NIGHT OF THE MIMIC
I. An Invitation to a Game
Evatica. It is the massive capital city that rests near the middle of the continent of Yhordran, populated by well over half a million men, women, and children from a nigh uncountable amount of backgrounds, and divided into a wide spectrum of social classes. Near the center of its tangled clusters of bustling streets, before the messy, gritty slums begin to transform into the neat and glamorous Nobles' Quarter, there lies a humble, single-floor home that appears too rich for the blood of a common man, yet too small and reserved for the gaudy tastes of a flamboyant aristocrat. It is a red brick house among a long line of red brick houses of similar architecture, protected by a meager, yet serviceable waist-high metal gate that stretches to the end of the street.
On this chilly late autumn morning, the owner of this particular house is beginning his day in his study at the front of the building, with a modest but sweet breakfast of tea, fruit, and cinnamon bread. He sits in his favorite cushioned chair, dressed in his most comfortable morning robe, warmed by the small flame in his fireplace, re-reading a beginner's book on alchemy, though he is not so much an alchemist as he is simply a man who wishes to sate his curiosity and fill his mind with basic knowledge that may or not be significant to him in the future. In an almost organized rhythm, he alternates between a sip of tea and bite of his fruit or bread after he completes a page. His raven black hair is still unkempt from his recent awakening, but he finds the time to bring his fair-skinned hand up to his face to gently and unwittingly brush his thick goatee for every intriguing sentence he skims through – an idiosyncrasy that's been with him since the first whiskers spawned on his face in adolescence.
He is Brandon Senza Brenwick, a private inspector who, at thirty-six summers of age, boasts twenty years of experience in his field, dating back to his budding apprenticeship under the tutelage of the late Oswald Ewan Horikson. Since the old man's passing five years ago, Brandon has been continuing to work tirelessly to live up to his mentor's lofty expectations. He was most aggressively bombarded with requests two years ago, during the six months of the encroaching miasma from the north, when crime had launched upwards in frequency under the hysteria of impending doom. Since the Heroes of Yhordran had quelled the threat, however, the influx of clientele had drastically slowed, and his income slowed with it. While he has since been able to enjoy more time for relaxation, he has begun to find himself silently hoping that the Gods of Idrid would grant him a case to truly test his skill.
After he completes a certain page of his book, Brandon releases an idle sigh, and turns his head to look out of the nearby window that grants him the appropriate amount of daylight for his reading. Through the glass, he sees passers-by paying no mind to his home, giving not so much as a fleeting glance or double-take to confirm that this indeed the place of Inspector Brenwick. That is, until the loud creak of his front door being opened is heard.
In walks another man, closely familiar not just with Brandon's occupation, but his habits and investigative process – his friend and investigative partner, Cullen Kimsa. He stands about two inches taller than Brandon's already slightly-above-average frame, and thanks to his generous genes of both Tenumburan and Native Yhordish lineage, he also boasts a sturdy, muscular build. He's dressed casually for someone hoping to work today, in a form-fitting white linen shirt tucked into his black trousers. He has dark blonde hair and an ever-so-lightly tanned complexion. He's twenty-eight years old and began working with Brandon after the late Oswald Ewan Horikson's passing; thus, his experience in the field isn't as extensive, but he's proven to be a valuable asset and comrade.
“Late morning, I take it?” a more high-pitched voice than one would expect emerges from Cullen's lips after he notices his partner's lack of formal wear.
“Just counting the minutes until someone walks in with something for me to do,” the sour Brandon responds along with a sigh and another wanting gaze through his window.
“Well, if it's all the same to you, it seems the parcel deliverer stopped by,” Cullen comments, lifting two parchment envelopes and setting them on the table before his partner. “You should get more into the habit of actually checking for letters when you wake, especially if finding a new case is so important to you.”
Ignoring his partner's lecture, Brandon leans forward and grabs the first letter he sees – the top of the small stack of two. It's presented in a fanciful envelope, addressed to the inspector, of course, and from an individual named Horace Thorne. Upon seeing the name, Brandon's eyes widen slightly in surprise. He turns the envelope around to find a wax seal, which he breaks to retrieve the message.
“What's it say?” Cullen asks out of curiosity.
“It's... an invitation,” Brandon answers after skimming a portion of the small message. “An invitation to Horace Thorne's birthday party. He's turning fifty. And according to this, he seems to be planning for it to be quite the celebration. Says he's invited many others, and also two of the six Heroes of Yhodran. And a famous cook will be preparing dinner and dessert.”
“Truly?” the well-built junior inquires, seemingly equally amazed, and finally sitting down on the vacant chair across the table. “Does it say which heroes, exactly?”
“If I recall, two of them are up in Armasstadt, assisting with the rebuilding efforts. Beyond that, I couldn't guess,” the inspector answers as he re-reads the message again.
“Why would Horace Thorne send a birthday party invitation to you? Did you work with him before?”
