Jocasta felt her stomach begin to grow warm. Hastily she hiked up the bottom of her corset to reveal the demon’s mark shining on her pale skin. It twisted in unpleasant flux, shifting and changing as though to prevent her from getting a clear picture of it.
“I would have answered your questions anyway!” she shouted at the strange figure beyond the wall of water. Her words were oddly flat and she realized it was because water was damping the sound on three side. The ship around her was a wonder. From the encrustation of sea life it must be ancient beyond belief, yet the interior might have been constructed yesterday. It was filled with strange objects, odd glyphs, and shiny panels for which Jocasta had no name. The net result was to make her eyes attempt to look in all directions at once. Her dragonfly earrings, animated by their creators curiosity, pulled hard on her ears trying to make their own investigations. The creature paused, as though somewhat taken aback by the reply.
“You give answers… of your own free will?” the creature rumbled, clearly disturbed by this. Jocasta had in the last day been so inundated with wonder she seemed to be growing a little giddy nodded her head and sat down on the floor. Both Dragonflies managed to open their clasps within a second of each other, zipping off into the corners of the strange ship to explore.
“Sure,” she responded as she reached into a pouch and withdrew a piece of dwarven trail cheese. It had the consistency of moist sawdust but the taste was tolerable. Beren even claimed it was nutritious but if dwarves started standing on their heads Beren would probably claim it was good for posture. She popped a piece into her mouth and began to chew.
“Waddya want t’know?” she asked around a mouthful, crumbs tumbling down from the corner of her mouth.
“The sacrifices I make to be fashionable,” Jocasta observed dryly. As directed she had changed into the livery of the foe. Predictably the garments, a pearl tunic of gray white and fatigue pants, were too large, she solved the first problem by tying the tails of tunic behind her to snug the garment up. The trousers she simply melted the excess behind her and tucked the excess into her boots. She slung a cape of camocloth over her shoulders to cover the worst of it. The over all effect was a little comic opera, the way a holo-comic might depict a female mercenary, but it would probably serve.
“Well at least you don’t have to swab blood off the floor,” Markus replied, spraying the mess down with a flocculating sealant which congealed blood and dirt into a mess with the consistency of fruit leather, which could then be pealed up and thrown away. Jocasta contributed by gathering up weapons and ammunition into a duffel bag.
“Well he who lives by the sword, dies by the mop,” Jocasta added philosophically. Markus opened his mouth to offer a rejoinder but they were interrupted by a squawk on a boxy communication terminal that had luckily avoided gunfire. Jocasta sat down and quickly entered a few commands.
“It is a hard line to the Sharks,” Jocasta said, “they are on their way.” She tapped a few keys and a grainy hologram appeared of a heavily fortified building. Gunfire licked at the surface of it from the streets beyond as the more direct and violent mercenaries tried to force entry. A spurt of smoke leaded from an alley as a shoulder mounted rocket leaped across on a tail of fire, detonating on the front of the building in cloud of fire shot smoke. Mercenaries surged forward toward the breach, one or two of them toppling to the rubble as they were hit. A second later, the side of the building erupted outwards in a spray of masonry that scythed down half a dozen of the over eager attackers. A bull dog assault transport exploded out of the dust cloud, gun pods blazing. Streams of brilliantly white light cut down any survivor who wasn't in cover in a matter of seconds. The thing had three tracks and a paired set of six wheels which propelled its sharp angular shape across the rubble in a series of staggering hops. It hit clear ground and smoothed out as the wheels alone made contact, and raised away still firing.
Jocasta's hands were flying across the keyboard as she input code as quickly as she could conjure it. First she had to access the internal log of the previous speaker, then use an algorithm to morph her own voice in real time to match the speaker. Even so it wouldn't pass close scrutiny, not without time to correct the idiosyncrasies but it would probably pass in all the confusion.
"Roger," she replied to the last transmission, "ready for delivery and extraction." Markus was looking over her shoulder and she put in a few more commands to bring up security feeds from the city. The bulldog was racing along, having ceased firing. Every now and then it swiped a ground car or obliterated a street sign in a spray of sparks. She pulled up a map of the streets and overlaid the transports progress. It would be here in less than a minute. In fact, she could already hear the roar of the twin jet turbines that drove the thing screaming as the driver pushed them to the limit.
