Dead Man in a Ditch

by Luke Arnold

  A lot of work had been done here, but something had brought it all to a stop. The crew were sitting around, unproductive, while a small team gathered around a big metal box in the corner.

  Warren, the well-dressed Gnome, was sitting by himself. Years ago, before I knew him personally, he’d been a legend of underground crime. The Coda killed the big players he’d put into power and took the muscle out of his muscle-men. He’d lost most of his savings since then trying to re-establish his empire, and had ended up as just another lone conman who’d seen better days.

  Warren might have lost a lot of money and most of his business, but his pride was still intact. His suits were always clean, his hair never more than a week away from the barber, and he had a relaxed way of moving that suggested he had all the time in the world.

  But he didn’t have all the time in the world. He had very little time left and was scared about how he was going to spend it.

  His hat was in his hands and his usual charm had withered. I pulled a stool up beside him and let him speak first.

  “When there was magic, my friend owned this factory and he made good money selling plates and vases. That stopped six years ago. But when the autumn floods came through Sunder, and made great pools of clay downstream, I thought we could use the mud to start things up again. But the fire…” He waved dismissively towards the metal box. “We cannot make it hot enough. We have tried everything. Even if it costs more to heat the kiln than we could earn selling the pots, we could at least make something. But, no. There is nothing here. Just more waste.”

  We watched the mud-covered workers drag a tray of soggy ceramic cups out of the kiln and throw them to the side.

  “Try something smaller,” ordered Warren. “Some… some thimbles, maybe. And double the wood.”

  The disheartened potters nodded, and it was almost funny. They were criminals. Hard men who’d once made their living knocking people on the head. Now they were all standing around in aprons and gloves, disappointed that they couldn’t complete their teacups.

  Almost funny.

  “I’m sorry, Warren. I wish I could help you but science was never my strong suit. If I hear of anything helpful, I’ll let you know.”

  He looked up at me.

  “So, that is what you are doing? Looking into magical powers? I thought you said it was impossible.”

  “It is impossible. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t new, non-magical things out there. Like whatever that doctor was trying to sell you.”

  He scrunched up the brim of his hat. The disappointment of the Unicorn horn was still raw.

  “He just had an idea, that’s all. He only wanted to help.”

  “Well, I want to help too. Can I talk to your friend?”

  He gave me an expression I’d seen too many times on too many people: when someone knows I’m about to make trouble.

  “He is just a chemist. A Warlock who is trying to make a new way in the world, like all of us.”

  “By selling you lies. How much was he going to charge you to mix up your Unicorn soup?”

  Warren put one of his small hands on mine. It shocked me. We’d built ourselves a good routine of teasing and trading barbs. For some reason, he’d decided to break that with a bit of rare sincerity.

  “Do not blame him for giving me a dream, Fetch. His heart was full of hope, the same as mine was. I will tell you where to find him, but do not go busting his balls. Just because you have given up, you don’t need to bring down the rest of us.”

  Dammit. I’d done it again. I went to apologize, but Warren didn’t need it. He’d said his piece and I’d listened. That would be enough. I tried to remember to do it more often. I put my other hand on top of his and held it. He breathed deeply, looking around at the useless warehouse and the dying business that he’d failed to resuscitate. I didn’t need to remind him that things had moved on. He saw that clearer than I ever could. Whatever job I thought I was doing, it wasn’t supposed to be going around slapping the last piece of hope out of someone’s hands.

  So, I said nothing. Warren told me that the chemist’s name was Rick Tippity and that he worked a few blocks north. He told me that I should be nice to the Warlock because there were too many folks being mean in the world and they were all doing a better job of it than I was.

  “So, be nice,” he said. “These days, there is less competition.”

  6

  When the Coda put Witch-doctors and Medicine-men out of business, pharmacists rose up to take their place. The cures are less dramatic, more expensive and not always reliable, but it’s the only place left to turn when somebody gets sick.