“Yes, with Master Oswald,” Brandon confirms with a slow nod, not taking his eyes away from the letter. “It was one of our last cases before he left this world. It was a rather simple one: find his stolen blue gold necklace that he recently imported from Rhodanion. Turns out one of his sons absconded with it for a night to impress his friends by pretending it was his. You should've heard the verbal lashing that boy received. Still, you're right to be shocked by this,” he adds before finally setting the message down back on the table. “I'm astonished to receive it, too. I haven't had so much as an idle conversation with the man since then, but he seems to still feel grateful. And luckily for you, the invitation mentions bringing a plus one.”
“Me?” Cullen asks, pointing his own chest with a dumbfounded expression. “You want to take me to a party of barons, lords, and aristocrats? I don't think I could fit in that kind of environment, Brandon. Don't you have a woman you could bring?”
“After that sordid business with Emelia a few months ago, I've been taking a break from romance,” Brandon responds with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Besides, it could be an educational experience for you. When do you ever receive the opportunity to fraternize and mingle with highborn people?”
“Never,” the junior inspector replies quickly. “I've never considered myself some ally to nobles. I barely even knew how to read until you started teaching me.”
“There's nothing wrong with expanding your social circle a bit, my friend. Besides, this is an excellent opportunity to elicit some business proposals or case requests. We need new clientele. We can't continue to sail on the money we made during the mist plague forever.”
“I recall you constantly moaning about being too burdened by all that work,” Cullen remarks facetiously. “Now you're wishing to go back to it?”
“No, I'm simply saying that I would like our cases to flow in at a more consistent pace. It's impossible to guess when the next one may come in. They're anywhere from a few days to several weeks apart. I can hardly stand the anxious wait anymore,” Brandon rants before looking down at the table and remembering he had two messages for him. Thus, he leans forward and grabs the second, which is presented more plainly.
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“Well, I don't disagree with you on that. The adventurous side of this job is what enticed me to begin with,” the lowborn man comments.
Cullen looks out the nearby window and, as his partner did mere minutes before, begins hoping for any one of the passing citizens to approach the door with any request in mind. After a brief, pensive moment, he turns his head again to look at Brandon, and is immediately bewildered at his senior's expression. The inspector glares at his second letter, his face contorted into a visage of multiple emotions, particularly overwhelming confusion, shock, and even a tinge of disgust and perhaps anger.
“Brandon?” Cullen finally speaks up, clearly expectant of some horrible reply. “What in the hells is wrong? What does that letter say?”
Brandon doesn't respond immediately, at least not with words. He jolts up from his chair, pushing it back with the force of his straightening legs, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the message clutched tightly in his hands. In addition to the previously mentioned emotions that seem to be portrayed in his indescribable expression, a spark of disbelief slowly begins to overtake them.
“It's...” the inspector begins to speak in an utterance, hardly capable of pushing out any words at all in his gobsmacked state. “It's... from Ilbern Sefnir,” he finally gives some clarification.
“I recall you mentioning that name once before, but I don't think it was recent. Who is that again?” Cullen asks, not trying to make light of the potentially worrying situation, but he is still perplexed all the same.
“He's... a famous burglar,” Brandon explains, still without prying his eyes from the letter. “Or at least he was, before he seemingly disappeared quite some time ago, before you and I met. He loved preying on nobles and ridding them of their possessions, but he wasn't averse to thieving from lower class individuals either if he wanted to. Master Oswald and I spent years chasing after him, but only ever came close to apprehending him a sparse few times before. I may have mentioned him to you only in passing before, as he is a subject that tests my patience.”
“And what does he say in that message?”
The elder inspector, again, doesn't respond verbally. Instead, he simply hands the message over to Cullen to read with his own eyes.
> Dearest friend and rival Inspector Brandon Senza Brenwick,
>
> If you're reading this message, then it is likely it was coupled with an invitation to Sir Horace Thorne's fiftieth birthday celebration. I know of it because the man has spared little effort in keeping it a secret from him fellow nobles and highborn peers. Without even the faintest doubt, he undeniably intends for it to be quite the jubilant and festive affair, as almost anyone would want.
>
> The reason I'm contacting you is because I wish to speak of my own personal role in this exquisite get-together. No, I was not extended my own invitation, much to my disappointment. Though admittedly I am, by choice, a difficult man to track down. However, I still am insistent on attending the party in my own unique way.
>
> You may be wondering what I've been doing these past five years, since I last contacted you to express my condolences for the loss of Oswald. I have come forth now to give you an answer to your question and hopefully slake your curiosity. The answer is surprisingly simple: mimicry. I have been researching and perfecting the art of mimicry, using the method of alchemy. As you are undoubtedly aware, such a practice is criminalized, but as a career burglar, it should come as no surprise that legal status matters not to me.
>
> I'm sure you've already put two and two together. Yes, I am planning to infiltrate Horace Thorne's celebration using my newly acquired skill. But why am I telling you beforehand? The truth is that I wish for us to engage in a healthy battle of wits. I have always deeply adored the games between Oswald and yourself and I. The previous time we played, you had finally placed me in the custody of the city guard, only for me to escape before I saw the inside of a dungeon cell. I'm sure you're still curious as to how I managed it, yes? I'm afraid that's a story for another time.
