Adam Drake - Blackout

I approached her and introduced myself.

She smiled and said, “I am Master Dorchen. How can I help?”

“Were you the one who removed the spell on Mr. Hubertus?”

“Yes, I did. Bit of work that one.”

“How so?”

“Well, the sleep spell that was cast had been enhanced. Perhaps with a minor artifact, or a detailed charm.”

“Is such a spell common?”

Master Dorchen frowned with thought. “Yes, and no. The sleep spell can be cast on its own with a moderate level of skill. But what was done to him could have been fatal if the caster was so inclined. With just an extra word he could have been put to sleep forever.”

“Do you know of anyone with that level of skill?”

Master Dorchen chuckled. “There are dozens of mid-level practitioners in the area with the ability, and an equal number of greater ones. I could do it easily enough. But that would be unethical by the laws that govern spell casters.”

I realized that magic weaving and casting was more or less common, but I hoped for a short list of suspects.

“Might I ask you another question. This one may seem… strange.”

The Warding Master smiled. “Strange is my business.”

“Have you ever heard of someone turned to stone before?”

Dorchen’s smile vanished. “Turned to stone? Are you serious?”

She saw I was.

“Well,” she said. “There are no spells in existence which can do such a terrible thing. Perhaps something from the Pre-Era, in the dark times. But nothing now. That is for certain.”

I made a mental note to quiz this woman again once the Chief Constable gave his permission to reveal how Oswall died. Instead, I thanked her, and she nodded and went about her rounds.

Fairfax and I trundled down the stairs and stood outside the main entrance. It felt good to breathe fresh air again.

Sensing Fairfax wanted to speak I said, “Go ahead, say your peace, Constable.”

Fairfax said, “I hate to kick up the point but I believe this clearly makes it.”

“And that would be?”

“That whoever is responsible for this burglary is most likely not the same person who killed Oswall. It does not add up. Why put this man to sleep when he could have just as easily turned him to stone?”

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.”

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.