"They should be here in thirty...." there was a screaming sound as light flashed down from above. A series explosions lit one side of the bulldog and it flipped over and careened down the pavement on its roof, turning in a slow turtle of screaming, tortured metal. The concussion shook Jocasta and Markus where they stood, even through the wall. A gunship dove in above the upended transport, flaring nose up to counter its speed. The moment it reached stasis men were jumping from the back of it, they plunged towards the earth for a second before rocket assists on their belts lit, breaking their falls enough for them to land on their feet. Stun beams began to lick across at the crew as they crawled from the shattered bull dog.
"They aren't going to make it," Jocasta observed. Markus threw open the door and the noise and smoke hammered in with stunning force. He took aim and fired, dropping one of the jump pack mercs as the surviving members of the Shark's extraction team crawled clear. A whir like gods own dental drill ripped the chaos as a chin mounted pod on the gunship opened up. The whole building shook as hyper velocity rounds shattered its facade in a spray of smoke and gravel. Markus ducked back into cover a moment before fire spurted through the doorway. Jocasta ducked under the table as ricochet spattered the interior walls. She grabbed her fusion beamer and forced herself to the door then leaned out and took aim. The fusion beamer fired. Unlike a traditional las weapon it produced not a bolt, but a continual stream plasma. The weapon was capable of producing a three second continual beam before the magnetic focusing array melted and was ejected by a jet of liquid nitrogen for replacement. Jocasta let out the entire burst in a single long trigger pull. The beam struck the gunship's left air intake and it seemed to snuffle the nuclear fire and then sneeze, the particulate of the sneeze was pieces of engine, bearings, and flight controls. The gunship staggered sideways and down clipping the side of one of the high rises before detonating in a massive fireball. Thousands of pounds of glass were ripped from the walls of the buildings to either side of the street and rained down like silvery confetti. Jocasta saw at least one of the jump pack men literally cut to pieces by the avalanche of jagged glass fragments that poured from the skies. Even over the roar of explosions and the boom of weapons the sound was like someone had dropped a bell foundry from orbit.
"Coming though!" One of the surviving Sharks roared through a face concealing helmet with a built in vocalizer. Three of them had broken away from the main group, two supporting a third man between them. He was making some effort to help them but was clearly dazed by the violence of the last few seconds. The trio raced through the door, and Markus slammed the door shut behind them, cutting of the sound beyond. Everyone's ears rang in the sudden relative silence.
"Going up!" Jocasta said, slinging her fusion beamer and half leading, half shoving the stunned mercs to the orbital elevator. The exhausted and shell shocked men didn't argue with their apparent allies, merely piled in beside them as Jocasta slapped the controller that started accelerating them upwards towards the orbital and away form the wreckage below.
Unlike the Maule, the Craftsmen’s quarter was on higher ground closer to the immense fortress of the stone. This was not a comment on political aspirations; merely the effect of successful guildsmen being able to afford the higher rent such real estate commanded. The fact that the position between the town houses of nobility and the nest of boarding houses and hovels of the Maule maximized their traffic was a nice benefit too. Zoya went to her tasks with a will. Already she was regretting the fact that she hadn’t simply knifed the thieftaker. She was a meticulous planner, not some Blue who couldn’t complete one plan without hatching six more half cocked schemes. Improvisation did not appeal to her. She dismounted the palanquin and paid the drivers a few extra coins to carry the empty conveyance back to a local boarding house. It wasn’t logical to assume that she would manage to evade Davian for long and so she would act accordingly.
Her first stop was a butcher’s shop on the edge of the quarter. Here she paid for the delivery of a haunch of pork to a certain address. She left through the back and moved up into the quarter proper. She visited a chandlery and ordered candles, then a brass workers shop and ordered a set of dishes, then a draper for linens, and a cutler for knives and spoons. Each item she sent to a different address in the city, paying extra for delivery. More than once her Saidar enhanced sense caught the sounds of commotions behind her, but she couldn’t be sure if it was Davian in pursuit, or simply the normal bustle of city life. Zoya forced herself not to hurry; her time transcribing documents for Aes Sedai having taught her that the surest way to make an error was to rush. Besides, despite the situation, she found she was begging to enjoy herself. That wasn’t wise, it would be better in all respects if the Thieftaker were knifed in a dark alley, but she couldn’t help herself.