  Warren told me that Rick Tippity, on top of being a Warlock, had also trained as an alchemist. That gave him a rare understanding of the intersection of science and magic, and allowed him to adapt to the new world quicker than others. I’d been to his pharmacy once before: stocking up on Clayfields before they became easily available all over town. It was a tiny store up on Kippen Street; a narrow lane that was suitable for horses but not ideal during that brief period when automobiles made their way into town.

  Business on Kippen was far from booming. The only open doors were a laundry, a noodle bar and the drug store in question, which stood out from the rest of the buildings by having clean windows, fresh paint and a sign above the door featuring a big green leaf.

  When I walked inside, the first thing that hit me was the smell: a sharp mixture of smoke, chemical fumes and pollen that stabbed its way into my sinuses.

  The place had recently been renovated and the chosen color palette was white on white with an extra big splash of white. A bold move in a city like Sunder where even the air can leave a smudge. A wood counter split the room and leaning over it, scribbling into a notepad, was the Warlock I was coming to meet.

  Rick Tippity looked like he was in his early forties but his waist-length hair had lost all color. He wore small, silver-rimmed glasses and a white coat that matched the walls. When he looked up, his eyes had the intense focus of someone who was either wildly intelligent or just a touch insane.

  He put down his pencil and stood up straight, resting his long-fingered hands on the counter. He had an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance, like he wanted you to know that the end of the world hadn’t slowed him down at all.

  “Good afternoon to you, sir. What can I help you with today?”

  “Two soft packs of Clayfield Heavies, please. And,” I pointed to the four cuts slashed across my face, “could you recommend anything to heal these up fast and stop them from scarring? My wife will be back in town next month and I don’t think she’ll believe that I got them at church.”

  He smirked to show that he understood, and turned to the shelves behind him. One of the things I’d learned after six years on the job is that if you go into anybody’s business expecting help, you’d better be prepared to buy something. Doesn’t matter if they’re innocent, guilty or inconsequential, they all talk easier after seeing a bit of bronze.

  He stood in front of a shelf that held five metal urns, each with a tap at the bottom. He turned one, and it dropped a dollop of pale green liquid into a glass bottle. Before it was full, he moved along the aisle, sprinkled in a couple of different powders, then gave it a shake.

  “Rub it into the wound twice a day and again just before bed. The scabs will soften, which will look unpleasant while they’re healing, but should be gone in a week.”

  He dropped the bottle on the counter with the packs of Clayfields.

  “Thanks. I don’t feel like being kicked out the house in this weather.”

  “One bronze coin for the Clayfields, another for the medicine.”

  I made a meal of the process: finding my wallet, not having any bronze coins or bills on hand, so digging around in my coat to make it up with coppers.

  “You hear about that business up at the Bluebird Lounge?” I said. “Kind of spooky.”

  His eyes were already back on his notes, waiting for me to le
ave so he could finish whatever puzzle he was working on.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, seemingly uninterested.

  “Someone got killed with a fireball to the face.” Every coin came from a different pocket. I lined them up on the counter, slowly, as his sharpened eyes came back to the present. “Everyone’s already spreading a lot of nonsense about it. I bet you hear that kind of stuff all the time, though, right?”

  He knitted his brow so tight he turned it into a sweater.

  “What stuff?”

  “Folks coming in here asking how to make magic. Mostly to help. Maybe to harm.” I picked up the bottle of pale syrup and examined the consistency. “I don’t pretend to understand how you do what you do, but at least I know it’s science. Other people out there think you’re still playing with the good stuff.”

  He wasn’t moving. He was spooked. I just didn’t know why. Then he said: “I am.”

  The room was icy cold. Like someone had opened the door and let the winter wind blow in. But the door was still closed, and we were alone. Just me and the Warlock with the wild eyes.

  “Oh, you are? Wow. That’s uh… What do you mean?”

