“How did we get here?” Phoebus asked.
“The storm somehow brought us here,” Croaker answered in his gravel voice and tamped the tobacco in his pipe.
“The storm?” the younger man asked.
“Yes,” Croaker said, taking a swig of whiskey from his dented flask. He wiped his stubbled chin with the back of his hand, and replaced the pipe between his teeth. “Remember, when we were in that carnival looking for the murderous clown? It was a dark and stormy night…”
“Oh yes,” Phoebus interrupted, taking out his own flask. Filled with gin, it hadh his family crest and name, Buckroe, engraved on it. He took a delicate sip, pinky in the air, and screwed the cap on again. He opened the other side of the divided container and took out a cigar. Lighting it from an electric cuff link, he puffed a cloud of smoke and looked at the shorter man. “Nothing good ever starts that way. How do you know we are in a place called New Tartan?”
“Just look around.” Croaker said as he waved his arms, causing his brown duster to flap.
Phoebus Buckroe turned in a circle, holding his silk top hat in place and staring at the brick buildings around them. Each building was different from the next. Three story plaster buildings with dark wood trim and crossbeams dominated this area. Striped cloth awnings jutted out over the sidewalk and banners, signs, and flags hung from the buildings, identifying each establishment. In other parts of town they had seen glass arboretums, zeppelin landing pads, brass cranes moving huge gears and pulleys, and a dozen other varieties of architecture.
“Alright Norge, you’re the detective, not me. I am just dashing, good looking, and charming. I don’t see what you meant for me to see.”
“Either your starched collar is too tight,” Croaker said and heaved a sigh, “or you’re too busy polishing your baubles and jewelry to open your eyes. I didn’t mean look around here, I meant to look around in general and you will see things you never knew were there. For example, this town is a mish-mosh of architecture and style. Every block is different. That shows it is run by creative people with a lot of time on their hands. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, I do. I am not an idiot. It means they have lots of money, and we can turn a profit here.”
“No,” the older man said as he glared at his companion.
“They don’t have money? It looks like it to me, now that you pointed it out.”
“I didn’t point it out, and yes they have money, but that is not what I meant. I meant they won’t have a standard government. Also, they don’t have that much money, I’ve seen urchins roaming the streets and the poor wandering about. I think it is more of a commune sort of government, and they take care of their own rather than having strict class divisions.”
“Ah,” Phoebus said as he rolled his eyes and yawned. “How very fascinating. What does this mean to us? And you still haven’t told me how you knew the city is named New Tartan.”
“I knew because it was on the notice board we passed when we arrived two days ago. And it means that they find work for anyone who wants it, so there may be work for us.”
“They have money to pay us is what you mean.”
“You have a one track mind. Come along, we’re going to find the Mayor who posted the notice about something strange in town.”
“Couldn’t we go back to Clausen Hall and get a drink from that nice chap, James Dieselton, before we start working?”
The sun set early in the autumn and the two men moved along the foggy streets. Croaker watched the alleys and shadows, and Phoebus looked at the misty rings around the full moon and flickering gas street lights. They were as different from one another as two men could be. Phoebus Buckroe stood tall and strolled along as if he were leaning back, his silver topped walking stick clicking on the cobblestones with each step. His top hat added even more height to his already imposing size and the cut of his tailored dove grey jacket and matching waistcoat showed off his broad shoulders and trim waist. The black trousers he wore had a perfect crease right down to his gaiters and polished shoes. Puffing on his cigar, across with a sparkling smile and a tip of his hat, the young man greeted the few people they came.
Croaker Norge was hunched as he inspected everything around them, his head moving left and right as his hands fidgeted with the leather tool case and contraptions on his belt. His duster was stained and his shirt was wrinkled. He ignored most people after a quick glance to make sure they weren’t a threat, though sometimes he would give a small nod or wave his pipe at them when they passed.
They arrived at the Town Hall with the help of a talkative street urchin. The lad ran off once Phoebus handed him a coin at Croaker’s insistence. The building was a huge clock tower with public offices on the ground floor. The double doors opened into a lavish foyer with an expensive patterned carpet. Maps of New Tartan adorned the walls, accompanied by portraits of citizens, civil and historic events, as well as various persons of importance.
