Blackout: Book One (A Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller)

by Adam Drake

  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?”

  Fairfax leaned in and said, “Detective Oswall was murdered this morning.”

  Aubert Othmar stared at us in stunned silence. He blinked and looked from Fairfax to me. “Is... is this true?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I said. “We are here to resume his investigation into your case.” And see if it had something to do with his death. I did not say that out loud.

  The curator shook his head, regaining his composure. “Why, yes, of course. Please come inside.” He backed out of the way and Fairfax and I entered.

  The main foyer was gigantic with a high vaulted ceilings and glossy marble floors. The walls were lined with a diorama of all the great wars which stretched deeper into the building. Smaller displays filled the space in between with weapons, pottery and bits of armor.

  “Sorry to hear about the detective,” Aubert said as he shut the great door with a loud clang. He seemed to mean it despite his initial tirade.

  I introduced ourselves then asked, “Are there any employees here now?”

  Aubert shook his head. “No, but we will be open tomorrow on schedule. I didn't want any unsupervised activities here while I was away.”

  “You were in the Capital?”

  “Yes. My superiors at the Capital Museum wanted answers regarding the theft of the relics. But I was unable to offer them anything since I had not spoken to Detective Oswall for a few days.” He frowned when mentioning the detective.

  Fairfax asked, “And where were you the night of the burglary?”

  “I was at home with my wife. We were entertaining friends from the coast who are staying with us. I was there all night. You can check with them if it pleases you.”

  Fairfax nodded.

  “Might we look at the vault?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Aubert said, nodding. “It's down in the basement sub-level.”

  We followed the curator toward a side doorway passing detailed displays of beautiful paintings and other art work. At the door, Aubert produced a key ring and unlocked it.

  At the sight of the key ring I asked, “Did Hubertus have keys to the vault room, too?”

  Aubert frowned. “Yes, and that is a mistake I will not be making with the next night caretaker, I can tell you that.” He glared at me. “I think your investigation will be shortened if you looked into that man. That is the last time I hire someone as a favor. He had access to everything!”

  “He told us you fired him.” I said.

  “What? You spoke to him? He's awake now?”

  “Yes. We saw him earlier today. And he's doing fine,” I said knowing Aubert wouldn't be concerned.

  “The incompetence of that fellow. This place is very secure and yet he managed to let someone break in.”

  Fairfax said, “He was spelled. Hard to protect against that.”

  “Regardless,” Aubert said. “Spelled or not who is to say he wasn't in on it from the beginning? Let the person in and allow himself to be put to sleep to make him look like a victim.”

  “We are considering every angle, Mr. Othmar. That is one of them.”

  This mollified the curator, and he led us through the door and descended a series of stairs. We then passed through another series of locked doors until arriving in a small room crammed with carvings, art and armor. In one corner sat a large free-standing vault safe.

  “Here it is,” Aubert said and went over to it. “Do you want to see inside?”

  “Please.”

  He worked the combination dial while mumbling to himself. I found myself looking for engravings of squids on the walls but found none.

  The vault door clanked and Aubert pulled it open with a grunt. The inside was jammed with a variety of objects. Conspicuously, there was a narrow barren spot on one of its shelves.

  “The trunk was located there?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Aubert said. “A recent delivery from the Capital Museum. We received it only a week prior, and now it's gone. Strange, really.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Aubert waved his hand. “There are countless other items here for the taking, many of them extremely valuable, even priceless from a historical perspective. Yet, this trunk was the only thing they bothered with.”

  Fairfax asked, “Who has access to this room?”

  “Well, that would only be myself and the night caretaker. There is another set of keys back in the Capital Museum for insurance purposes, and they still have it, I checked.”

  “So the caretaker's keys are gone now?” I asked.

  “Yes, unfortunately. I have a locksmith coming from the Capital to replace everything. After this nonsense I cannot trust a local one to do it.”

  “And who else has the combination for the vault?”

  “Just myself here, and it's recorded back at the Capital.”

  “Is there any way someone might have obtained the vault combination from you?”

  Aubert looked indignant. “Of course not. I have it memorized only. Other than at the Capital Museum there is no other written record of it.”

  I looked at the vault closer. It was an older model, but sturdy. From what I could see it had not been forced open. Physically, anyways.

  “It might be possible that magic had been invoked to open it,” I said.

  “I considered that,” said Aubert. “It is always a risk when trying to keep these items secure. Mundane methods are too basic a security measure when magic is a factor. Almost impossible. I'm at a point where I must hire a full time Warding Master to live on the premises to keep spell-casting burglars away.” He looked forlorn.

  I took the case folder out of my satchel and opened it to the trunk's item list. “Do you know off hand the value of these items?”

  Aubert shrugged. “That is subjective. For collectors, historians and museums they have a value, but from a historical perspective. For the averag
e layman they are just old trinkets.”

  “Do they have magical properties?”

  “Some do, to varying degrees but that point is moot.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, they are soul-bound relics. Meaning no one else other than their original owners can use them. And the owners of these items have been dead for centuries. Millennia, even. So, as far as magical worth, they have none. Mere curiosities than anything.”