The door-to-door search in the Murder Street neighbourhood had yielded nothing, and the freelancers had decided to regroup at the Shindig for a late lunch, so they could talk the matter over.

“What we know so far,” Ailmon said, looking up from his notebook, “is that the murderer spoke in a man’s voice, most likely entered the building through a window, entered the room, told Corwin, who might have been ill, that he was sorry and couldn’t let her ‘do something or another’ before, or while, he slashed his throat. Then it seems he left again, probably through the window.”

“You wrote all that down in the last minute?” Aran asked.

Ailmon looked at him, puzzled. “Yes?”

“Told you the ass-badger was a man,” Naia said.

“You did indeed,” Ailmon just confirmed.

The group fell silent as their food was served by a surly old woman.

“Well,” Shale said after the server had left. “Right now, we can follow up on the curio shop, wonder about why Corwin had a small fortune lying around, or proceed to the next location. That would be Shandra’s murder. At the brothel.”

“The Spire isn’t open for another seven hours or so,” Naia said. “And what curio shop?”

“From the bag of herbs.” Shale gestured at Ailmon, who put the small bag of herbs found in Corwin’s apartment on the table. She held the small paper tag between her large fingers. “Rutherford Dibble runs a curio shop and a …museum, I guess it is. My mum used to take me there when I was little.”

“I’ve been there. It’s a weird place,” Aran said. “And Dibble is a weird character.”

“Oh, yes,” Shale just nodded.

“I know him from the courts,” Ailmon supplied. “He’s occasionally indicted for this or that and always manages to slither out of everyone’s grasp. Quite professional, really. I can’t help but admire that sort of tenacity. I’m sure he’s better acquainted with the laws of Sonderport than most judges.”

“…Did he ever kill anyone?” Aran asked.

“No, no, I highly doubt it.” Ailmon waved the question off. “Dibble might be crafty in matters of finances, and perhaps procures things of a shady nature through questionable means, but he doesn’t strike me as a person who would use physical coercion of any kind. According to rumour, however, he has dealings with the Hildana dwarves of Uldran Underwaves occasionally. I presume it’s to turn over kemlek objects he might have come across, as the law dictates, but I’m not certain.”

Shale made the symbol to ward off evil at the mention of dwarves. “Good grief… Thank you for ruining a beloved childhood memory,” she said, looking as forlorn as her tusked visage would let her.

“Oh.” Ailmon’s usually impassive face twitched just a little. “I do apologise. That wasn’t my intention.”

“So, any thoughts on how a man living in the absolute arse-end of Wallsen would have forty gost lying around in a secret drawer?” Aran asked, stabbing at his slobnog pie to let the steam out. “He could have bought the house. I mean, the note did say he supplied the guild with information on thief gang activity in the area, but he must have had his fingers in something serious.”

“Yes.” Ailmon rummaged in his bag and produced the book with the string through its binder that Sargon had had with him when he was killed. “Perhaps the same was true of the mad priest.”

“The shitty rocks - the shicks - might be some sort of symbol of a gang or club or cult or whatever,” Naia added.

“We are not calling murder investigation evidence ‘shicks’,” Shale stated calmly.

“Not all of the evidence, no, just the shicks.”

Shale drew a deep breath.

“You know what, let’s call the rocks shicks,” Aran said. “Why the Hells not. Provided,“ he said, holding up a hand to stop Naia cheering, “you tell us what exact quality they’re imbued with that makes them ‘shitty’. And ‘they smell of egg-fart’ won’t be enough.”

Naia rolled her eyes. “It’s unbelievable you can’t feel it! You people have got to be blind on the inside of your skulls. It’s like egg-fart inside your head. Like a yellow-brown, vile …something, wanting whatever, tickling your brain in a really, really …crappy way. There! I don’t know how else to say it. Those little shicks want something. And maybe they even got whatever they wanted from the victims.” She stared pointedly at Aran, unusually serious. “There might be some guy out there doing the actual hands-on stabbing and slashing, but the shicks got there first and they are nasty!”

“Look… A yellow-brown, vile something is not a helpful description…” Aran gestured vaguely, then shook his head. “Could you be more specific?”

“Fine, it wants something. The shicks want to… I don’t know, make a home for themselves in your mind. Why can’t you just trust me on this, it’s ridiculous! If Shale said, ‘oh, this has a yellow smell, let’s not try to put it in our mouths’, you would agree with her instantly! It’s not fair!” Naia crossed her arms and scowled.

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The scowl turned into a pout as Aran stared at her. “Alright, perhaps you’re right,” he finally admitted. “But the chance of Shale describing something we’re supposed to evaluate as a threat in terms of vague mental colours and smells is …fairly low. I do trust you that the rock– the shicks are a threat, but if you can’t explain how or what kind of threat they are and what we’re supposed to do about it, I just don’t know how to deal with it. How are we supposed to take precautions against the colour yellow?”

Naia rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine! But I can’t explain something magical to someone who doesn’t get it. It would be like explaining why sex is fun to someone with no body. And I don’t even know what they are.”

“So…” Shale said hesitantly, “The shicks are magical?”

