Escape to the Fringe (Fringe Chronicles Book 1)

by Adam Drake

  “Do you recall what the shadow said, at all?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Only I know it spoke. Deep voice. But I don't remember the words. Or even if it was words.” He shrugged. “That is all there was to it. Glad the shadow, or whoever it was didn't have a mind to do anything to me while I slept the night away on that floor.”

  Pasha made a tsk-tsk sound, and held his hand closer.

  I said, “So you are aware items were taken that night?”

  Pasha said, “I just told him after he woke up not two hours ago. As big a surprise to him as one would expect.”

  “Yeah, I'm aware now,” he said. “Disappointed that I had to be the one on duty. Now I get all the blame.”

  “No one is blaming you for anything, Mister Hubertus. I'm just trying to get the facts as you remember them.”

  “Oh, he got the blame, all right,” Pasha said. “That blow hard Othmar said as much when he was here.”

  “He came here?”

  Pasha scowled. “Yeah, and not in a good manner of way, either. Hollered and yelled so much the nurses had to get an orderly to ask him to leave.” She looked at Hubertus. “Blamed him for all of it. Said he must have been in on the job. Or if not, was foolish enough to let it happen. Like Hub here could defend himself from being spelled. Can you believe it?”

  “He fired me,” Hubertus said. “Told poor Pash, here, that once I woke up she was to inform me that my employment was terminated.”

  I said, “I don't think Mister Othmar has the legal grounds to do that.”

  “Legal or not, I'm fired now,” he said, looking mournful. “My cousin had to pull all sorts of strings to get me that job, and now I'm back looking for work.”

  “And with a hospital bill to pay for now, too!” Pasha said.

  Winimar patted her hand. “We'll check out, today, sweetheart. Don't you worry.”

  I asked him, “Do you recall anything unusual that night, before you were spelled, while making your rounds? Anything at all.”

  “Nothing, ma'am. Was the same as any other night.”

  There was nothing else to ask at that moment although I intended to follow up with him once more facts from the case came to light.

  “We will leave you for now, Mr. Hubertus,” I said. “Perhaps later we can talk once you are feeling better. Which reminds me. Might I get your address?”

  “Yes, all right,” he said, and I wrote it down.

  I thanked them both and turned to leave when I realized something. To Pasha I asked, “Mrs. Hubertus, what did the other detective ask you while he was here?”

  She blinked at me as if trying to remember. “Oh, not much, really. Since Win was fast asleep as a newborn babe, there wasn't much he could ask. Oh, I remember. He wanted to know if me or Win here knew of a woman.”

  “What woman?” I said.

  She scrunched her face up with thought. “Ip-Horn, I think.”

  I recalled the name on the back of the bookstore business card. “Ipthorn, perhaps?”

  Pasha's face brightened. “That's what it was. Ipthorn. Strange name that.”

  “Did he ask anything else? Maybe why he was enquiring about this Ipthorn woman?”

  Pasha shook her head. “No,” she said with a shrug. “And we know no one by that name.”

  Thanking them for their time Fairfax and I withdrew to the hallway.

  “Let's talk to the Warding Master,” I said to Fairfax before he could speak. I knew what he would say.

  After searching the halls I spotted her. Unlike the nurses and doctors who wore white, the Warding Master wore a deep red robe with black swirling patterns.

  I approached her and introduced myself.

  She smiled and said, “I am Master Dorchen. How can I help?”

  “Were you the one who removed the spell on Mr. Hubertus?”

  “Yes, I did. Bit of work that one.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the sleep spell that was cast had been enhanced. Perhaps with a minor artifact, or a detailed charm.”

  “Is such a spell common?”

  Master Dorchen frowned with thought. “Yes, and no. The sleep spell can be cast on its own with a moderate level of skill. But what was done to him could have been fatal if the caster was so inclined. With just an extra word he could have been put to sleep forever.”

  “Do you know of anyone with that level of skill?”

  Master Dorchen chuckled. “There are dozens of mid-level practitioners in the area with the ability, and an equal number of greater ones. I could do it easily enough. But that would be unethical by the laws that govern spell casters.”

  I realized that magic weaving and casting was more or less common, but I hoped for a short list of suspects.

  “Might I ask you another question. This one may seem... strange.”

  The Warding Master smiled. “Strange is my business.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone turned to stone before?”

  Dorchen's smile vanished. “Turned to stone? Are you serious?”

  She saw I was.

  “Well,” she said. “There are no spells in existence which can do such a terrible thing. Perhaps something from the Pre-Era, in the dark times. But nothing now. That is for certain.”

