I can't say that I slept overly peaceful that night. Too much on my mind. It is not every day, after all, that someone tries to have you murdered. Still, at least it was a vast improvement on the previous night. No dreams troubled me. A certain restlessness did nag at me though, so that I tossed and turned a fair amount, becoming tangled up in my sheets as I did so. It took some doing to extract myself from them in the morning when at last I staggered on up.

Still, after a quick drink and a bite to eat, a wash and a shave, I was feeling much improved, ready to face the day ahead. Even the bruises and contusions that I'd suffered were beginning to fade. Gathering up what I needed for the day and the list of residences to check out that I'd made the previous day, I headed out. Among them was the scarf the Rag Lady had gifted me. It had saved my life after all. When she had said that it would keep me safe, I wonder if the Rag Lady had known about the attempted hit. Possibly. Whatever the answer, I wasn't going to be without it again, and if any made comment on it, well, I might just drop a hint as to who had given it to me. That would shut them up.

A blast of cold air hit me on stepping outside. The Rag Lady's predictions on a change in the weather had turned out to be right. My ears and nose tingled at the touch of it and my breath added to the mists that surrounded me. The drizzle of rain had a sharp, cutting edge to it. I shivered at the touch of it, wrapping the scarf tighter around my neck to prevent any drips of water running down my neck. I also buttoned up my coat against the wind and the rain. Turning up the collar, I pulled my hat down over my face, doing my best to shelter myself from the wild elements of the weather.

The weather of Spire, if it could be called weather, was for the most part very predictable; mist and rain and a mild temperature. There were occasions, though, where you got a day more like that one, when the temperature dropped remarkably. Snow was not unheard of on days like that, especially down lower. It did tend to quickly turn to slush beneath the feet of the citizens of Spire. While it lasted it was a welcome change from the ordinary, even if only short lived.

A few flakes of snow swirled in the air around me, settling upon my shoulders and hat. They melted almost as soon as they landed.

The weather grew colder yet and the flakes larger and more regular as I walked down the street. They began to settle upon the footpath. Small flurries of them sprung up and then died away again. The air was bracing as I breathed it in. Those people out on the street as I passed them were hurrying along, their heads down, eager to reach their destinations quickly and get out of the cold.

The trolley car was standing room only when I arrived and boarded. Few people relished the prospect of being out walking in the weather that had sprung up and so they crowded aboard, even if only for a short trip.

The trolley trundled along as outside the snows grew thicker still, battering against the windows. By the time that I arrived at Grovegate, there was a coating of white upon the ground. The snows crunched under my feet as I walked along, with still more of it falling around me. It promised to be a covering of snow as had not been seen for quite some time. Spire never really rests, not even at night, though at times of heavy snows it can slumber, its usual frantic activity slowing down.

I spent a large part of the day outside in the weather, walking from one place to the next on the list that I had. At least it kept me somewhat warm, all that walking. The residences that I inspected were small places, barely large enough for a newlywed couple starting out in life. If anything, they would spur them on to seek out better accommodation as soon as they could, for they were dingy, pokey little places, barely large enough for anyone to live in, let alone to try and raise a family in.

One by one I checked them out. One by one they failed to turn up anything of use. Some were empty but most were still occupied. Given how residences were at a premium in Spire most of the time, that was not all that surprising. An empty building was quickly occupied, and anyone moving would remain until the last available moment. I spoke with those living there about Nathan Hanes. Most remembered a visit from him as he looked over the residences. It was not until I was nearing the end of my list that I stumbled upon something. A comment from an elderly gentleman did stand out as I asked him about Hanes.

"Strange kid, that one," the man said.

"In what way?"

The man shifted his head from one side to the other, as if seeking out the words to describe what he felt. "A feeling I had. He seemed to be seeking something out."

"Besides a place to live?" I asked.

The man nodded, slowly, though his look still had an uncertain tinge to it. "I am not sure if that was even what he was after here." He shrugged before going on. "He went through the motions, to be sure, but I had the impression that it was more for appearances sake rather than any genuine desire for the place."

"So he was after something else here."

"Could be, lad, could be."

"You wouldn't have happened to see a jewellery box," I asked, going on to describe the brass and redwood box that had caused me so many problems.

"Can't say that I have."

I frowned and scratched at my chin. Another mystery. "Is there anything unusual about this place?" I asked. "A past history or myths or rumours?"

The old man laughed. "Hidden treasures or the like? No, nothing of the sort unfortunately." He paused and seemed to consider some matter. "Now that you mention it, there was something that I heard of, from many years ago. There was apparently a murder here, long before I moved here."

"A murder?" That sounded promising, though I couldn't quite see how it figured into my investigation. "Do you know anything more about it?"

