Ink & Sigil

by Kevin Hearne

  Different from pure goblins and more mischievous than outright malevolent, hobgoblins were extraordinarily difficult to capture as a rule, since they could teleport short distances and were agile creatures as well, with impressive vertical leaps aided by their thick thighs. This one was trying to reach one of several sigils placed around his cage on little metal stands, like draught-beer lists placed on pub tables. His long, hairy-knuckled fingers waggled as he stretched for the sigil nearest him. If he could reach one of them and tear it up, he might have a way out, since the sigils were more of a prison for him than the actual cage was. He froze when he saw me staring at him, openmouthed.

  “Wot?” he said.

  I closed the door behind me. “What are ye daein’ here?”

  “I’m in a cage, in’t I? Ye must be the cream of Scottish intelligence. Cannae be anywhere else if I’m no free, ya fuckin’ genius. But at least ye can see an’ hear me. The bird who was here before couldnae.”

  “I mean why does he have ye caged?” The fellow didn’t appear to be an unusual hobgoblin worthy of capture or study; he was short and hairy, square-jawed, his face adorned with a fleshy nose and eyebrows like untrimmed hedgerows.

  “He’s a right evil bastard, that’s why. Or was. He’s deid, in’t he? How’d he die?”

  “Raisin scone.”

  “So it was suicide, then.”

  “Naw, it was an accident.”

  “He didn’t accidentally eat a raisin scone, now, did he? So it was suicide.”

  I shrugged, conceding the point. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the happy hob ye’re gonnay set free now. Unless ye’re like him.”

  “I’m no like him. I’m alive, to begin with. Answer ma questions truthfully and no more dodges. Who are ye and why did Gordie imprison ye here?”

  “Said he was gonnay sell me. He’s a trafficker in Fae folk, so he is. Or was.”

  “Nonsense.” I stamped my cane on the floor. “Tell me the truth!”

  The hobgoblin stood as straight as he could in his cage—he was only about two feet tall—and placed his right hand over his heart, deploying the phrase that the Fae always used when they were swearing the truth or asserting reality. “I tell ye three times, man. He’s got a buyer. I’m s’posed tae be delivered tonight. And I’m no the first he’s sold. There was a pixie in here a couple of days ago, didnae stay long.” He pointed to a slightly smaller, empty cage sitting next to his.

  This information was more of a shock to me than Gordie’s death. I’d had apprentices die on me before, but none of them had used their knowledge of sigils to traffic in the Fae. Carrying away the inks and pens of my old apprentices had always been a sad affair, because they’d been pure souls who wanted to do good in the world. This situation suggested that Gordie hadn’t been such a soul. Trafficking Fae? I didn’t know such traffic existed.

  “But…we’re s’posed tae boot the likes o’ ye back to the Fae planes whenever ye show up here.”

  “We, did ye say? Oh, so ye are like him. Just with a twee dandy mustache, all waxy and twisted.”

  I squinted at him, considering how to respond. Hobgoblins tend not to take well to naked aggression, but they have that pubescent sense of humor young boys have, which I can deploy rapidly when occasion demands. “It’s no twee,” I said. “It’s luxuriant and full-bodied, like yer maw.”

  The hobgoblin cackled at that, and I noted that his teeth were abnormally bright and straight. It wasn’t a glamour, because my sight was still warded. He’d had some work done. Since when did hobgoblins pay for cosmetic dental work? And his clothing was notable too. I couldn’t identify colors in black-and-white vision, but he wore a paisley waistcoat with a watch chain leading to the pocket, but no shirt underneath it. There was a triskele tattooed on his right shoulder, the sort I’ve seen associated with Druids. Black jeans and chunky black boots. Maybe he was an unusual hobgoblin after all. His eyes glittered with amusement.

  “Come on, then, ol’ man. Let us out.”

  “I will. But ye still have no told me yer name.”

  “For wot? Are ye gonnay send me flowers for the Yule?”