At length she emerged on a street devoted to wine shops and inns. She crossed to a prosperous looking establishment known as The Four Coins. It was typical of this section of Tear, neatly mortared stone with a tile roof. A section of wall created a paved outdoor garden, completely with trees and flowers growing in planters. Zoya passed through the doors to the polite nod off the doorman who lounged by the stone lintel smoking a pipe. Beyond him a tap room with pleasantly warm maple tables and several impressive views of the river rendered in oils. A few patrons, lower nobility and up thrusting merchants, were sipping at wine or playing cards. In an hour or so it would be crowded with people coming for lunch, for the quality of the kitchens was excellent, and presaged by the smell of fresh baked bread and simmering spices.
“Welcome back m’lady,” the doorman greeted, knuckling his forelock. He was nearly bald and had a scar from a fishing hook that twisted the corner of his mouth into a permanent smile.
“Thank you Master Griff,” she replied, producing a silver coin and tossing it to the man. Without apparent effort Griff snatched the coin from the air and made it vanish into his loose garments.
“Will you tell Master Calder that I will require my rooms for another day?” she asked. Griff nodded and smiled at the idea of another day with a guest who was pleasant to look at as well as a good tipper.
“Is there fresh water in the baths?” she asked. Griff nodded and Zoya passed him another silver half crown. She headed through a set of doors at the rear of the building and into the true glory of the Four Coins. A large stone bath house which was fed with water from the aqueducts passed through pools of sand and charcoal. There was a separate section for men and women, separated by a central strip planted with thick ferns. Zoya undressed and sank into the water. It was cool, having not been heated by the furnaces which would lift the temperature to steaming in the evening, but she had regularly swum in the Sea of Storms as a child, and been doused on many a fishing boat besides. Sighing, she settled in to bathe and to wait.
I spat out a gobet of blood and saliva as the pneumatic lift carried us several decks with a series of grinding hisses. Sybdol chattered nervously, largely a series of complaints about the Aldeari and their pretentious arrogance. Hadrian responded largely with grunts and conversational parries. Sybodl continued to gnatter until the doors opened to reveal a large plushily carpeted hallways flanked by pillars carved with scenes of Imperial triumphs. His palarva cut off suddenly as, seeing no one in sight, Clara hit him behind the ear with the stock of her gun, dropping him in a boneless heap. We stepped out and closed and locked the lift, safeguarding the body from immediate risk of discovery.
"How will we know which room is his?" I asked.
"The one with the most gold inlay I suppose," Hadrian chuckled, then his face turned serious. "Look I'm sorry.."
"Forget it," I responded curtly, drawing my pistol from my pocket and checking the load. He looked about to continue but then nodded and moved off down the hallway. Not for the first time I was disturbed by all the Imperial iconography on the walls. I wondered if Vorn really believed he was still serving the Emperor, or if it was simply the fact that the pieces were beautiful. I've certainly seen aristos displaying art which is pleasing in form but blasphemous in content. Chaos worshipers do tend to be a tad more into enforcing orthodoxy. Toward the end of the hall we reached a large door with an impressive set of wooden doors carved to represent a vast hunting scene. Hadrian nodded and pressed the touch plate beside it. The door began to open on pneumatic jacks, revealing a large chamber beyond. The center of it was a fountain with several cupids blowing water through guilded trumpets. Fruit trees grew in shallow pots, carefully trimmed to look like wizend human faces. Towards the far side were several doors which lead into sleeping chambers and the like. Before those chambers was a large marble desk piled with slates and holoprojectors. Inquisitor Vorn dressed in black and with his rosette hanging around his neck stood behind it, three other men were with him. Well two were men. One was a thing out of nightmares. It was eight feet tall and dressed in heavy ceramite plate of archaic design. It was a lurid blue, inlaid with golden scrollwork of astonishing beauty. An ornate headdress rose from it's helmet, bedecked with more gold and bands of lapis that blazed with inner light. The runes on its armor made me queasy and compelled me at the same time. A traitor marine. The Emperor Save us. All four figures turned as we entered.