"Sorry, lad, no," the elderly man apologised. "As I said, it was only a rumour that I heard of."

It may have been nothing, but I made a note of it nonetheless. It was better than anything else that I had turned up. "Thank you for your help."

"You are welcome. Best of luck with your search."

I headed back outside again. The snow had eased up while I was talking but a fair layer of it had built up on the ground. Everywhere a blanket of white could be seen, the snow blending in with the mists. It made picking out features even harder. Especially given that the day was transitioning into the night.

An old murder. Could that have been what Nathan Hanes was looking for? It would seem unusual if it had been so, but he appeared as if he was looking for something at that building. I tried out the last few places on my list, just to make sure. I had no more luck with them than I had with previous ones. The last unoccupied places on the list I did not try out. I could come back to them at a later time, if need be. Not that I felt that they could help me out at that stage of my investigation.

Why would Nathan Hanes be looking into an old murder? He was an accountant, and, apparently, a fair musician. Not exactly the jobs where old murders would be a matter of much interest. The more that I thought it over, the less sense that it made. The thought continued to nag me though, one that I knew would not let go of me until I had some answers for it.

If I was going to get them, then first I needed to know more about the murder itself, if it had happened at all. For that I would need expert help, and that meant speaking to the Archivist.

The main rag for that part of the city was the Central Spire Herald, an old, very old, well established and well-regarded newspaper. There were other newspapers of course, ones that catered to different audiences, and often less economical with the truth. The Herald, though, was the place to go for news of past events, and to do that you had to speak with the Archivist, the custodian of the newspaper's history. If any would know about the murder I sought out, he would. A murder would have made the papers, even if he could not remember it himself.

The Archivist had a long memory, almost as long as the paper had been around for. That was because he was one of the Departed. Not just any old Departed either. What kind, well that was a matter of some debate as he didn't fit in with any of the other known kinds, the wights and the ghouls, the ghosts and the revenants and all the others. He was his own kind, ancient and learned.

One of the benefits that he provided to the Herald was that he didn't need to sleep and seldom ventured out. His world was the vast archive and there he lived and worked most of the day. As such, the archive was open most hours of the day. Even the middle of the night. I couldn't imagine that the Archivist got all that many visitors during the night. That day he would.

The Herald's Archive, when I arrived at it, was a large, imposing building, with a certain regal grandeur to it, a place of columns and facades and statues perched above it. There may even have been a gargoyle or two up there. They do tend to blend in with the statuary. Night had fallen and the place was ablaze with lights, illuminating the building. A few flakes of snow drifted down through the beams of light.

It wasn't as simple as just walking on in though. A troll was on guard at the entrance, blocking entrance in through the huge bronze doors. Large, he had a certain wooden texture to his skin, this one a deep mahogany in colour. His head was shaped in a cylindrical fashion, much like a stump and instead of hair he had fronds that sprouted from the top. He studied me with deep green eyes as I approached through the columns towards the entrance, and I saw understanding dawn on his face.

Trolls are good people. Hard working, honest, honourable. You don't often run across a bad one. That is mostly down to a particular ability that they all share, a racial collective understanding. Not an intelligence or a hive mind, but some other sense that can be at times hard to understand or even explain. Trolls that have not met before still know each other, in a manner of fashion, or at least know how other trolls perceive them. That in part is why they are so honest and honourable. A dishonest one wouldn't be able to operate among them. It would be rather hard, I imagine, to do so when everyone else on sight knows you cannot be trusted. That same understanding also applies to how they perceive others not of their kind. They merely have to see them to access that collective understanding.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Needless to say, it is why they make such great guards. Criminals find it hard to get by them. It didn't hurt that they were as large and strong as they were either.

As for me, I had done the trolls a few favours over the years and as such any troll that I met was favourably inclined towards me.

Even so, this troll was on duty, and that trumped everything. He would do that duty no matter who I was. Which meant, even though I was a good person in the view of the trolls, I wouldn't be allowed to enter until I had received permission.

"What is your purpose here?" he intoned towards me in a deep voice, one that seemed to sigh and groan all at the same time.

"I am here to see the Archivist."

"The Archivist does not see many visitors."

"Tell him that it is Mister Stone. An old friend."

The troll considered it for a moment. "Wait here," he told me and lumbered away in a slow and purposeful gait. I hung around out the front of the building for a couple of minutes until he returned.

"The Archivist says you are hardly an old friend, but to let you in anyway."

"Thank you."

It always pays to be polite to trolls, to continue to build on that positive opinion. Most people fail to understand that about the trolls. A little politeness goes a long way with them.