  “There is magic in all things. Always was. Always will be. Your kind might have changed the way we use it but you cannot take it from us. No. Do not think yourself as important as that.”

  The bastard hadn’t blinked in a whole minute. It was my turn to be spooked.

  “So… you say that there’s still magic in all this?” I gestured to the boxes and bottles behind him and spoke in my most frustratingly condescending tone. “But how powerful is it, really? You might be able to pop a few pimples but you can’t use this stuff to kill somebody.”

  The Warlock took off his glasses and put them in the chest pocket of his shirt. His hands dropped to his sides, below the counter.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Nobody. I’m just a guy with some stupid questions. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

  He didn’t act like I’d hit a nerve. He acted like I’d strung it over a violin and played it with a razor blade.

  “You’re with the police,” he told me. An accusation that would have been absurd any other day of my life.

  “No. Not really. I just want to prove to them that nobody could have—”

  His hands came up from under the desk and there was something in his right fist. It looked like a coin-purse or a sack of marbles. As I stepped back from the counter, he tore the package open and a giant ball of fire appeared in his hands.

  It roared like a wild animal and the warm air pushed the scream back down my throat. I tripped backwards. In the end, that might have been what saved me.

  The back of my head hit the concrete. The fall didn’t knock me out but it hurt enough for me to wish that it had. I could smell parts of me that were cooking: hair, eyebrows, and a little skin. I slapped my hands over my face and collar but luckily the flames hadn’t set anything alight. It was just a flash. A hot, painful, uncomfortable moment, but over so fast that the damage was only superficial.

  It wasn’t a killing blow. It wasn’t big enough to blow the paint off the walls.

  But damn my soul if it wasn’t magic.

  7

  Tippity was gone by the time I got to my feet and I can’t say I was disappointed. I wanted to catch the bastard but I needed a moment to compose myself. I’d waited six years to see someone use magic but I hadn’t expected it to happen two feet from my face. I wiped my hands through my hair and little burnt bits came off in my fingers. My throat was sore from inhaling a mouthful of hot air and my vision was full of white spots.

  There was ash on the ground around me. I looked for the little pouch that had coughed out the flames but it must have been incinerated in the blast. There was a wooden door cut into the counter so I pushed it open and went through to the other side. There were shelves down where the Warlock’s hands had been but there were no more magical pouches full of fire.

  The notes that Tippity had been writing were indecipherable to me, so I left them for the police to worry about. I did find a metal tin containing plenty of cash so I refunded myself for my earlier purchases and paid for my impending trip to the barber.

  There was a phone on the wall but I didn’t use it right away. I’d come to the drug store to disprove the magic theory, not encourage the rumor, so I wanted to have something more to say than, The magic is back and I’ve got the burns to prove it.

  The aisles at the back of the room were full of tinctures, seeds and bits of bark but nothing that resembled the explosive pouch. Nothing was labeled either, so my search was useless (other than the Clayfield stockpile that found its way into my coat pocket).

  Behind the aisles, on the back wall, there was an open door that the Warlock must have used for his escape. I took my knife from my belt and held it ready as I kicked the door open and looked inside.

  It was just a storeroom, cluttered and dark. The only light came from the opposite exit that went out to the alley. My eyes were still sparkling from the attack, so I stumbled over a few boxes before I found a lamp hanging from the roof. I flicked on my lighter and held it up to the lantern. When the wick flared up, I jumped back in shock. Not because of the fire, but because of the giant block of ice at the back of the room with a screaming man trapped inside.

  He was lying against the wall as if he’d slid down it after a big night out. The ice was coating his entire body but it was thickest around his chest and head. The water was perfectly clear, but the surface was spiked with tiny icicles.

  I had no idea how long ago it had happened. With the storeroom door open, the air was cold enough to slow the melting process to nothing.

  It was another Warlock. His long fingers were spread open and his arms were bent, like he’d been pleading with someone when the spell hit him. He was older than Tippity, with shorter hair and a trimmed beard, and underneath his overcoat he wore the same white uniform.