"You." Vorn said in a flat tone. Clara swung her submachine gun up and opened fire. The unholy warrior somehow managed to put himself between Vorn and the burst, his armor sparkling with dozens of hits. He strode forward unconcerned, drawing a sword of writhing shadow from his belt and unholstering a bolt pistol. Vorn dived behind the table and came up a moment later with his own bolter. I fired twice, one of my las bolts hitting the table and setting fire to several books. I reached out with my mind and struck at the traitor marine, something ancient and malicious struck back, shattering my will. Hoar frost bloomed on every surface, the leaves of the fruit trees freezing instantly.
YOU DARE! the voice echoed in my mind like the tolling of a great bell. The Traitor charged at me with incredible speed. Clara was reloading and Hadrian was shouting something and firing, trying to take down the unarmored Vorn. I drew all my will together, but knew from my brief brush with the marine's mind that I had no hope of besting him directly. Instead I gathered all the cold from the hoarfrost and focused it on the ground between us. A sheet of ice three inches thick sprang into existence. I sprang aside, evading the blade by no more than an inch as several thousand pounds of Marine went past, unable to alter its trajectory on the near frictionless surface. I emptied my gun into him as he went, but it didn't even mar the beautiful finish of the ancient armor. He hit the door with a crash, sending splinters flying from it before rolling to his feet. I ducked behind one of the pots, as shots cracked around me, fumbling to reload my weapon. One of Vorn's associates was hit in the side of the head, his brains splattering over the wall as he ran for cover. He collapsed to the ground, his ancient body spasming under unconscious control, the other human ran back into the bedroom, ducking behind the cover of the door. Now we had Vorn and his ally in front and the abomination behind us. We were in big trouble.
The presentation of a false dichotomy is a sign of rhetorical weakness. Zoya had never expected Sorelia Sedai's philosophy class t have any practical application. This thieftaker might well really believe that there were only two possible outcomes but that wasn't the case even if she hadn't been Aes Sedai. For a moment she considered simply wrapping him in flows of air, at which point she could either leave, or simply slip a knife into him. Unfortunately such simple and straight forward solutions rarely proved to be practical.
"I don't know who you are, but if you think I am going anywhere with a strange man who accosts women in wine shops, confesses to planning to knock them out in alley ways..." her voice was rising with each syllable, so that the conversation was audible to everyone in the wine shop. Some of the soldiers were also beginning to pay attention. Several nearby passers by took a step forward compelled by her tone as much as her words.
"Help!" she screamed at the top of a considerable set of lungs.
"Help this man is trying to take me!" she yelled. This brought soldiers and several passers by running.
"Help!" she screamed one more time, barely able to make herself audible over the clamor which she had instigated. Cries and the clatter of armored men filled the air, several men were reaching for Davian. Zoya embraced Saidar, feeling the one power course through her body. Colors became brighter, scents became shaper. She could smell the leather and oil, the stink of fish, even the tar that coated the running riggings of the ship. She stung several of the oncoming men with blows of the one power, subtle but enough to goad them to violence in the belief that Davian was somehow attacking them. Zoya stepped back through the chaos and ducked under the bar. A moment later she was across the street and down an alley. Emerging from it's mouth she found a number of bearers standing idle, ears cocked for the commotion behind her. She produced a gold piece and climbed onto one of the palanquins.
"Take me to the craftsmen's district," she instructed, and drew the curtains as the men set off through the muddy streets.
Emmaline wasn't entirely sure whether she should be pleased or infuriated by the outcome. On the one hand she had met the Elector count and escaped from the encounter with her reputation more or less intact, perhaps enchanced. On the the other hand she was now stuck with this oafish Middenlander for the foreseeable future. It could have been worse but it still promised to be rather trying time. It would have been better if the count had not added 'and don't let her get into trouble' which was unfortunately open to interpretation. Despite being saddled with an annoying chaperone her acquaintance with the Elector Count did lift her social standing higher. The very fact she had been in a private meeting with him might open doors, and more importantly coffers, that had as yet been barred to her scheming. That thought perked her up considerably.
"I vil reckquire noo chimbers," she said as they stepped out into the hall.
I will require new chambers.
"New... chambers?" Kasimir puzzled out.
"Oui at wvonce, I cannot be espected to ... domir in ze same chimbers ven I am macked for deeth nes pas?"
Yes at once I cannot be expected to sleep in the same chambers when I am marked for death not so?
