by Richard Ford
After passing the jewel encrusted skull of a long dead fakir that was said to be cursed, and a seven-foot sword fabled to have been flung to earth by the angel Bath Kol, he finally saw it.
The Key had attracted a modest crowd and seemed inoffensive enough. It stood on a simple plinth, surrounded by a rope barrier. Etched into the plinth was a plain legend that described the artefact:
Discovered in a derelict basilica on the surface of the Moon, the Key of Lunos is an item of unknown origin that has sparked paroxysmal debate amongst theologians and scientists alike. What is known is that the Key, which appears to be an ordinary item crafted of basalt, is impervious to heat and seems all but indestructible. Some have speculated that the object may hold the secret to the heavens, but the truth may never actually be discovered.
Typical, Thaddeus thought, they’ve even tried to immolate the thing. Ignorant bastards; if only they knew.
He stepped back and began to survey the security. The Key was in plain sight and there seemed to be nothing stopping him reaching out and taking the thing, which was even more suspicious. The item was perched on a dais in the centre of a mezzanine, with two custodians posted at each exit. Each wore a carbine at their hip and carried a studded truncheon. These would be easy enough to overcome, but there had to be more.
Blaklok moved to one side, sticking to the shadows. He was big but he could be discreet when he needed to be. After a few seconds of lurking he saw what he was waiting for. The babbling of high-pitched voices heralded the party of schoolboys he had seen by the great reptile cage. Their preceptor looked flustered, at the end of her tether. The lads were a boisterous bunch, and after seeing the wonders of the Repository’s zoological section, rusty old trinkets like the Key of Lunos most likely held little attraction. Blaklok moved forward, searching out his target. The boy with the freckly face, such a good marksman with his sodden missiles, stood closest to the Key. It took little effort to nudge him beyond the boundary; just a little push in the right direction and momentum would do the rest.
As Freckle-Face stumbled towards the Key of Lunos a shrill klaxon blared out from a hidden speaker. Blaklok kept moving, wanting to put himself as far from the exhibit as possible as the full weight of the Repository’s safeguards came down. Steel shutters crashed shut behind the custodians, sealing everyone on the mezzanine as they pulled out their repeating carbines. But best of all, a cage of iron telescoped down from the ceiling, encasing the Key and trapping the bewildered schoolboy within.
Immediately the preceptor’s voice began to rise above the wailing klaxon as her ward, now trapped within a cage just like the exhibits he had come to gawp and poke fun at, began to make panicked noises.
The custodians rushed in, barracking the boys away from the cage but the preceptor did not seem fazed by their presence. She railed at them, her plump face growing red with anguish as she demanded they release the now wailing boy. To her credit, the custodians took a step back, obviously unused to five-foot-nothing of school ma’am spitting hot red rage in their faces.
It took only minutes for the situation to be brought to order, the barriers to be lifted and the traumatised youth released to the care of his irate preceptor. Blaklok smiled at the state of the freckle-faced teen, no longer so cocksure as he had been when spitting at the wretched reptile earlier.
Thaddeus had seen enough and made his way towards the exit, still pleased with himself until he caught sight of someone that made the smile evanesce from his face.
Tarquin Bates – the weasily little scumbag! What was he doing here?
Blaklok moved in like a shark towards a thrashing fish, the crowd parting like waves before him. But Tarquin seemed to have a sixth sense for pursuers; most vermin did. His ratty eyes locked onto Thaddeus as he moved in, opening wide with surprise as he saw him stalking closer. Then he was off, pushing his way towards the exit, barging the old folk and the young, and slipping past men who were bigger than him, which was most of them.
Thaddeus watched him, moving at his own pace, seeing the crowd squeak and tremor as Bates made his way hastily towards the exit. He let his quarry move out of sight, the guttersnipe was obviously in a panic to leave, and he would never consider that there was a much shorter way to the exit by cutting through the Hall of Automatons. Casually Blaklok moved past the colossal mechanical drudges, it would never do to draw attention to himself.