  “I need to bind ye to leave this place safely.”

  “But then ye can bind me for anythin’ else ye want in the future. I’m no letting ye have that power. Ma current situation has made me a wee bit distrustful.”

  “Well, I don’t want tae set a hobgoblin loose in a room fulla binding inks. Do ye know who’s s’posed to be buyin’ ye? Or for why?”

  The hobgoblin shook his head. “I don’t. But yer lad Gordie had some papers over there he liked to shuffle around an’ murmur over. The bird had a look an’ said they were nonsense, but maybe they’re no to an ol’ man. Ye look like ye went tae school back when yer hair wasn’t white as lilies.”

  I moved to the workbench and scanned the papers I saw there. Gordie had been preparing sigils for later use, but there was no helpful explanation of his business dealings. The hobgoblin might be making this all up, and I hoped he was, because otherwise Gordie had been an evil bastard and I’d been a consummate fool. But the fact was, Gordie had done some impressive sigil work in this room. Work that should have been impossible for him. There were sigils I hadn’t taught him yet—like the Sigil of Iron Gall—which meant he’d also crafted inks for which I hadn’t taught him the recipes. He’d obviously been keeping some secrets, which didn’t bother me, because apprentices are supposed to do that. What bothered me was that someone was teaching him behind my back.

  “I think I know who ye are,” the hobgoblin said. “There’s s’posed tae be a Scottish sigil agent with a waxed mustache. Are ye called MacVarnish or sumhin like that?”

  “MacBharrais.”

  “Ah, that’s it. Heard ye were sharp. But if ye had that wanker Gordie tossin’ around behind ye, maybe ye’re no, eh, pal?”

  Maybe not. On a scrap pad where Gordie had scrawled lines in different inks to make sure the flow was good before drawing sigils, he had written: Renfrew Ferry, 8 pm.

  “Ye said ye were s’posed tae be delivered tonight? Was it at eight?”

  I got no response except a grunt and the sound of torn paper. I turned to see a triumphant hobgoblin freeing himself from the cage, one of the sigils that dampened his magic having been destroyed. He couldn’t have reached it physically—I saw him fail as I entered—so he must have managed to exert some magical pull on it to bring it to his fingers. That was precisely the sort of thing that should have been impossible with multiple copies of it around him. The only explanation was that their potency must have waned significantly, the magic all leached from the ink, and with Gordie dead and obviously not paying attention, it was little wonder.

  Cackling and flashing those white teeth at me, the hobgoblin leapt off the table and made for the door. I was out of position and woefully slow; there was no time to even break the seal on a prepared Sigil of Agile Grace.

  “Laters, MacVarnish!” he said, and bolted out the door. A thud and screams followed shortly thereafter, and there was a shouted “I’m glad yer deid!” before a shocked silence settled in the kitchen. I emerged from the room, far too late, to see the inspector and the tech on the ground, holding their noses. The hobgoblin had leapt up and punched them for the fun of it, and Gordie’s body now lay twisted in a much different position, having recently been kicked. I could still see his face, though, a look of frozen surprise that this was his end, that his brown hair was mussed and he had a few days’ stubble on his neck and jaw, blue eyes widened in horror that he would be literally be caught dead wearing his Ewok pajamas.

  “What in the name of fuck?” the inspector cried. “What was that just now, a pink leprechaun?” She’d had no difficulty seeing the blighter once he’d exited Gordie’s room. I’d not seen the hobgoblin’s skin color with my vision limited, so I filed that information away for future reference. Her eye
s lit upon me and anger flared in them as she rose from the floor. The constable from outside burst into the room, also holding his nose. I needed them out of there right away, because Gordie’s entire flat had to be scoured for clues. The official ID came out before they could lay into me and I gave them what for.

  “Clear this flat now! Leave immediately and return tomorrow. That’s an order. Go! Work on sumhin else!”