Kasimir's eyes narrowed as he realized that she was asking for new and larger quarters and that such a request would involve rousing Sigmar alone knew how many servants in the dead of night. That would suit Emmaline's purpose of spreading the word of her meeting with the Count far and wide.
"Onliss av carse you vish to stand... how you say... sentinelle outzide ze door all night?" she concluded, a picture of perfect innocence.
Unless of course you wish to sand how you say sentry outside the door all night.
For a low rent outfit on a low rent planet, security was surprisingly good. It took Jocasta nearly sixty seconds to find an entry point in the network and another twenty to install her subroutine. This she did with the aid of sophisticated haptic implants which let her interface with the data nets directly. The process produced a faint luminescence in her eyes for a few moments which faded as she seemed to come back to herself.
“Done? Did you loop the tape or something?” Markus asked.
“Or something,” Jocasta replied. Looping a feed was a very old trick and most modern security systems were too smart to allow it to happen. Integral time stamps, ambient light sampling and other safeguards would flag it and alert even the most dim witted operator. Modern security systems were too smart for their own good. Literally. Instead of blanking the feeds, Jocasta simply used their excellent recognition algorithms to make sure the cameras did notice her and her new partner, and then simply fed a negative version of that perfectly preserved pattern into the image synthesizer. The camera saw everything, but to anyone viewing the feed, they were completely invisible.
“Ready?” Markus asked, unlimbering his weapon and pointing it at the door in preparation to breach.
“Ready,” Jocasta replied, and stepped past the other mercenary and knocked loudly on the door. Markus swore softly but to his surprise the door swung open. A neat looking man in a flight suit and a optical monovisor stared at her through the portal.
“Can I come in?” Jocasta asked, pushing her way into the building without waiting for a response. The interior had something of the appearance of a train station. A half dozen men sat around drinking energy drinks and eating noodles. They all paused as though caught in tractor beams as Jocasta stepped through the door.
“What is she doing here, we aren’t supposed to order out for company till the job is done,” a gruff looking man with a long braided beard complained. The man at the door look chagrined then his eyes cut sideways to Markus, still partially concealed by the door frame, and widened in shock. Jocasta gave a shrug then drove a beaked fist into the man’s kidney. He staggered into the door jam but Jocasta was already diving for cover, rolling behind a large computer console and popping up with her pistol in hand. She sprayed the group with a rapid crack, crack, crack of high intensity las fire from her little pistol. Ceramic capacitor casing clattered to the ground and shattered as they emptied their entire payloads through the diamond cored barrel. The air shimmered with waste heat and the bite of ozone. One man went down screaming with a shot to his chest, another dropped his rifle with a scream as she took of three fingers of his right hand. Everyone was diving for weapons safe for one man who seemed frozen in shock.
Zoya had been prepared to dismiss the interaction as nothing more than a man intruding on a woman in an effort to flirt. It was a common enough occurrence but the mention of Aes Sedai made her suspicious. It might be nothing of course, opinions of Aes Sedai were rarely high among the common people, but as wound up as she was it set off some alarm bells. The Defenders were most of the way through their sweep of the square now so she need delay only a few more moments.
"Sakura," she responded. It was a common enough name in the Shadow Coast, there had been a half dozen families within a days walk of her home with the name or variations of it. There was no benefit to giving a false name when her true one would raise no questions.
"As for what brings me to Tear, I have a family obligation I have attend to," she responded. This was truthful as well as it was technically an affair of her Sisterhood.
"My sister has recently passed away and I am seeing to her wishes," she amplified. Doubtless an Aes Sedai had died recently, and doubtless anyone would give their eye teeth to recover objects of the Power long lost to the White Tower. Several pieces of a plan were coming together in her head. It had always worked this way for her, a thorny problem could unravel in moments if she just stopped thinking about it.
"I've given you my name Horsewater, shall you give me yours?"
Zoya considered how satisfying it would be to whip the man out of her sight with flows of air. In Tar Valon no man, even a handsome one like this, would impose on a woman like this. Unfortunately teaching him respect was not practical at the moment, and in any event it would merely have been her giving vent to her frustrations, which weren't his fault.
"I was just about to leave," she admitted, unable an uninclined to lie. An idea was forming in her mind and she wanted to tease it out before it became too concrete.