Moving through the rows of vast metal automatons brought back vivid memories – painful memories, but Thaddeus pushed them to the back of his mind. He had other things to think about right now.
As he came out of the Hall, right beside the exit, Bates was just appearing from within the crowd. He was looking over his shoulder, checking to see if Blaklok was coming up behind, little realising that the hulking shadow on his heels had already beaten him to the pass.
Tarquin Bates squealed as Blaklok grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him into a shadowy corner. He tried to protest, immediately babbling his excuses but a quick, tooth-rattling shake shut him up. Blaklok glanced around. No one in the crowd had noticed and the custodians couldn’t see from where they were standing. This was as private as it was going to get.
‘Why the interest?’ demanded Blaklok, giving that hard stare of his.
‘I’ve always liked museums,’ Bates replied, a weak smile revealing his crooked teeth. Blaklok could smell him: mothballs and talcum powder. It wasn’t pretty.
‘In the Key, you fucking shithead. What’s your interest in the Key?’
‘What Key? I’m here to see the caged beasties. That mermaid’s just lush. Do you think she’s re–’
Blaklok released the lapels and took a firm grip on Tarquin’s too-small head. He pressed a thick thumb into Tarquin’s eye and started to push. Before Bates could scream Blaklok’s hand clamped to his throat and stifled the sound.
‘Let’s try again, shall we? Why the bleeding interest?’
‘All right, all right,’ rambled Bates, shaking himself free. ‘I came to see the Key, but who wouldn’t in our line of work? It’s like the relic of relics, a direct door to the holy land. Of course I want to see it.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
‘Believe what you want, but look with your own eyes, Blaklok. We’re not the only ones come to gawp at the Key. Go on, look!’
Thaddeus frowned, then he raised his gaze to the crowd. He had been so preoccupied with the exhibits, and then the Key itself, that he had failed to notice. But even now, walking amidst the throng he started to see them. Papa Juno the Hoodoo Man had just strolled in, his long black dreadlocks cascading down his back, rainbow robes flowing to the ground. As he entered he was passed by the Deacon, his head bowed as ever, closely trailed by his initiates of the Art. Blaklok started to move, leaving Bates behind, now forgotten. As he walked, almost in a trance, he saw that they were all around him. He caught sight of a bright green top hat that could only belong to Trey the Rafter, the obese Mother of Mourn walked past within mere inches, not even acknowledging he was there, and a stench assailed his nostrils that could only belong to King Snake, hidden somewhere in the crowd. The further he moved, the more he saw, a dozen within five minutes, all prominent members of the Community, all experts in their craft. Even as he looked, he saw the towering figure of the Slayer of Eight, striding towards him, head and shoulders above the rest of the throng.
Thaddeus turned his back. Of all the ‘who’s who’ of the occult that were here, the Slayer of Eight was the one Blaklok wanted to see the least. It wouldn’t do for Thaddeus to be the one who changed the evil giant’s name to the Slayer of Nine.
He stared at the exhibit in front of him (something trapped within a reinforced glass cage) and waited for the Slayer to walk by. He could feel the hulking presence behind him, the laboured stomp of great hobnailed boots as they waded past and the stench of animal musk.
When he had gone Thaddeus allowed himself to breathe, then turned his attention to the exhibit he was facing. At first it see
med like an empty glass box, but then he saw something flicker in the corner. The glass cage had the legend: Elementus Incendium written on it. Fire elemental. He watched the tiny flame as it flickered from one corner of the glass cage to the next, seeming in a perpetual search for an exit but never finding one. Blaklok could well believe that the tiny entity was going quite mad, cooped up as it was in a six-by-six box.
Suddenly he began to find the Repository of Unnatural History distasteful. The only ‘unnatural’ thing about this place was the way its exhibits were caged away from the world, put in boxes to be gawped at by ungrateful schoolchildren. Thaddeus could empathise with these miserable beasts much more than he could with the lascivious crowd who merely lapped up the misery.
He couldn’t get outside into the smog and noise quick enough.
