The Fiddler's Dagger

by W H Lock

  Chapter Nine

  Savannah, GA

  Freddy had found them a nice space in a strip mall for cheap. It had been a medium box retailer to anchor the shopping center. But whatever it had been, it had been empty for a few years. All that was left of the business was a few beige aluminum shelves and a couch in the middle of the empty space. Freddy and Eno had brought in a large round table and several chairs.

  "Clean up on aisle five." Freddy's voice echoed through the empty space as he spoke over the PA system.

  Midnight, the raven, cawed and took off to fly around the space. He did a few laps around and eventually took up a position in the steel rafters in the center of the room. He had an excellent view of everything up there.

  Quinn clapped his hands and lowered them slowly. The lights in the building dimmed to match his movement. He did a complex move with his hands and summoned one of his aquamarine arcane circles. Briefly, there was the scent of ivy on a summer breeze. He spun the circle over his head like a platter. Once it achieved a speed that made him happy, he tossed it at the table. The circle spun and enlarged itself to match the size of the table.

  "Here's what we're after," Quinn said. He pointed at the table and flared his hands out dramatically like a stage magician. An image of a dagger formed a few feet above the table. It was an oversized image of Cortes’s dagger.

  "What is it," Freddy said over the loudspeakers. "It's gigantic. Who needs a dagger that size? How do you stab anyone with that?"

  "Yeah," Eno said. "I was going to say something about that. I mean, what do you do with something that big? Are there letters that big that need to be opened?"

  "It's not actual size, Freddy!" Quinn shouted to the room. He slapped his hands together, and the image of the dagger shrank.

  "Well, now it's too small," Elly said leaning forward. "I can't make out any of the details."

  "Seriously, Quinn," Karen said. "How can you expect anyone to work with that?"

  Max covered his mouth as he chuckled.

  "Fine!" Quinn threw his hands out wide. The dagger expanded well behind the confines of the table’s edge and filled the entire empty retail space.

  "Oh, well, now that's just too big," Max said.

  Oh, yeah," Rube said with a grin. "Something like that would need two axles for sure. You ain't gonna fit something like that on anything less than a flatbed. We'll need a couple of tarps. Chains to tie it down. I’ll need a fake DCL too."

  Quinn brought his hands together to re-size the dagger back down to slightly larger than normal he'd had it at originally. "There," he said. "Is that better?"

  Everyone agreed and nodded seriously for a moment before breaking out in laughter.

  "Hahaha, funny funny funny," Quinn said with a grin. "Now, Karen, what do we know so far about the guy who owns this?"

  Karen put down her flask and pulled out her notebook. “His name is Jeremiah Beauregard Gartrell. He’s the fifth of that name. His family has been a player in local, state, and federal politics since the mid eighteen hundreds. He was nothing special at the collegiate level or private studies. He has an MBA from the University of Georgia. He’s an alumnus of Esselaer Polymagica.”

  “Is that a fancy magic school?” Rube asked.

  “Yes,” Karen answered. “It’s in upstate New York. A very pretty campus. He is a legacy and was a part of the Goetic Society. The house has been in the family since it was built. It’s got a comprehensive suite of wards. They’re not old, exactly. But they’re not new either.”

  “What do you mean,” Quinn asked.

  Karen flipped to the pages in her notebook. “What he’s got going on here, well. I mean, it’s probably from the Eighties. Esselaer is an innovator in wards. Ward doctrine started changing then, so he’s got a mix of how it used to be back in the Fifties and closer to what we do now.” She finished with a shrug.

  “I sense a huge but here, Karen. But what?”

  “It’s not right.”

  “What do you mean, not right?”

  She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Esselaer is top in the field. The school is consistently rated the top in the rankings. Some of the best minds in wards came from Esselaer.” Karen nodded. “For someone who went to Esselaer, this is… brittle.”

  “Brittle,” Quinn took a seat at the table to stare at Karen. “What do you mean brittle?”

  “Someone who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing has been reinforcing those wards on a regular basis,” Karen said. “And they’re interconnected in dumb ways.”