"I shall defer to your no doubt greater experience of Saldaean horse water," she replied with a wry twist of her lip. Across the square a formation of Defenders tramped into the square and began to fan out in what she knew as a random search. She had nothing on her that was incriminating, but she had no desire to be swept up when a few minutes of enduring this mans company would have them pass by. She returned to her seat and took a sip of the sour wine.
"So what brings you to Tear?" she asked, setting the cup down and tenting her fingers.
The sun had passed its zenith by the time they team had regrouped at the turn of the century brownstone which served as the headquarters of the Sunday Group. It was nestled not too far from Chigago’s downtown and blended in with a dozen other white shoe law firms, upscale physicians practices, and various other difficult to define yet clearly lucrative businesses. At least, it blended in if you didn’t know what to look for. A shrewd observer might notice, for instance, that no pigeon would fly directly over the building, or that neighborhood ants always deposited a small piece of whatever food they were gathering on leaves just outside the fence. An observer less prone to fancy, might be able to pick out discrete motion sensors, or the slight shimmer of tempered and bullet resistant glass. People crossed the street to avoid it without conscious intent, and those that did force themselves to approach felt an almost crippling sense of dread as they neared the door. For obvious reasons, The group tended to do business ‘by appointment only’.
The interior of the building was no less a wonder, though this was accomplished more by the judicious application of money rather then less effective forms of magic. Gone were the claustrophobic maze of turn of the century rooms and in its place sprawled open floors lined with offices separated by doors of dark wood. Several were, as always, empty. Nor did Spartan extravagance end with the floor plan, the four stories above ground contained ritual spaces, an impressive library, even a gym.
Eleanor passed her own office and noted that her wards indicated no one had entered. Any reassurance that might have brought her was immediately overwhelmed by the view of Emmaline sitting on one of the comfortable leather chairs, wearing one of her UCLA shits. The witch was either taking advantage of the electrum inlaid casting circle, or using the wi-fi to catch up on Bridgerton. She waved as Eleanor passed but didn’t get up. Eleanor gave the other woman a wry smile which faded as she headed down to the fifth, basement level of the building.
The basement was larger than was usual for the area and contained a shooting gallery, a sealed storage facility and the object of their visit.
Eleanor took a deep breath and then entered the realm of the Necromancer.
The morgue, as always, was overwhelming. It looked like what a particularly sugar high child might draw if asked to envision a morgue. Bright colors covered some walls, others were half painted in murals including a rather impressive combination of Van Gough’s starry night which had been modified to include the silhouette of Count Chocula’s castle. Examination tables lay pilled with odds and ends of ever conceivable type. Brass tubing, balsa wood, duct tape in eye searing neon shades, chemical condensers and flasks, repurposed circuit boards, old laptop computers, a brass astrolabe, all piled in disordered confusion. Several… work benches were the best term, ran along two of the walls. Soldering irons smoked and surgical tools sat on charging racks. The astringent scent of formaldehyde stung the back of Eleanor’s throat.
A sign hung over the door cheerily marked: Life Begins at Dissection.
Jocasta O’Glynn, lay slumped sideways on a couch drinking an off brand energy drink through a crazy straw. She started upright when she saw Eleanor standing in the door. The articulated bones of a human hand scuttled across to close a laptop which looked like it was discord sharing a stream of Bridgerton. The little hand scuttled away and began trying to unobtrusively tiding, gathering up fast food containers and tossing them like three point shots into trash bins. Other such constructions ran wild within the confines of the morgue, moving about on their own tasks. Two other hands appeared to be engaged in a fencing match with knitting needles, while third appeared to be playing a game of solitare. Nor were these creations limited to purely human arrangements. A kind of butterfly made of human finger bones, cellotape and florists wire was flapping its way across the room, attempting to drop marbles onto the fencers. Eleanor repressed a sigh.
“What’s up boss!?” Jocasta asked if she sprang to her feet. She was a small woman, attractive in a manic kind of a way with large green eyes and a shock of almost painfully green hair. She was dressed in cargo shorts and a tank top incongruously paired with unlaced combat boots.
“Oh Shit! She gets a crow! Ele! why does she get a crow! All I want is one mongoose and you are like…”
“I thought I might see if you’d made any progress with the body?” Eleanor asked, a touch acidly. A look of confusion came across Jocasta’s face.