  They scarpered off under the sway of the sigils and would probably return sooner rather than later when they remembered someone had punched them and they wanted answers. I needed to get answers of my own before then; Gordie had caught me napping, but I was fully awake now.

  I couldn’t stop blinking once the police left, and it became distracting after three seconds or five. I supposed it was some kind of instinctive reaction, an attempt to clear my vision after I’d been so clearly hoodwinked. But it also told me that my mind was awhirl and I’d do no one any good this way when I needed to be calm and analytical. So I removed my topcoat—a long, tan cashmere job that made me look fancy and scrubbed, even when I wasn’t—planted my cane, and began the laborious process of lowering my ancient bones to the hardwood floor. Once seated, I used my arms to pull my blasted shanks into a lotus position, cartilage complaining, and then I breathed in slowly and exhaled, over and over, focusing only on my breath, until my mind quieted. Meditation does wonders for me that sigils cannot; it’s a different way to hack the brain.

  Calm and prepared for the work ahead, I rose with a series of grunts and chose to interpret the symphony of pops and crackles in my joints as a mark of extraordinary character. I checked the time on my cell phone: 14:45 in the afternoon. So Nadia was still on the clock. I Signaled her terse instructions:

  Situation in Gordie’s flat on St. George’s Road. Need you to motor here soonest.

  I stepped over Gordie’s body to the kitchen sink and opened the cupboards underneath; there was a bin full of sardine tins—Gordie’s unfortunate relish that made him stink eternally of fish—and a box of rubbish bags next to it. The smell reminded me of my first apprentice, Fergus, who’d liked sardines also, and I felt a twinge in my chest, a prickle at the corners of my eyes. Live long enough and people from your past will echo, calling back to you years after they have left you behind.

  Wiping impatiently at my eyes, I took out a few bags and headed for the study. The phone vibrated in my pocket and I checked it.

  I’m supposed to have the day off. If you make me late for my brother’s wedding, Nadia warned, I’ll have your bollocks slow-roasted and served with mayo.

  I winced. I’d forgotten she wasn’t on the clock. Her place wasn’t all that far away—she was very close to Kelvinbridge subway station—but traffic never cooperated. Drive fast, then, I typed with my thumbs. Not that you even like the woman he’s marrying.

  Aye, she and her manky fanny can perish in an industrial accident, but I love him, ye know?

  Don’t text while driving. Because you’re already driving, right?

  I’m gonnay shave you smooth as a dolphin, she replied, and I frowned. Nadia only threatened to do that when she was seriously upset. She had yet to flash her straight razor at me, but I didn’t want to ever make her feel like she had to either.

  Wear the hat I gave you to fool the cameras.

  That’s it. Tell your upper lip it’s gonnay be nude.

  I supposed she’d liked Gordie and might take this news hard. I’d liked him too, until these last few minutes, when I learned he’d been using my training to exploit others and enrich himself.

  First thing I did in Gordie’s study was to destroy all his sigils. I gave them a tear down the middle, and into the bag the scraps went. That allowed me to rip up the Sigil of Warded Sight and restore my vision to normal. But I noted which sigils he’d successfully created without my aid: I took notes in an app on my phone. There were only four people in the world who could have taught him besides me, and I’d be giving them a sharp questioning.

  Next I went to his rack of cubbyholes and ruthlessly plundered them, one by one, every single stoppered pot of ink, carefully labeled. The inks I’d never taught him matched up with the sigils he shouldn’t have known. I wasn’t particularly worried the inkpots would break as I tumbled them into the bag: They were made of very thick glass, and a genuine effort would be required to break them.

  He also had a stash of ink ingredients that went far beyond what he should have possessed. He certainly hadn’t been given leave to collect chambered-nautilus ganglions for Manannan Mac Lir’s ink or the time to seek out banana-slug slime for the rare ink known as Vermilion Beard. And how in nine hells had he got chambered-nautilus ganglions anyway? I didn’t have any of those myself! If he had a supplier, I wanted to know who it was. Regardless, he was shelling out quite a few pounds for all this, and it had probably come from trafficking. There had to be ridiculous money in it, or I can’t imagine why he’d ever take the risk. Into another bag the sturdy ingredient containers disappeared.