I wandered off, into the Archives. The interior of the building was largely dark, as most of the lighting had been switched off for the night. The main chamber contained a large number of big, sturdy tables, spread out beneath a grand, overarching glass dome. During the day it let in some of the dull outside light in. Right then it only showed the black of night.

All around the chamber were tall shelves filled with files and folios and collections of old papers, row after row of them, decades of archives and history. Numerous smaller rooms led off from the main chamber, reading and study rooms. It was from one of these rooms, towards the back of the Archive, that a wizened creature emerged.

The Archivist was probably taller than I was, if he could stand at his full height that was. He walked with a hunch though, his head sunk down almost onto his chest. In appearance he had the look of a gaunt thing, his skin leathery and grey. Overly long fingers ended in sharp nails and his face was narrowed and pinched, with a long sharp nose. Shadows clung to him, looking like a swirling cape of dark clouds that trailed behind him. They moved of their own volition and not in accordance to any whims of nature, twisting about him and shrouding him. It was disconcerting to watch as he faded in and out of sight.

"An old friend, was it, Mister Stone?" he said as he drew near to me. Surprisingly, for one of the Departed, he didn't have a dry, dead voice. There was amusement in it, and a certain liveliness that even many living people lacked. "That is a merry joke. You are hardly old, are you? And a friend? Merely an acquaintance, young pup, merely an acquaintance."

"It is good to see you as well."

He smiled at that, his lips parting to shown bone white teeth. "What can I do for you this evening, young pup?"

"I am after information."

"I hardly expected that you came all this way for pleasure. Come with me," he added, motioning with a bony hand to follow him. He hobbled away, headed back to the room from which he had first emerged.

The room served as a small office for him. An enormous, and old, writing desk was crammed up against one wall. The lid was up, revealing many small drawers set into it. In the centre of the room was a table, spread across which were the tools for the repairing and conservation of books and papers, a collection of pots of glue and brushes, scissors and knives, tape and thread. The rest of the room was filled floor to ceiling with shelves, and those all but overflowed with their contents.

The Archivist made his way to his seat at the desk, the shadow cloak settling down around him. The only other chair in the room was at the table. I took it, turned it around and sat down on it, facing the Archivist.

The Archivist swivelled his chair about and regarded me with yellowed eyes. On closer inspection, they had a similar quality to those of the Rag Lady's, that same inner glow that came from within. "Now, what exactly drags you out here at this time of the evening."

"I am trying to establish whether a murder took place, and if so, find out more about it."

"A murder you say?" The gleam behind his eyes seemed to grow brighter yet and he perked up. “Just the matter to end the day on. Do you know when?" Call it rather morbid, but the Archivist had a deep interest in stories of murder. It may have been a result of him having died, or it may have predated that. I didn't know as he was dead long before I was alive. Whatever the cause, he had a near encyclopaedic knowledge about it. Not that he was exactly shabby in regards to many other fields as well.

"The man who mentioned it didn't know when, just that it happened a fair while ago," I told him.

"That isn't of much help, young pup."

"I do know where it was alleged to have taken place," I added.

"Oh? Well, that is something to go on at least. Where abouts?"

I consulted my notebook. "12/37, Outer Ring Road, Grovegate."

The Archivist ran a long, clawed hand down the sides of his gaunt face. "Grovegate, Grovegate," he mused. "Tend not to be many murders out that way, unlike further down in Spire. I do recall that there was one out that way, oh, call in twenty years ago. Took place after the brewery blaze down in Longway but before the death of Ophir Hillgrass." The name didn't mean anything to me. Obviously it did to the Archivist. "Yes, yes," he went on. "Around the time of the Akhanath scandal which led to the downfall of Mayor Moroe. Ah, yes, and there was the Golden Wedding. That narrows it down. I should be able to locate it if you give me a moment." I couldn't make out what he was on about but he remembered it all as if it was but yesterday. I guess if you are as old as he is, then it does feel that way.

He sprung up from his chair, moving with a remarkable spryness and a vigour to his step for one who not long before had been hobbling around. He disappeared out of the room. With nothing else to do, I followed after him.

From his office, he made his way to a particular section of the Archives, without a moment of hesitation. There is a reason that he is the Archivist after all, besides his age. He remembers things with a remarkable clarity, and his memory goes back a long way, including the location of every item in the Archive. Me, I struggle to remember what I ate last week. I am sure if you asked the Archivist, he could tell you what he ate last decade. Maybe even last century.