CHAPTER SIX
A crowd had gathered outside, embodying a rabid mix of the curious and ghoulish. This sort of thing always happened at the scene of a murder. Some people would be concerned for their safety and that of their loved ones, hoping to glean as much information as they could with which to safeguard themselves against a similar fate. Others merely wanted a glimpse of death; a sniff at a corpse, dismemberment, blood, anything to sate their hunger for the macabre. Over the years, the ghouls had begun to far outweigh the concerned citizens by quite a margin, and today’s rabble seemed typical of the morbid bunch that usually congregated for the big reveal when the carcass was finally wheeled out.
Well, they would just have to wait their turn.
Indagator Amelia walked close behind Bounder and Hodge, her fantassins, as they shoved their way through the mob and towards the warehouse. More fantassins of the Judicature stood on guard around the building, watching the gathered spectators. They were dressed in their traditional garb, not an ounce of flesh visible beneath black leather and iron, faces hidden under helmets, even the eyes shaded by a mesh visor.
Amelia ignored them as they saluted her entry; she had little time for the pleasantries of the rank and file. The only fantassins that she was concerned with, or indeed trusted, were her own. Bounder and Hodge might have been dressed up thugs with little moral fibre to speak of, but they were loyal to her and would gladly smash anyone’s head in at her slightest suggestion.
Once inside, Amelia could see that there was a bustle of activity in the far corner of the warehouse. Yet more fantassins, surrounded by the grey smocked figures of the morticianeers, flocking around something that lay quite still on the floor. It did not take Amelia’s keen investigative powers to deduce that this must be the body.
As she approached, she noted a figure squatting down, examining the wrist of the blood-strewn corpse. The examiner was dressed identically to Amelia, and he looked round with his usual sardonic smile as her shadow fell over him.
‘Hello, Indagator. Late again, I see.’ The man stood, still smiling his stupid smile, which Amelia did not return.
‘Indagator Surrey. So glad you could find the time to attend my investigation.’
‘Come, come, Amelia. Even you should appreciate the aid of a colleague. We are, after all, the best in the field.’
As he spoke, Surrey glanced intermittently down at her chest, the smile never leaving his face. He seemed to care little whether he was noticed undressing her with his eyes, but some men simply couldn’t resist a woman in uniform… even so called ‘exemplars’ of the Judicature. It wouldn’t have been so bad but the plain grey doublet and trousers that made up an Indagator’s uniform could hardly be considered prurient.
‘Must we persist with this constant duelling,’ said Amelia, her tone reflecting her despondency with Surrey’s games.
‘But Amelia, we play so well together.’
‘See fit to show yourself out. I would hate for Bounder or Hodge to accidentally step on you… three or maybe four times.’
Surrey’s smile never broke as he strode past the trio. He even had the gall to give Hodge a sly wink on the way.
Amelia turned her attention back to the task at hand. Lying on the concrete floor of the warehouse was a body. The face glared upwards, mouth open in a rictus grin. One of the limbs was stiffened in rigor, telling the Indagator that he had been killed sometime in the past three days. His clothes were in tatters, covered in lacerations, but the cause of death seemed obvious, a huge wound to the chest that still lay open, exposing the whiteness of ribs.
‘What do we have?’ Amelia demanded of a morticianeer as he hustled by.
The man stopped, adjusting the heavy magnifying lenses that sat on his nose, and turned his attention to the body. ‘Well, this happens to be the Earl of Westowe, though I guess he has seen better days.’ He opened his mouth in a wide, crooked grin. When Amelia gave no reaction he continued. ‘He’s obviously male, in his forties. He has minor lacerations to his limbs which occurred pre-mortem. His wrists have some abrasions which suggest he was tied down. Cause of death: a blow to the chest with a sharp object and subsequent removal of the heart. I think we can safely rule out suicide.’
The morticianeer began to snort uncontrollably. Amelia could only assume it was his version of a laugh, but then morticianeers were not known for their sense of humour.