  “What?” Quinn leaned back.

  “How many wards have you built over the years?”

  “I don’t know. A bunch? Why?”

  “Well, once you tie it off to a source how do you know when they need to be refreshed, repaired, or rebuilt?”

  Elly leaned forward and said, “You built them, so you have a feel for them. And that’s without any signs of disrepair or inspection.”

  “Right!” Karen nodded at Elly. She continued, “You can just sort of tell because things aren’t working the way they had been. So you refresh them. Fix up the parts that need fixing. But that’s not what’s happening here.”

  “What is happening?”

  “I don’t know,” Karen said. “But if I had to put money down on this, and I am a betting woman, I’d bet that someone who has been told how to do this but doesn’t really understand it has been rebuilding or reinforcing those wards on a regular basis for years. Whether or not they need it.”

  The group sat quietly for a moment.

  Eventually, Rube said, “So, they’ve been slapping paint on the house every year, whether or not the one from last year flaked off?”

  “Yeah, it’s a lot like that. Except there are so many layers of the same paint that all the fine details have been buried.”

  “Well, who is paying for all of this? If someone is slapping paint on rotten wood, how are the wards being kept active?”

  “That part is easy. Forsyth Park is a natural ley fount. Several of the buildings around the park have the fount walled off and siphoned. It’s pulling from there. They have a ley masking ward in place but…,” Karen shrugged.

  “But the constant coats of paint make it obvious?”

  “Something like that,” Karen said. She consulted her notebook again. “He is also a member of the Hyberian Society.”

  The rest of the team looked at each other at that name.

  "It's an Irish Catholic cultural preservation society," Karen said. "They're headquartered here with small satellite groups across the southeast. From what I understand, they put on a great St. Patrick's Day parade here in Savannah."

  "They have an Irish parade?" Max sounded genuinely surprised.

  Karen nodded. "There's a lot of Irish in Georgia. It was a prison colony at first, so the British sent Irish criminals here. The Hyberians do the parade to make sure European 'culture' isn't watered down." Karen made air quotes when she said the world culture.

  Max tugged at his mustache and nodded.

  "He's also probably a member of the Knights of the Golden Dawn."

  "What's that," Freddy asked as he took a seat at the table. "A bunch of racist?"

  "Mostly." Karen shrugged.

  "They're leftovers from the Civil War," Elly said as she leaned forward. "The Knights were supposed to keep the Confederacy alive in secret so it could rise again. Legend has it that they were the ones Jefferson Davis tasked with hiding the Confederacy's gold somewhere near here in Savannah."

  At the mention of gold, the team turned as one and focused on Elly. She shrugged, suddenly indifferent to their attention.

  "Basically, yes," Karen said, after clearing her throat. "I haven't checked with any of my peers in Ordo Cogito, so I don't know the Knights recruitment, but it could be they offer hereditary seats."

  "With the wards, this guy had a Breakthrough, right?" Quinn asked.

  Rube raised his hand. Quinn nodded at him.

  "Maybe y'al
l covered this before, but what's a Breakthrough?"

  Quinn, Elly, Max and Karen looked at each other. They collectively shrugged. Karen looked at her notes for a moment and cleared her throat.

  "It's the term we use when someone realizes they can work magic," she said in a neutral and even tone.

  "It's regarded as a very personal and private thing," Max said. "It’s not something we discuss much at all. Certainly not publically."

  "Oh, so it's like losing your virginity," Rube said. “Uncomfortable, sweaty, and you only have fun telling the story years later.”

  Quinn laughed and said, "Yeah, it's a lot like that."

  Without looking up from her notebook, Karen said, "Typically it's preceded by a traumatic event. Ordo Crepusculum believes that it can only be accomplished by a near-death experience. When they decide to induct a member they find to be suitable, they arrange for a near-death experience."

  Rube looked at the other two then back at Karen. "What happens if it's not a breakthrough for them?"

  "Then it's not so near death."

  It was silent for too long.