Clambering up a foot ladder that was set against a shelf, the Archivist ran a hand along a series of boxes stored on it, reading the fading labels attached to them. He muttered to himself as he did so, the words too low for me to hear. Then his hand stopped on one, tapping at the label. He took a hold of the box and pulled it clear of the shelf. Sliding down the ladder, he carried the box back to his office, setting it down on the table. As he opened it, I got a glimpse of the inside. It was filled with a stack of old newspapers that had begun to yellow with age. He flicked through them, reading the headlines until he came to the one he wanted. Extracting it from the pile, he started to turn the pages of it, his glowing yellow eyes sweeping through the articles, searching for the one he wanted.

"Here we go," he announced, setting the paper down on the table. It had only been a couple of minutes since I had told him what few details of the murder than I knew and already he had uncovered the story. Remarkable.

He tut-tutted to himself as he read through the story. "Truly a shocking case."

"What happened?"

"There was a young woman, recently moved into that house, who was brutally murdered, almost beyond recognition. The constabulary thought that it was a robbery that had gone wrong."

"Thought?"

"Yes. They never caught whoever was responsible for the crime."

I grunted. That could have been why Nathan Hanes was looking into the matter, trying to discover anything new to help solve it. It wasn't unheard of for amateurs to try sleuthing, especially if it was a family member.

"Anything else you can tell me," I asked. So far it hadn't really helped me out, beyond a confirmation of the fact that there had indeed been a murder.

"Yes. The victim was named Brione Westler."

Westler. Now there was a name to not get involved with. "No wonder they never found out who was responsible. They probably got disappeared." And it looked like Hanes may have suffered the same fate, if he had got caught up in anything involving the Westlers.

"You are most likely correct."

The Westlers are a notorious, and powerful, crime family. They ruled a number of districts further downtown, controlling all aspects of life there, and were constantly seeking to push out into others, leading to disputes and rivalries with other families. They had, before my time, been even more powerful than they currently were. Some internal schism had rent them apart, from which they had never recovered. It didn't make them any less powerful. Or dangerous.

"Mind if I look at the article?"

The Archivist nodded, and span the newspaper around to show me. I froze as I looked at it. A very familiar face looked at me from the newspaper, the face of the victim; Miss White.

"This is the correct article?"

"Yes."

"I know this woman," I said, touching the photograph. "I met her just the other day. Not only is she not dead, she appears not to have aged either."

"Ah." The Archivist did not sound as if he was surprised by the revelation.

"What do you mean by ah?"

"You didn't happen to notice if she was wearing some expensive form of jewellery, did you?"

"I did, actually. She wore a pair of fire opal earrings."

"That is a powerful catalyst for an illusion, right there," the Archivist told me. "Your young lady is one of the Departed."

As surprised go, that was a big one. Miss White a Departed? "You are certain."

The Archivist smiled. "Trust me on this. Fire Opals are the most potent of catalysts for masking charms. It could have been just that she likes the look of them, but coupled with her not being dead anymore, I would favour her being Departed."

"That answers some questions, but leads to many others," I said. One step forward and two back. That seemed the story of this investigation right there. Then there was the fact of what I had uncovered. I had a vague, unpleasant feeling that this was what Mister White was warning about not digging too deep. Or at least part of what he was warning about.

"How so?"

"There was a young man looking into her murder. They were involved. Possibly even planning on getting married."

"And?

"How would that even work? He is alive, she is not. And what of children?"

"I am sure that it will all work out," the Archivist replied placidly. "It wouldn't be the first time that it has happened either."

I shook my head, pushing the newspaper back to the Archivist. "It just seems strange, that is all."

"It is only a concern to them, no one else."

"You are probably right," I conceded. Still, I remained vaguely troubled by the thought.

"Probably? There is no probably about it." He placed the newspaper back into the box, sorting it into its correct position among all the other ones. After closing the box, he took a small slip of paper that was attached to it. "Now this is interesting," he said after reading it. "According to this, the box was recently accessed. Two weeks back."

"That ties in with the time frame of this case, just after the young man I am looking for disappeared but before I was approached to find him. It wouldn't happen to say if it was done by a Nathan Hanes or a Miss White would it?"

"No. It was McAllister"

"McAllister? The Hound?"

"I believe that is what the tabloids call him," the Archivist replied, sounding a touch sour about it, or them. "We would never use so crude a sobriquet."

McAllister. The Hound of Justice. He and I were in the same profession. The difference was that he had a higher profile. His cases regularly made the newspapers, making him something of a celebrity. I preferred to keep out of the limelight as much as I could. It is not good to draw attention to yourself I find. Still, he got results, and with a face like his, it was hard for him to avoid being noticed.

"I wonder what he was looking into this for," I mused aloud. "It is too much of a coincidence for it not to be related somehow."

"You could always ask him," the Archivist told me.

"I guess I will have to. Thank you for your assistance. It has been enlightening, if confusing as well."

With my farewells given, I head back out into the night and the snow, heading for home.