  I made a mental note to quiz this woman again once the Chief Constable gave his permission to reveal how Oswall died. Instead, I thanked her, and she nodded and went about her rounds.

  Fairfax and I trundled down the stairs and stood outside the main entrance. It felt good to breathe fresh air again.

  Sensing Fairfax wanted to speak I said, “Go ahead, say your peace, Constable.”

  Fairfax said, “I hate to kick up the point but I believe this clearly makes it.”

  “And that would be?”

  “That whoever is responsible for this burglary is most likely not the same person who killed Oswall. It does not add up. Why put this man to sleep when he could have just as easily turned him to stone?”

  It was a good point I had to admit and sighed. “I will concede that it may well be two different individuals. But I am not ready to give up on this angle and search through all those other files for another. We've pulled on this thread, so let us follow through with it.”

  Fairfax nodded. “Very well. What did you have in mind now?”

  “What time is it?”

  He pulled out his pocket watch. “Coming up on one o'clock.”

  “There is still time before Curator Othmar's airship arrives.” I held up the business card. “I want to learn more about Oswall's interested in this Ipthorn woman. So, Constable, let us go shopping for books.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The quaint storefront of Rousset's Tomes & Books of Rarity was on a busy street off Stage Court, nestled between a clockworks toy store and a custom rock light shop.

  Fairfax opened the store's door for me and a bell overhead rang as we entered.

  I took in the sight of so many books. Every available spot was packed with them. They lined every shelf, and the shelves went as high as the ceiling. Tall stacks of books towered up from the floor and wedged against each other. Others were secured within cabinets of thick glass. Everywhere, books. And it smelled as a bookstore should, like old parchment.

  A little man was snoozing in a large comfy chair in one corner. He had a tea cup in one hand. Surprised that the door bell did not wake him Fairfax cleared his throat.

  At this horrid noise the man's eyes flew open. “Oh, hello!” The man said with a cheerful tone. He put his cup down on the table and stood while rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “How might I help you?” He asked as he approached. He was smartly dressed in a white-collared shirt and tie, dark trousers, and an apron covered in inky smudges. Upon his nose perched a slender pair of glasses. To me he looked more like a banker than a bookseller. “Would you like some tea, perhaps?” he said motioning to a table with a teakettle and cups. “I just made it fresh. Can never get enough of it.”

 
I politely declined the tea, then introduced ourselves and asked, “Might you be the owner of this fine establishment?”

  The little man beamed at the compliment. “Why, yes I am. My name is Misael Rousset. A pleasure to meet you both.” He gave Fairfax's uniform a curious look. “Is everything all right?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “We have a few questions if you can spare a moment.”

  Misael laughed and waved a hand around him. “As you can see, I am not fighting off any customers. In fact, customers are a little scarce, nowadays. People regard books as more of a luxury than a necessity, I'm afraid.”

  I considered that statement a crime all on its own. “Did a Detective Oswall visit you in the last few days, by chance?”

  He pursed his lips in thought, then said, “Why, I believe a detective came by here a short while ago. But I missed him as I was picking up a new lot of books I won at auction that day. He spoke to my assistant though.”

  “Is your assistant here?”

  “Oh, I'm afraid not. She called in sick yesterday morning, poor thing.”

  “And what is her name?”

  “Elicia. Elicia Ipthorn,” Misael said.

  “Did she mention what the detective said while he was here?”

  At this question, Misael's amiability faltered. He gave us a worried look. “Why? Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

  I gave him my most reassuring smile. “We wish to speak with Miss Ipthorn, is all. Might you have her address?”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Let me get it for you,” he said, and hurried over to a counter and flipped through a note book.

  I gave the shop another look. Why did Oswall come here? To speak with Ipthorn specifically or another reason? The owner, maybe? “Mr. Rousset, I am astounded by the sheer number of books you've amassed. How long have you run this shop?”

  Misael wrote on a piece of paper as he answered. “Oh, well, quite a while. Thirty-eight years, I believe. And I have more books than this. My house is filled with the overflow, plus a storage warehouse crammed full.”

  He walked over and handed me the piece of paper with an address in the Hearts district. “I think she still lives there or at least she didn't mentioned if she'd moved again.”

  “Does she move a lot?” Fairfax asked.

  “Ah, well, these are hard times. And as you can see, the customers are fewer and fewer each year. So I can't pay very much. I know Elicia has been struggling as of late, so I allow her to leave early on occasion to find part time work in the evening. As a result, I fear she has had to move around a little, finding a place she can afford.”

  Misael looked saddened by Elicia's predicament.

  I nodded in commiseration.