  Quinn smacked his hands together and spun the image of the dagger in the air again. "What else do we know about Jeremiah Beauregard Gartrell? Is that his name, really? His parents thought it was a good idea to use Jeremiah Beauregard?"

  Max hesitantly raised his hand. Quinn nodded at him.

  Max’s quiet voice barely audible in the vast silence of the nearly empty room. "He likes to collect rare books. A few people I know say he shows up to events, conventions, that sort of thing."

  Eno looked at Max and said, "They have conventions for rare books?"

  "Oh, sure. There are conventions for anything you might imagine," the older man said. "I used to make copies of Magic the Gathering cards. But the market fell out, and Mother says that spending time on that is as useful as a pogo stick in river mud."

  Eno nodded and turned back to the team. "He likes to dine out. The only time I saw him eat at home, he had several guests," Eno said. "He's not going to an office or anything like that, so his income is likely passive. He's got a small staff at his house; a chef, a driver, a gardener, and an assistant. If he's not meeting someone, having someone over, or going to a party, he's going to have dinner at the Stephens Club."

  "What's that?" Quinn looked at Karen.

  She flipped through her notes and shrugged. It hadn't come up in her research. Quinn turned back to Freddy.

  The vampire said, "It used to be a gentleman's club, the old kind that had rules about not talking in certain rooms, not the stripper kind. But they have re-branded as a dinner club that way they don't have to admit undesirables."

  "Undesirables?"

  Freddy leaned back and said, "Probably anyone who thinks naming their kid Jefferson Davis or Robert E. Lee is a bad idea."

  Everyone nodded.

  "Can you get me in there? Meeting Gartrell there would be a good idea. He'll feel safe. I can hook him then." Quinn looked at Freddy with raised eyebrows.

  "I'll be on it like a fat kid on a cupcake."

  Quinn snapped his fingers in a simple beat. He did a quick shuffle step. His arcane circle popped into existence behind him and played a familiar hip-hop song with a strong beat. Quinn moved in time to the beat.

  "This has got to be sexy, y'all. It can't be slap and grab nonsense. This has got to be so smooth that wet glass is impressed. I want to be able to come back a year from now and touch this guy for more cash. What are you thinking?"

  "Stock scam seems the best choice," Karen said. "If he's old money, it's easy money."

  "Not sexy," Quinn said with a quick turn.

  "Why don't we skip to the end where you tell us what you think we should do," Eno said. Then he blew his nose.

  "Anyone here ever run a Fiddle Game?"

  Freddy and Eno nodded. Karen shrugged. Rube just kept watching. Elly said nothing, but Midnight the raven squawked loudly. Max pulled his cardigan tighter because he didn’t want to catch a chill.

  "We're going to run a fiddle game on this guy. He's a rare collector. That's where he's weak. We're going to run a nice fiddle past his nose, and then he's going to give us the dagger."

  Rube raised his hand.

  "Are we doing the game because of the rules of magic and all?"

  Quinn shook his head. "Well, yes. Two reasons. The first is the law of ownership. Maybe. We still don't know if he's powerful enough to follow up or not, but he might have family that can do that. So, we're going to get him to give it to us."

  "What's the second reason," Elly asked.

  Quinn grinned. "It’s just how I do things. It's a lot more fun." He laughed and spun. He finished the spin pointing at Freddy.

  "Fred! I want to know more about this club. I get a good feeling about it. Rube, I'm going to need a car for a rare items collector that was riding high, but things aren't going so well now. Someone just down on his luck. Karen, I need IDs to match. Max get started on making copies of the dagger. Like four. Maybe three? Three. Make it three. Karen! I’ll need a satchel that's sealed off from being tracked for transport. Oh, and I am going to need a book, Max. I'll send you pictures of what I have in mind."

  Karen looked doubtful. "How long are we talking?"

  "Not more than a few days at the most," Quinn said. "Eno, I want you back on this guy’s ass."

  Everyone nodded. Freddy asked, "What are you and Elly going to be doing?"