‘That’s very helpful,’ said Amelia, pushing the morticianeer along. He went on his way, still sniggering to himself.
Beuphalus of Westowe. Amelia had heard of the Earl, and not in the most salubrious of circles either. The late Earl had certain habits, a penchant for narcotics amongst other things that could only be found in the Cistern. She made a mental note to pay a visit to that subterranean hive later.
Amelia stood for a few moments, taking in the scene, trying her hardest to avoid the dead man’s gaze. This was always the worst part of an investigation, examination of the body. It never failed to disconcert her; despite the number of times she had done it.
The lack of blood around the corpse suggested that the Earl had been murdered elsewhere and his body emptied of all fluids. The warehouse itself was abandoned and unregistered, so no leads there. It was most likely a well-chosen spot that the perpetrators must have known was empty.
She knelt down beside the prone carcass to take a closer look at the plethora of wounds, trying her best to disregard that grinning face and dead eyes. No matter how many bodies she saw, Amelia still hated to see the looks on their faces.
The lesions on the Earl’s wrists had been made by a thick object. Had it been a rope there would be several telltale marks, but this looked more like it had been done by a handcuff or manacle. As she looked closer, Amelia noticed something further up the Earl’s forearm. She reached out, grasping the wrist and pulling the shirtsleeve back to reveal more of the pale flesh. As she touched the body she was suddenly glad of her leather gloves. Even with the scant material covering her hand she could still feel the iciness of the dead tissue beneath her fingertips.
On the Earl’s arm was a fading tattoo in the shape of a stylised V. It was surrounded by a thorny vine that wrapped itself around the letter like an eager lover. It more resembled something one might find on the arm of a dockside swabber than an heir to the Noble Houses. She glanced round at her fantassins, showing them the tattoo.
‘Do either of you recognise this?’ she asked, hoping that the insalutary circles Bounder and Hodge were wont to move in might explain something about the marking. Both men looked at her with bewildered expressions. She made a mental note not to ask for their input in future – they were good at their jobs, but as sources of information they were as much use as a blank notepad.
Then she saw it. On the ground surrounding the body, what at first had appeared to be detritus on the ground was, on closer examination, a collection of man-made impressions. Amelia leaned forward, her head inches from the floor as she tried to decipher the strange devices. They were like nothing she had ever seen, and at first she thought they were part of some exotic language.
‘Transmundane script,’ said a voice she recognised.
Surrey was still here
.
She stood and glanced at him, trying her best to disguise the fact that she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I thought we had established this was my investigation.’
‘The writings of the occult,’ he continued. She wanted to punch him, right in that smug smile of his, but it would be most ungracious at this point. ‘I just thought you might not be familiar with it. Not to worry, most people aren’t. They find the whole ‘preternatural science’ thing a little disconcerting.’
Bounder and Hodge took a step towards Surrey, but he did not move, instead widening his smile all the more.
‘All right,’ said Amelia. At her words the fantassins stopped moving. ‘Are you suggesting this was done by a group of raving cultists? Or perhaps even a demon? Did it rip the Earl’s heart out and eat it?’
Surrey took a step forward, squeezing himself between Bounder and Hodge to stand beside her. ‘There are all kinds of depraved sects within the Manufactory, my dear Amelia. You know as well as I do that in our job we get to see all the best kinds of maniac. However, some say that there are those who can actually commune with the netherplanes. Able to call upon demonic agents to come forth and do their bidding.’
Now it was Amelia’s turn to smile. ‘There is nothing that occurs in the Manufactory that can’t be explained by bioscience and conventional wisdom, Surrey. You know that as well as I.’
‘What I know is that the Lexiconium does not just detail murders, rapes and robberies. There is a certain strongroom with journals piled to the rafters full of the weird and wonderful. Arcane mysteries, ancient manuscripts, forbidden dossiers detailing every aspect of this city’s secrets. Things that cannot be explained through the precepts of bioscience.’
‘You’ve been spending too much time at the Repository of Unnatural History. Either that or reading too many children’s tales.’