“What body?” she asked quizzically. Eleanor felt her temper rise but caught it as she saw the twinkle in Jocasta’s eye.
“Fine, fine, I’m all done,” Jocasta admitted and lead Eleanor to the one bench not covered with equipment. Jocasta was what was known as a monomagus, a magical talent that expressed itself in on single field but did so with amazing strength. While she could understand the theory she would never be a magical match for Eleanor or Emmaline. In her own area of expertise, necromancy, she was a prodigy. Monomagi also had a tendency to be extremely socially awkward and difficult to deal with, the classic traits of the obsessive. Eleanor had reluctantly agreed that the best way to use Jocasta’s talent was to more or less leave her alone when she wasn’t actively working on a problem. Making severed hands practice sign language was less harmful in the long run then making all men in the Chicago area develop male pattern Mohawks because she was bored.
The body lay on the table, scraped largely clear of black goo. Revealed beneath was a fit looking man of vaguely middle eastern features, comically accentuated where goo still stained the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, like someone had added extra character detail.
“Cause of death, tentatively, stab wound to the chest, incision to anterior portal vein just above the liver,” Jocasta said, pointing to the cut which had been revealed by her cleaning. She punctuated her points with several dramatic stabbing motions. Both sword fighting hands stopped and turned towards her, holding their needles low as if on guard. Jocasta made a quick ‘not now’ gesture.
“No signs of exsanguination at the scene,” Eleanor remarked in a carefully neutral tone.
“All emptied into the peritoneal cavity,” Jocasta explained, pantomiming her stomach blowing up with a mouthed ‘boom’. “Black goo probably sealed it up.”
“Speaking of black goo, any idea what it is?” Eleanor asked, “Alcander seemed to think it might be basilisk bile.” Jocasta snorted.
“Basilisk bile? Keep it in your pants Percy Jackson!” she called with a shake of her head.
“As it happens, its ink, sixteenth century Turkish ink,” Jocasta declared with every appearance of a magician who had just pulled a rabbit out of an obviously empty hat.
“What kind of spell did you use to figure that out?” Eleanor asked, surprised by the specificity.
“Hippity hoppity mass spectroscopy,” Jocasta sing-songed, pointing to an instrument tucked into a corner. “After that I just hopped on the internet and looked it up. You’d be amazed how in the weeds people get about ink. I was DMing this guy who rexpresses tattoo ink from…”
“Jo,” Eleanor broke in gently, “if we can stick to our dead man..”
“Fazel,” Jocasta corrected. Eleanor arched an eyebrow.
“What?”
“His name is/was Fazel Ibrahim Al-Jalasi,” Jocasta explained. “Dental records bear it out.” There was a rattling of bone on steel and Eleanor glanced aside to where several molars appeared to be bouncing with excitement in a specimen tray. Eleanor didn’t bother to rebuke the necromancer for not leading with that information.
“The name is familiar,” Eleanor admitted, not quite able to place it.
“FIAJ! The Thief of Bagdad? Come on boss!” Jocasta exploded. “Home boy here was a FIRST round draft pick on any heist team. Cat burglar, safe cracker, procurer of rare antiquities… uhhh ink guy. I’m kind of fan girling,” Jocasta admitted.
“Ah, he recovered all those artifacts from the Iraqi national museum,” Eleanor realized, dredging the datum from her mind with some effort.
“And he stole all those cuneiform tablets from those ISIS guys, and from those Hobby Lobby guys, and…”
“Right, so what is he doing dead in a Chicago alley?” Eleanor asked. Jocasta rolled her eyes.
“Sort of thing someone should pay a group of occult investigators to find out?” Jocasta asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Any Chicago associates? Seeing you apparently have posters of this guy on your wall?” Eleanor asked.
“Well he usually works with a team, and I know he has done some work for Gretchen Colter in the past,” Jocasta admitted. The necromancer extended her hand, and Fazel’s molars bounced up onto her palm and up the arm with every appearance of delight.
“Questions?” Eleanor asked the team.
The team goes down the morgue and discovers why Eleanor drinks. our victim (Fazel) was an international occult antiquities thief. He has a known associate Gretchen Colter in Chicago and he usually works with a team.
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