>
> Once more, I will be attending Horace Thorne's fiftieth birthday celebration, under a guise created by my magnificent mimicry potion. My quarry on this mission will be a particular gift to be given to him from one of his highborn friends: a hundred-year-old Dravusi steel dagger held in an ivory scabbard with platinum accents and a crossguard made of silver, though the centerpiece of this weapon is the ruby embedded into its pommel.
>
> I am not misleading you or excluding any crucial information. This is a straightforward request to participate in a duel of minds. I will arrive in disguise, though I may or not change to another while I am already within the boundaries of Horace's extravagant estate. You can do whatever you can within your power to set up as many precautions as you see necessary. Will you be able to discover me before I abscond with the weapon at the end of the night? I look forward to our game.
>
> Sincerely yours, I. R. Sefnir
“Gods, what a boastful bastard,” Cullen criticizes the tone of the letter. “He sure thinks highly of himself, doesn't he?”
“The nerve of him,” Brandon comments while pacing back and forth across the study in his morning robe, clearly agitated. “The nerve of him to call it a 'game.' The nerve of him to call me his 'friend,' or even a 'rival,' as though this were some sporting activity. Damn that slippery whoreson. He's caused no end of grief to Oswald and I.”
“Are we taking him up on this... challenge, then?”
“Of course we are. I wouldn't consider, for a single second, passing up an opportunity to catch him. We were successful last time, as the letter states, but he somehow escaped custody while being transported to the prison.”
“Can we truly take his word for all of this, though?” Cullen looks back down at the letter, lifting an eyebrow in uncertainty at the burglar's supposed honesty. “He says he isn't misleading, but should we believe that?”
“As frustrating a thief he is to subdue, he's never proved himself to be a liar,” Brandon admits with a small shrug. “If he says he'll do something, he'll do it. Still, the fact he's inviting us to catch him in such a manner agitates me to no end.”
“And what of this mimicry business he speaks of? Are you familiar with it?”
“Somewhat,” the senior inspector answers while picking up the alchemy book he was just reading before his partner came in. “This beginner's text makes passing mention of it, though obviously doesn't say how to perform it. In law, mimicry is considered to be in the same category as blood magic, though it's not magic, nor does it involve bloodshed. It does, however, require some sort of small bodily sample from whomever one wished to imitate.”
“But it's only appearance, aye? It won't change his voice or such.”
“No, but unfortunately, Sefnir was already a master of disguise before he began concocting these wicked potions. He's able to adjust his voice to suit all manner of tones and cadences, and transform his gait and mannerisms to the point of seeming like a different person, even if he were dressed normally. If anything, learning to create mimicry potions will only make him harder to find.”
“Gods,” Cullen utters, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. “What hope do we have of finding him in that party, then?”
“It's difficult to say. He was 'gracious' enough to give us a warning of what he plans to do, but there's no telling what approach he'll adopt,” Brandon admits before heaving a long sigh and slumping his shoulders and picking up the invitation and challenge letter once more. “Either way, the party is in five days. In that time, we must consider the resources we have available to us, and possibly contact some assistance.”
“Like who? The city guard?”
“Well, first I'd like to speak with Horace Thorne directly. It's his party and he should know about the villain that intends on ruining it. If he deems it necessary, we shall then contact the city guard and proceed from there. We'll start immediately,” Brandon announces while practically ripping his robe from his body. “I'll get dressed, and we'll head straight to the Thorne residence,” he declares while exiting the study and walking down the hall to his bedroom.
Left alone, Cullen sits idly at the small table, where the senior inspector's half-finished breakfast still rests. He takes a portion of cinnamon bread and eats it while his eyes wander around the room, eventually setting their gaze upon the bookshelf in the near corner – a five-tier stand made from solid oak that's three feet wide, and each shelf is crammed with as many books as it can accommodate. In total, it's carrying somewhere within the vicinity of two hundred texts, possibly much more. He stands and begins to examine the spines of the nigh innumerable books bound in leather, varying in width from about fifty pages to possibly over a thousand for some. He squats down to look at the books in the bottom-most tier, and suddenly narrows his eyes at one specific book that catches his attention.
Cullen slides the book out from its place; it's a small text, both in length and overall size. It could possibly fit in the breast pocket of a coat. Brandon returns in a seemingly record-setting time, now fully dressed and appearing slightly more formal than his partner in a dark blue long coat, vest, trousers, and black boots.
“Ready to depart, Cullen?” Brandon asks, approaching the junior inspector from the hallway.
“Haven't you read this before?” Cullen asks, handing the small book over.
“...'Criminal Alchemy and Blood Magic?'” Brandon recites the title displayed on the spine. “Where was this?”
“The bottom shelf.”
“Huh. I had no idea I had this. Then again, the vast majority of these books were Oswald's. I still haven't read all of them. Hopefully this has more detail on the mimicry potion Sefnir may be using. Quite a convenient find; good eye, Cullen. Now, let's head out, yes?”
With the book, and both letters still clasped in his hand, Brandon beckons his partner forward, and the two exit the house, beginning their mission to prepare for the infamous Ilbern Sefnir's upcoming burglary attempt at Horace Thorne's fastly approaching birthday celebration.