  Fairfax said, “You have such a large stock, sir. But do you also specialize in any particular kind of book as well?”

  The question made me wonder what the constable was going on about.

  Misael's face lit up. “Yes! My one great fondness is for old books which recount the histories. Especially tomes that originate from those eras. They make for marvellous reading. The tales they tell far outmatch what modern fictional authors can muster, in my opinion.”

  “I notice you have a section on iconography right over there,” Fairfax said.

  “Oh, yes,” Misael said. “I've made it a point to read as many as I can. And I do have a lot of time on my hands.” He laughed.

  Fairfax gave me a knowing little smile.

  It was as if he'd hit me over the head. “Mr. Rousset,” I said. “Might you be keen on looking at something for us?”

  “Certainly.”

  I pulled out the etching and spread the paper on a stack of books.

  Misael adjusted his glasses and peered at it. “My, my,” he said with appreciation. “This is quite a symbol you have here. Might I ask where you got it?”

  I glanced at Fairfax who shrugged and said, “We've been finding this mark engraved at various places around town.”

  “Hand engraved, do you know, or magically done?” Misael asked.

  “I found this one magically created,” I said. “Why? Does it make a difference?”

  “Yes, actually. It might give you an indication whether the individual who left it is a worshipper.”

  “Worshipper?”

  “Yes,” Misael said. He blinked at our curious looks and explained. “This isn't just an engraving. It is a religious symbol. A very old one as well. If it was magically produced I would guess it was ceremonial in function.”

  I did not like the sound of that. “Do you know what this symbol represents?”

  “Oh, I forget how to pronounce the name. Just a moment,” he said and went over to the shelves of iconography books. “Here we are,” he said removing one. He carried it over, placed it down and thumbed through the old pages. I could see images within, each strange and archaic.

  Misael spoke as he searched. “This looks like the Mark of an Ancient One. Well before the Pre-Era. So old that little is known of the Gods which reigned then. Myths are our only source of their existence. Ah, here we are.” He turned the book around so we could see.

  On the page was a drawing of a squid the size of an elephant, its tentacles wrapped around a warrior figure, devouring him.

  “It doesn't look very big,” I noted. Most drawings of the godlike beings of that time frame were colossal, stomping on cities and such. For Ancient Gods, this one was quite puny.

  “Well, with regards to size, it doesn't matter when you are God. I would not want to mess with any of them.”

  “Does it have a name?” I asked.

  Misael read off the page. “Quantiqtl,” he said, and laughed. “Try saying that while in your cups.”

  “You think this etching could be a Mark of this Quantiqtl?”

  He turned to the next page, and pointed. “See for yourself.”

  This page contained a different drawing. It, too, was of a squid but much more rudimentary. In fact, it looked almost identical to the etching on the paper.

  Misael said, “This sort of iconography is typical. Worshippers needed to draw the symbol that best represented their god. Not everyone is an artist, so this style served that purpose and its easier when magically produced.”

  He pointed at the etching on the paper. “I'd guess this was most likely done by someone who worships Quantiqtl and maybe as part of a ceremony.”

  Fairfax asked, “Are there still worshippers of the Old Gods?”

  “Across all of human history there have been thousands of deities in the pantheon of Gods. Some fade, yes. But there will always be a small group, or cult, that keeps the spirit of a God alive. So, yes, most certainly people still actively worship them.”

  As Fairfax and I took our leave there were new worrying questions on my mind.

  Were we dealing with cultists and, if so, why did they murder Oswall?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We returned to High Garden Museum, and when I rang the bell this time there was an answer.

  One of the huge doors swung open and a tall gaunt man with round spectacles peered out.

  “Yes, what is it now?” the man said. Upon seeing Fairfax's uniform the man brightened. “Did you find the stolen relics so soon? That's wonderful!”

  I shook my head. “No, we haven't found them, yet. Are you Curator Aubert Othmar?”

  The man's expression collapsed to one of disappointment. “Well, I guess solving this simple crime was expecting too much of the Constabulary.”

  I was taken aback, but did not want to get into an argument. “Sir, we need to view the scene of the burglary and ask you a few questions.”

  The man, obviously Aubert, sputtered a laugh. “Are you joking? Again? Are there two Constabularies in town conducting separate investigations and I was not made aware of that fact? Am I expected to repeat everything over again? Nonsense!”

  I felt Fairfax tense up beside me.

  Aubert looked angry, “Where is Detective Oswall? Knocked off for a drink
at the pub already, hmm? The man was practically soaked in whiskey when he bumbled about the place. Well? Where is this drunk?”