  Quinn grinned and said, "First, I'm gonna make sure we're good with the locals. Then I need to talk to a man about a book."

  Chapter Ten

  When Quinn walked into O'Shea's Pub he liked it. It was a small taproom with the bar running the length of the wall. Against the other wall were narrow tables. Each had its own source of light hanging from the ceiling. The very back was an open space with two small pool tables.

  "Lovely," Elly said from behind him as the door slammed shut.

  "Yeah, this place is steeped in atmosphere," Quinn said.

  "I think I can feel the fat congealing in my arteries right now."

  "Isn't it great?" Quinn laughed and grinned at her.

  A sour-looking man stood behind the bar. In one hand, he held the ragged shreds of a towel and a pint glass in the other. He spat into the mug and used the rag to wipe out the insides before placing it on a rack behind him.

  "Oy, what the fuck do you two want," he said.

  "We're here for him," Quinn said.

  "Who the fuck is that then," the sour bartender replied.

  "Who runs the Westies, the Dorchesters, the Whyos, or maybe something like the Dead Rabbits? Anyway, we're here to see him."

  "I don't know who the fuck that is or what the fuck that other stuff means so why don't you fuck off?"

  Quinn gestured and pulled a Circle of Hunllef into existence and added the Rune of Arswyd. With a quick flick of his wrist, Quinn put the circle in front of the man's face.

  "Because if you don't, I'll make that happen to you for the rest of your very long and likely very painful life."

  The older man looked directly into the circle and turned deathly pale. He swallowed reflexively and jerked his head to the side. "You're looking for Vinnie and Onnie. They're playing pool in the back with the boys."

  "Thanks," Quinn said with a bright smile.

  The man whimpered as he continued to stare at the circle Quinn had put in front of him.

  "Why don't you go take a break?" Quinn said as he let the circle go. "Maybe have a good smoke, huh?"

  The man nodded and walked out the front door with no hesitation.

  "What did you show him," Elly asked.

  "I have no idea," Quinn said. He gave her his 10,000-watt smile and said, "It shows you your greatest fear. My mother used to show that to me whenever she wanted me to clean my room."

  Elly stared at Quinn for a hard long moment, not sure if he was joking or serious. When he grinned at her and laughed, she decided he'd been serious.

  The pair
made their way to the back room with the two pool tables. True to the grumpy bartender's word, there was a pack of men sitting in the back playing pool. All of them were in their mid to early twenties. The two men holding pool cues were twin brothers. They had the same lanky arms, shaggy blonde hair, and nearly identical faces. They, like the others in the room, were dressed in shabby denim pants, ratty t-shirts, and red jackets. The brothers looked at each other as Quinn and Elly walked into the room. Neither acknowledged the pair's entrance.

  "Which of you pukes is Vinnie or Onnie?" Quinn stared at the two men playing pool.

  No one answered.

  "Oh, I thought I was in the bar for the hardest group of bastards that ran this town. I guess I wandered into a room full of little bitches," Quinn said.

  The brothers stopped playing and leaned against the table. They stared at Quinn. After a moment one of them said, "Who's asking?"

  Contrary to what Quinn had expected, he spoke with a deep southern drawl that drew the vowel sounds out.

  "The name's Quinn." Quinn waited for a reaction. To his disappointment, no one even shifted in response to hearing his name. "I will be running a game on someone here in Savannah, and I want to make sure you and yours don't get caught up in it."

  "That's nice of you," said the other brother. "But we're honest boys having a pint with our friends. What sort of game would this be?"

  "The sort that ends up with a little green being spread around," Quinn said.

  The first brother shrugged. "That sounds like the sort of game any enterprising fellow might want to play. Who's the other team?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "It might," the first brother said. "There's a fella down in Atlanta. He took a shine to this city from back when. And he's the sort that don’t like it when someone comes poking around in his personal vacation home. Me and Vinnie here would hate to be the ones to tell him about that."

  "That would be a shame. I wouldn't want anyone to get upset." Quinn looked at his feet and shook his head.