknown to under my feet. If I wanted to hold a man in place, I would conjure gravity into my fingertips and draw him into my grasp.”
There was no mistaking the relish on the old man’s lips. His white-pupil eyes shrank into slits and he gritted his teeth, remembering the days when he had deadly powers at his disposal.
I saw plenty of Wizards cast spells while I was in the Opus. I even heard about the location of this unseen place. After I defected to the Human Army, and they convinced me that the Wizards were trying to wipe us out, I handed over that information. When the Humans went out there to dip their machines into the magic, it froze itself up in response.
“So, those are the Sorcerers,” I said. “What’s the other one?”
He blinked, like he’d forgotten where he was.
“The other what?”
“The other type of spell-caster. You said that—”
One of his fingers was tapping against his empty glass. I got the hint and signaled Boris for another round.
“Oh, the other spell-caster? Yes, yes, yes. The Witches and the Warlocks. Longer fingers than you lot, which gives them certain talents. I’m sorry I left them till last because they really are a disappointment by comparison. All they do, essentially, is play with the magic that has already seeped into the physical world. Like cooking. Mash one thing with another thing and sprinkle on some essence of whatever-you-call-it and, for a moment, it unlocks the magical energy trapped within. A poor substitute for real spells but I have seen a well-stocked Witch create quite a bit of trouble. More than—”
“No fookin’ way!”
I looked back over my shoulder. Boris the bartender was halfway to our table, drinks in his hands, and grimacing in regret. He’d been caught out. Back at the bar, Clangor was red-faced, fuming, and pointing his finger right at me.
“What the fook are you doing back here?”
Boris gave me a look that said, Sorry, but could you kindly fuck off before the little bugger starts smashing things? I nodded to say that I would.
I hadn’t even finished my first drink but I threw enough coins onto the table to cover them all. I stood up, raised my arms in submission, did a respectfully apologetic bow and made for the exit, but the Dwarf was more ale than brains and didn’t want to let me go.
“I asked you a question!”
He was off the stool, trembling in anger, with a pendulum of spittle hanging from his lip.
“I just came to see a friend. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
His tankard hit the doorframe, splashing cheap beer over me and the welcome mat.
“Friend?” He did one of those laughs that’s really just an audible sneer. “You don’t have any friends, Fetch. Not in this bar. Not in this city. Not anywhere. You know that, don’t you?” He stepped closer and I backed up the stairs towards the door. “If I was still as strong as I was before your lot fooked up the world, I’d cut you off at the knees, then the waist, then the neck, then put my foot down on your empty fookin’ head and crack it open right here on the floor.”
I looked around. I shouldn’t have.
I’d worked at The Ditch. Then I’d drunk at The Ditch, every day. I’d bought my share of rounds for every regular in the place and they’d bought their share for me. But their eyes were down. Nobody said anything. Nobody looked up. Nobody was going to argue with the Dwarf.
“Fook off,” he said.
And I did.
The last thing that happened to me in the Human Army was getting blasted in the chest by a bolt of pure magic. The scar had never quite healed and the pain occasionally tried to peel open my ribs. Once I was outside The Ditch, I opened a fresh pack of Clayfields and bit down on the end of the twig, sucking in the juice. It helped, but my breathing was still too shallow.
It had been stupid to go back there. I’d talked to enough Wizards in recent years to know that none of their powers were working. Not even a faint wisp of anything. The papers said that in Keats University there were still students and staff trying to unlock the old magic every damn day. If those dedicated experts couldn’t crack it, I doubted an untrained Mage had any chance. Even if they did, it was unlikely that the first thing they’d do, when wielding their returned power, would be to blast a businessman in the face with a miraculous post-Coda fireball.
That left the Witches and Warlocks: long-fingered magic users who never summoned anything on their own but only dug the dormant power out of organic matter around them. As far as I knew, none of that stuff worked anymore either.
Well, not like it used to.
I pulled the Clayfield out of my mouth and examined the chewed-up end. It had been magical once. Powerful enough to numb my whole body. Now, it was only a shadow of its former self. Even so…
A hint of power remained. An echo that had been packaged up by folks who knew that a piece of old-world magic hidden in the plant might still have some use.
I put the Clayfield back between my lips and drank in the flavor.
Yes, it was something.
5
I called Warren’s house and a woman answered the phone. She told me I could find him at Hamhock’s Ceramics, a defunct factory in the middle of the manufacturing district. The wind traded shifts with the snow as I made my way across town, wishing that I’d taken the time to sew up the knee of my trousers.
Back when the fires were burning, the snow in Sunder would go brown while it was still in the air. Post-Coda, it waited till it hit the ground before soaking up the ash, rust and rubbish. At least it didn’t stink so much. In summer, the sewers cooked like a casserole.
The manufacturing district was a ramshackle mess of factories and wholesale markets on the west side of the city. I did most of my shopping down there, rather than splurge on the Main Street vendors who charged extra for the same product if it was hanging on a better quality hook.
I’d passed Hamhock’s many times but had never been inside. It was two stories high with a roller door that filled the whole front wall. Half a dozen chimneys sprouted from the roof, along with a large wind turbine that turned at a hypnotic speed.
The roller door was open and the inside of the building was a mess. Gray-brown slurry covered the ground, walls, machinery, and most of the workers. There were drying-racks full of unfired pottery: vases, bowls and plates. Some pieces were glistening wet, others dry, and a few were cracking into pieces. The turbine on the ceiling was connected to a huge vat full of slip, so that the spinning on the roof churned the mix below, occasionally sloshing it over the sides.