  They must have been colleagues. If so, what went wrong?

  His hands were empty. Looking around, I saw no signs of a struggle. Crates, bottles and canisters were stacked in abundance but the only things messed up were the boxes I’d kicked over myself.

  I opened a few containers and searched for anything that looked more like magic than medicine. Neither of those things were my expertise, so I didn’t come to any smart conclusions. I pawed through pots of red soil, boxes of bandages and vials of syrup. I found a bottle of light-gold liquid that looked familiar, so I opened it and had a taste. Tarix sap, and of a better quality than what you find at most bars. I slid it inside my coat. It was harder to hide than the Clayfields but far more valuable.

  Nothing else seemed particularly interesting. I stood in the middle of the room, chewed on a twig and looked into the frozen eyes of the man in the corner. There was something familiar about his face. Not because I’d seen him before. It was his expression. The way it was stuck in a horrified moment of realization.

  As if it had happened in an instant.

  It was just like the body at the bar. Caught by surprise, except this guy had been blasted by ice instead of fire. Death was always busy in Sunder City but it was working faster than usual and with plenty of pizazz.

  I went back out to the other room, called the police department, and asked for Simms.

  “Can I ask who’s speaking?”

  “Her neighbor. I’m supposed to be taking care of her cats but one of them has started throwing up everywhere and she told me that if that happened I needed to give it one of the blue pills but the damn thing keeps throwing it back up and the carpet is a mess and I don’t know what to—”

  “Hold the line, sir.”

  Thirty seconds later, Simms was growling on the other end.

  “Okay, wise guy. What’s the deal?”

  “Thought you wouldn’t want the receptionist announcing my name in front of the whole department. I know the rest of the cops aren’t as fond of me as you are.”

 
; She huffed, not wanting to concede that I was right.

  “What’s this really about, then?”

  “I got another stiff for you. Drug store over on Kippen Street. I ain’t saying it’s magic but it’s something similar to what we saw this morning. Ice this time.”

  There was a long pause while Simms ran through the repercussions.

  “You know who did it?”

  “Pretty sure it’s the pharmacist, Rick Tippity. I came in asking questions about Warlock magic and the guy got so worked up he smacked me with a ball of fire.”

  “Hell. You all right?”

  “You’ll have to tell me that yourself. I haven’t seen a mirror yet.”

  “Stay safe. I’m on my way.”

  When I hung up the phone, I heard myself laughing. The adrenaline was leaving my body and I was all giddy from the ridiculousness of Simms talking to me like she cared.

  I went back into the storeroom and pulled the flavorless Clayfield out my teeth. There was a dumpster in the corner so I opened up the lid.

  Then I stopped.

  The room was dark, so I told myself I must be seeing things that weren’t really there. I hoped I was seeing things that weren’t really there, because I thought I could see bodies lying at the bottom of the bin.

  Praying that it was all in my head, I pulled the lid all the way back and got out my lighter again.

  When the orange light hit the shadows, I ran outside to be sick.

  8

  When Simms and Richie arrived, I took them through the events as quickly as I could. Others would be on their way and Simms didn’t want them to see us acting all chummy. I showed them where I got hit, described the pouch and the fire that came out of it, and then took them out back to meet the ice man.

  They didn’t say much, just nodded along and tried not to jump to any wild conclusions. I’d been trying to do the same thing. There were plenty of ways to make fire. I had a little lighter in my pocket that did it every day. You didn’t need magic for that. But ice? Well, ice is different. Sure, there’s plenty of it around this time of year, and it wasn’t the first time someone had been killed by the cold, but this wasn’t some poor homeless guy left out in the elements. It looked to me like someone had summoned this ice the same way as the fireball. If Rick Tippity had opened up a little leather pouch and a frozen blue cloud came out and killed someone, then I didn’t know what else to call it but the obvious.