The Cracks in the Aether. Robert Reginald

a very long time. I’d given it refuge when the wherret needed it, and in turn the creature had had to indenture itself to me for seven times seven years—the usual term. I knew that it had my best interests at heart—if it had a heart, and I wasn’t really sure of that, given its metamorphic nature—so I couldn’t be cross with the wherret for very long.

      “I do listen to what you say,” I said. “I do understand the risks involved. But what I had to do today for the Queen is becoming unbearable to me—not just tedious, but dangerously irritating. One of these sessions, I’m just going to blurt out loud what I think—and that will be the end of me, and the end of you too, I think. Evetéria cannot be crossed without severe consequences.

      “So let’s do what we can to support each other. If I’m successful in reaching this Niobë’s world, it’ll at least be a grand adventure. And my life has become over-stale of late, dear friend—you know that quite simply to be true.”

      Its lack of response was an acknowledgment of the reality of the situation.

      But we still had to locate a copy of that blasted book to gain access to Doctor Scarabbaios and his (we hoped) much-touted window into wisdom. And I hadn’t a clue as to where one might be found.

      CHAPTER TEN

      “THE PRICE WILL BE VERY HIGH”

      When all my efforts at securing the much-desired tome through regular channels had failed, I knew that I’d have to try other, less reputable means. Not all those with magical talents have safe, secure, and prosperous careers among the gentry. Those who’ve failed to complete their courses, those who’ve never actually been schooled in the arts, those who, for various reasons, have chosen not to walk the straight line, nonetheless have found ways to earn a living from their talents—which are, in most cases, all they have going for them.

      I needed a Finder, someone with an ability to locate “things”—which could be people, artifacts, or a variety of odd objects, depending on the depth and breadth of that particular individual’s ability. And one of the best Finders, I knew, dwelt somewhere in the bowels of Paltyrrha—Jécko the Mallet.

      I’d had one previous run-in with dear old Jécko some years earlier, and it hadn’t been a happy experience for either of us. I was trying to locate a Countess’s lost, lamented, ne’er-do-well son, and Jécko was able to give me a lead that ultimately proved successful. However, the noblewoman very soon regretted having given me the commission, and when I paid the price that Jécko had demanded—a “real” reading of the future—that too proved unsatisfactory in many different respects.

      How common it is for our talents to provide our prospective customers, whoever they might be, with tainted results. That was the second great burden of being a professional Forecaster. Hypatomancy—the art of seeing the best possible future—is a hypocritical lie in most instances. Better not to know, I often think.

      Be that as it may, each of our talents was equally seductive in its own way, and I knew the Mallet and I would dance our little pas de deux once again, with probably equally unpleasant results. But if anyone could find The Necropompeion, it was Jécko.

      The problem was in finding him! He had no fixed abode, and he dwelt in some of the less desirable parts of the great capital. I decided to remain in Paltyrrha for another few days, even though that meant being at the beck and call of the Queen, until I could resolve this business. I needed to know right away.

      So I put out the usual subtle feelers into the “Underground”—and soon had a “call” on the sky-orb.

      “Master M.,” Jécko’s high-pitched voice said (he chose not be visible). “Heard you was lookin’ for me ’gain.”

      “I have business for you,” I said. “The usual place? Say, an hour before sundown?”

      “Done! See you there.”

      A few hours later I transited to the Church of Saint-Kambros in the Hölleröll District, and upon exiting the building, found myself a bench on which to sit in the adjoining cemetery. I left Scooter behind; Jécko didn’t like eavesdroppers. I was reading a grave when the Finder plopped down next to me.

      “You ain’t changed overmuch,” he said.

      I looked him over—the ragged hood, the dirty fingers poking holes through the ends of his gloves, the furtive glances—and said: “Ditto.”

      “What ’xactly is it you need?” he asked.

      I told him.

      “Um, not so wee a task this time, Morphy, no, not at all. So, what if I find you this, um, book, and you get it, and then the real, um, owner comes lookin’ for you—and soon for me? What ’bout that, then?”

      “So now you’re only accepting ‘safe’ searches, is that what you’re telling me? Why do I know better?”

      “The price will be very high for this one, Master M. Will need a foretellin’ of the highest kind. No runaday rubbin’s for this Finder. Highest kind, Morphy!”

      “Agreed.”

      “Very well. Will take me some time. See you here ’gain ’xactly one week from today.

      “Now, this is the question I pose for you: if I take Diyán the Goat out of this world, what will happen to me after?”

      “Nothing good, I venture,” I said, chuckling. But Jécko failed to see the humor.

      “Do you have something belonging to this, uh, Diyán?” I finally asked.

      He handed over a worn, ragged glove.

      “This he owned once.”

      “One week,” I said. “I’ll bring my reading, you bring yours.”

      He nodded his head, and then disappeared behind an adjoining stone. I finished reading the burial plot of Æmilius Le Frenais, the old man who was buried there, and then went back home to Barstölný, where I found my abode undisturbed.