“We’re closing,” a soft voice said from behind them. Turning they saw a short man with a dark goatee, sideburns, and a handlebar mustache, his long hair pulled back with a leather cord. Goggles sat on his head, and soot made rings around his eyes. He wore an open jacket of olive green and nothing underneath except tattoos. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Croaker Norge, Personal Investigation Officer of New Sylians. I saw the Mayor’s bulletin on the town notice board, sir. This is my assistant, Phoebus Buckroe. He runs errands and whatnot for me, as well as providing brute force when needed.”
“I’m not an assistant,” Phoebus said with indignation. “I am Norge’s balancing point, and complement and support him in areas he falls short. I’m the part of the team that handles all financial matters. You can deal with me when we discuss pay. I also specialize in strategy and tactics: military, political, or social. I am the quintessential diplomat.”
“I’m sure,” the man said in a husky voice, so quiet they leaned in to hear him. “I’m Mayor Kravnel, you’ve found the right man. Follow me to the office, and we’ll get the right forms filled out.”
The short man led them past a wooden spiral staircase with a brass railing and into a hall beyond. Turning the corner, he opened a door and gestured them inside.
“I’ll be right back,” Kravnel said, “I need to get some documents from my office. Won’t be a minute. But make yourselves comfortable, just in case.”
When he had left, Phoebus turned to Croaker, who was inspecting the room.
“Is he a rokairn?” Phoebus asked as he took a cigar from a humidor on the desk. Sniffing it and smiling, he clipped the end off and lit it from a silver lighter. “Don’t look at me like that; he did say to make ourselves comfortable. He’s so short. And what is with his voice? ‘I am the Mayor, do you feel lucky punk?’ I mean, speak up little guy, don’t be shy!”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” Croaker scolded, as he poured a drink from a crystal decanter in the corner, following his friend’s example. “He is who he is, and that’s that. Sometimes it’s best to take things at face value and not look any deeper. I’ve never heard of New Tartan, not in North Mirron, perhaps in Teurone. I think that storm did more than bring us across the land.”
“What? Are you going to go on about cultists and strange monsters from the sea or something? How could he have brought us here?”
“I didn’t say ‘he’ brought us here. And hush,” Croaker pointed at a vent, “you never know who could be listening.”
“I’m not crouched at some vent,” Mayor Kravnel said as he came into the office, a sheaf of papers in hand, “but I could hear you pretty clear from down the hall. You guys should learn to speak softer, make people lean in to hear you. It works for me.”
“Forgive us, your honor,” Croaker said, bowing his head.
“Don’t do that, we don’t stand on ceremony here,” Kravnel said wrinkling his nose. “Let’s just get this started so we can get it done. We don’t need to worry about niceties or customs and have tea or something, do we? Y
ou gentlemen are men of action, right?”
“Just so,” Phoebus said as he stood and held a finger in the air. “We’re known for our daring and resourcefulness. Never out of ideas or overcome by adversity, we never…”
“Stop talking?” Kravnel asked in his throaty whisper. “How about this Mister Buckroe, you sit down and think about how great you are, and I’ll talk with the adult in the room. Sound acceptable?”
“Mister Kravnel,” Croaker said with a smirk and a sideways glance at his friend, who had sat down with his mouth agape, “forgive my assistant. He’s eager and means well. Please, go on with what you have to show us. How can we help you?”
“Thank you, Mister Norge. I’ll make this brief and to the point. Two days ago, we had a new building appear. Anyone going inside has disappeared and strange noises have been heard around it. We need someone to go in and either find out what it is, or how to neutralize it.”
“A building appeared?” Croaker asked. “Does this happen a lot?”
“More often than you might think, but it is not a regular occurrence. Will you do it?”
“Yes, we will.”
“Wait,” Phoebus interrupted, “what do we get paid?”
“It’s right here in the contract, Mister Buckroe,” Kravnel said, pointing at a clause. Phoebus leaned forward to inspect the document.
“No,” he said without hesitation, “we will need part of the money up front.”
“No, you don’t.” Kravnel said in a flat voice that brooked no argument. “If you go in, and don’t come out, I don’t see the need to have our town’s hard earned money disappearing with you. It’s a more than generous offer and if, I mean, when you return, you will be more than compensated for your troubles. That’s if you figure out what this is and how to handle it, or completely neutralize it while inside.”
“I don’t think,” Phoebus began.
“Good, then we all agree,” Croaker interrupted, enjoying someone that could put his partner on his heels with such ease. “We’ll go into this place tonight. Please hold our rooms at Clausen Hall and have Mister Dieselton keep the beer and whiskey ready.”
Aetheric Elements: The Rise of a Steampunk Reality Page 41