  I swept up his pens and assorted inkpots on the workbench too and wondered where he’d been stashing his trafficking money. Some forensic accounting would need to be done—some hacking as well, no doubt. Moving into his bedroom, I dumped Gordie’s laptop, phone, chargers, and a couple of flash drives I found into another bag, along with notebooks and correspondence, anything he’d actually written on.

  Fortunately, I knew someone willing to perform the required hacking for a few prepared sigils: an absolutely batty but otherwise reliable bloke who went by the outlandish alias of Saxon Codpiece. I wasn’t sure whether he sold the sigils later for enormous sums or kept them for his own use, but the ones I gave him were not inherently dangerous.

  I knew Nadia had arrived when I heard her swearing at the front door.

  “Oh, no, Al, ye lost another one? Poor Gordie! What happened this time—oh, ya daft shite. Raisins! What a senseless way tae go tits up.”

  Usually Nadia sheathed herself in a symphony of black, including some black lipstick cheerfully branded as Father’s Ashes and a shade of nail polish she swore was called Satan’s Blackest Hole. But she was dressed for a wedding today, the brightly colored clothing and jewelry of a traditional Indian ceremony, with sari and sandals and the works. Her hair—normally spiked up in the middle and bald on the sides—was artfully plastered to her skull so as to make it seem like she hadn’t shaved most of it off and then further disguised with a sort of bejeweled headdress shaped like a swimmer’s cap. She’d taken the trouble to apply cosmetics beyond eyeliner, and she’d even painted her lips and fingernails a bright red. That last was clearly what bothered her the most, as her eyes followed mine to where she gripped the hat I’d told her to wear into the building.

  “No a word ’bout my nails, Al. Or anything. This situation here is only because I love ma wee brother and need tae convince his bride’s family that I’m totally normal and no involved with the occult, plus I’m pretending that ma uterus desperately wants a ten-month lease from some man’s seed but I’m just too busy at the moment, awright?”

  I nodded and opened my text-to-speech app because Signal seemed impersonal when we were in the same room. Nadia hadn’t heard me speak aloud for most of the ten years she’d been my manager, because a curse laid on my heid meant that I couldn’t speak very long with anyone with whom I wished to continue having a relationship. After a few days they would begin to hate me, and more so with every sentence I uttered.

  I can report that it is a terrible way to lose a family.

  I lost my son to it and most of my friends before I realized what had been done to me. At first, I thought maybe I was just insufferable. That was plausible and even probable. But then I reasoned that the Scots have suffered a lot worse than me, so there might be something else at work. A friendly witch in the Highlands was able to recognize that I’d been cursed but couldn’t dispel it or even tell me who did it. Now I�
�m careful to be functionally mute with most everyone until I can be sure the curse is gone.

  The text-to-speech app didn’t have a Glaswegian accent available, but it had a London accent, so I at least sounded like I was from the UK.

  [Thanks for coming,] the app said for me in a slightly stilted delivery. [I need you to take Gordie’s inks and that somewhere secure, then go to your brother’s wedding. See you in the morning. We’ll talk then.]

  “Fuck.” She pinched the bridge of her nose as if to ward off an incoming headache. “Awright, where’s this shite ye want stowed? Is that it there?”

  I handed her the bags in question and nodded my thanks at her.

  “I want a raise, Al.”

  My thumbs flew across the phone screen, and the app’s voice said, [Okay. Item number one in the morning.]

  Her eyes widened in a promise and she pointed at me with two fingers, thumb cocked. “Item number one.”

  She didn’t know it, but she could have anything she asked for. She kept my secrets and the shop’s books and kicked what arses occasionally needed kicking. She was, in other words, the perfect manager and, more often than not, the boss of me.