by Adam Drake
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 m
yself 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 average 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.”
I knew first hand that this statement was not entirely true. “Yes, but couldn't a descendant use them? There have been instances of relics passed down for generations.”
Aubert waved a dismissive hand. “To a limited extent that is correct. A direct descendant might bring forth the magical element of the item. But unless you knew first hand who that descendant was, it would be almost impossible to find out. And even then, the item may do nothing at all. Which is why they are relegated to mere curiosities.”
“Why is that?”
The curator raised his hands at the items around us. “These are so old and the cataloguing of them so poor that finding even the original owner's identity is difficult. So how is it possible to track the descendants of a person when that person is unknown to begin with?”
I looked at the list. “The names of these items denote their magical properties?”
“Yes, as far as research can figure out. No one can know what their true properties are anymore. We use historical records to learn more about them. Many may not even be what they are listed as because so little information is available. So, to answer your original question, they are, for all intents and purposes, worthless.”
“So why would someone steal them and leave these valuable items alone?”
Aubert shrugged. “That is your job to find out, detective.”
True, I thought. Then I looked at the trunk's item list again. One stood out.
“Curator Othmar, I see a 'Gunther's Kaggik Talon?' listed.”
“Yes, so?”
“What does Kaggik mean?” I had my suspicions.
“Well, Kaggik derives from the ancient language of Sennia. Its general meaning is rock or stone.”
“Gunther's Stone Talon,” I said, with a sense of dread growing in my gut. “And what did this Stone Talon do?”
“Well, detective, according to myth,” Aubert said, “it turned people to stone.”
I looked to Fairfax who arched a brow. Then to Aubert I asked, “Turned people to stone? Are you certain?”
Aubert nodded. “It is one of the few myths for which we have multiple sources. Gunther the Ungrateful had created it from the talon of a gorgon. Then he ran around turning the legions of the Gods to stone. Even turned some of the Ancient Ones to stone, too, if that is to be believed.”
Fairfax asked, “But only Gunther's descendants can use the magic in the talon, correct?”
“Well, yes, but the talon can never be used ever again. It's inert as the others.”
“But Gunther's descendants -”, Fairfax said but Aubert held up a hand.
“Gunther was a eunuch from a very young age. It was a necessary requirement to create magical artifacts. So, no. No descendants of Gunther's could ever exist. And, as a result, the Talon has never been used since his death, thousands of years ago.”
Until this morning, I wanted to say but didn't. With this revelation I needed time to think.
We took our leave and told the curator we'd return later. He did not look convinced but said nothing more as he closed the Museum's front door behind us.
For a few moments, Fairfax and I just stood on the top step, taking in the view below of the gardens.
“Gunther's Stone Talon,” Fairfax said. “You were right and that cat was right. This case is directly connected to Oswall's death.”
“But how can the Talon be used now after all this time?” I said.
“Perhaps the myths were wrong. The ones regarding Gunther being a eunuch. Or he's been resurrected by some arcane means?”
I sighed. “Well, we now know what the potential murder weapon is. And regardless of whether the person using it has anything to do with Gunther, the fact remains they are out there now and they might use it again.”
Fairfax asked, “So where to next?”
“I'm curious as to why Oswall had an interest in Elicia Ipthorn,” I said.
“Maybe he took a liking to her. Wanted to court her,” Fairfax said with a wry grin.
I grinned back. “Then let us go ask her.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Hearts District, one of the poorest areas of town, was filled with dilapidated buildings which stood as a testament to its poverty.
The address Rousset had given took us to its eastern most edge. Any more further and we'd end up in the town dump.
Fairfax parked the buggy in front of the end unit of a cramped row of townhouses. All the curtains were drawn, and windows closed. It may have been my suspicious mind, but that seemed unusual on such a warm day.
“Maybe she's out?” Fairfax said.
“Only one way to be sure, Constable,” I said and got out of the buggy.
A large woman leaned out of a window of the townhouse next to Elicia's. Her long blonde hair wrapped in a bun and with arms like giant hams, pink and sweaty as she stirred a huge bowl of dough.
As we climbed the stairs to the little alcove, which protected the front door from rain, Fairfax tipped his cap to the large woman. “Good afternoon,” he said.
“Afternoon,” she said and watched us intently.
I exchanged a glance with Fairfax who kept his expression neutral. Once we had stepped into the alcove Fairfax knocked on the door. After several minutes, he did so again. I tried peering through the nearest window but the curtains blocked my view.
Still no answer. Fairfax tried the doorknob, but found it locked.
“We should try back later,” I suggested and Fairfax nodded.
As we descended the stairs the large woman in the window said, “Looking for Elicia?”
“Yes, do you know if she is home?” I said.
“I don't think so,” she said. Her stirring never stopped. “Might want to try at her work. It's a bookstore.”
“We did. The owner said Elicia had sent word yesterday morning she had taken ill.”
“Oh, well then, she probably went to be with her sister up in Creekside. She's always going there.”
“When was the last time you saw here?”
The woman screwed her face up. “About two days ago. Didn't look sick to me but what do I know? I'm no doctor.”
I thanked her, and we returned to stand next to the buggy. To Fairfax I said, “I'd like to get a peek inside.”
Fairfax shrugged. “Afraid kicking the door in might upset the neighbor, and she'd chase us around with a rolling pin. Besides, we can't go in without justification. Calling in sick doesn't cover that, I'm afraid.”
>
“You're no fun, Fairfax,” I teased. I had a hunch and glanced in my satchel. The clasp was brass.
“Well, now. It appears something is amiss.”
“One of them wants to pop out?” Fairfax said. He looked a little eager.