“Of course they are! That’s the most basic and obvious fact,” Naia said, exasperated. “It’s just a nasty, sickly sort of magic that I’ve never ever felt before.”

Aran stared at her, then closed his eyes for a moment. “You could have led with ‘oh, look, a magical stone’, you know.”

“I thought that was implied! Ailmon brought me along to this ridiculous group because I’m needle-touched and an amazing caster. What did you think I meant!”

Ailmon cleared his throat. “Could you perhaps tell us how magic feels ordinarily, so we gain a frame of reference? It’s difficult to assess how wrong magic is when we don’t know it when it’s right.”

Naia sighed and stabbed at her food. “I thought this was just common knowledge with people like freelancers. I mean, when we hunted down that guy last month, he was wielding magic, and none of you batted an eye.”

“We didn’t need to; you took care of it, if you remember,” Shale shrugged.

Naia took a bite, chewed for a long time, and then finally said, “Magic of the kind I deal with is based on shadow and all the force of life dissipating. It has a warm, closed-off sort of sensation. Like being in a nice, red bedroom, snug under the covers when it’s freezing outside.”

Aran, Shale, and Ailmon just looked at each other.

“Life dissipating?” Shale finally asked.

Naia shrugged happily. “Like shadows are a product of light, a sort of in-between of light and dark, death is a product of life. That in-between place where life dissipates holds a freakish buttassload of force, just waiting to be played with.”

“Sooo,” Aran said slowly. “You…”

Naia looked expectantly at him.

“You somehow draw on death to do what you do?”

“Aran, you are seriously not a careful listener!” Naia snapped. “It’s the in-between force I do stuff with. It’s like clay, just sitting there, waiting to be shaped into something useful.”

“But you can’t have life dissipating if you don’t have death.”

“Sure you can. If someone is bleeding out, that gives me a lot to work with, but they can still be saved afterwards. If they’re freshly dead, the flesh usually still remembers the withering, but it’s not quite as amazing.”

“So then, on a battlefield for example, with people dying all around you, you’d be unstoppable?” Shale asked.

“Oooh, pretty much. I’d love that. But, booo, war is bad. Except when it isn’t.” She grinned. “I have serious wet dreams about an attack fleet somehow making it past those weird rock trolls at the Harbour Chain and attacking the city.” Naia sighed wistfully. “But, you know, I take what I can get naturally. That’s why Wallsen is such a great place. There’s always in-betweening happening somewhere nearby.”

“Alright, thank you for clarifying that. I don’t think I’ve ever been more disturbed,” Aran said, nodding.

“Oh, come on!” Naia exclaimed. “You run around stabbing the crud out of people and sneaking around like a ghost, but I’m disturbing? Do you remember those guards in New Town when we were hunting that Kai-guy down? You were just suddenly there, and they just suddenly had knives in their necks. No talking, no thought, just stab-stab-arrgh!” She mimed stabbing several times to illustrate.

“That’s a very legitimate argument,” Ailmon interjected before Aran could respond.

“I’ve killed too. I always let the attackers hit first, or try to at least, but let’s face it,” Shale said, “we’re violent people. It comes with the freelancer title. Well, and Wallsen. But we’re not taking any steps to become less likely to fight our way out of things.”

“Hurrah!” Naia raised her arms in the air in triumph. “I’m normal!”

“I wouldn’t go that far!” Aran said. He would have liked to stay stern, but a tiny smile annoyingly tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Naia held up her cup. “A toast to you twat-waffles asking what I mean in clear terms if you’re confused by my wealth of inherent knowledge.” She grinned.

“A toast to Sonderport only being attacked if Naia is here,” Shale said with a tusked smile, holding up her cup.

“A toast to our resident near-death caster never going power-mad,” Aran said good-naturedly.

“Hey! Shut your bunghole!” Naia laughed.

“A toast to us getting back to work,” Ailmon said, killing the mood.

All four took a drink and then Shale said, “So, the book of the mad priest?”

Ailmon picked up the book, rifling through the pages that were almost all closely written and drawn upon in a strange, unsettling jumble. He pushed it over, so Shale could see as well, turning the pages to the last one. The entire book was full from one end to the other.

They both studied the pages, turning them slowly while taking bites of their food.

“Mad Anthrax, creator of cabbage, bless the…” Shale read aloud, staring at the next word with her brow furrowed.

“Sand people?” Ailmon suggested, struggling to read the lopsided, random script.

“Not sure… does that say ‘hunting’ or ‘mutiny’?”

The pair kept reading, quite often wondering at words in the bizarre collection of Sargon’s prayers, disjointed thoughts and apparent impressions on things happening around him. Aran and Naia just watched their struggles while they ate.

“I hope he reported his wisdom in spoken form, when he worked with the guild,” Shale commented. “If he wrote them reports, it would be a real mess.”

“It doesn’t really seem like that thing will yield much,” Aran commented after the meal. “Unless you come across a paragraph stating that someone specific paid him to babysit a shick, and details about why they purchased that service from him.”

“I fear you are right. This seems like mad ramblings at best. If the shicks want to live in people’s minds, I doubt if the décor in Sargon’s mind was to their liking,” Ailmon said dryly and turned a page. “I’ll read the last tonight and see if there’s anything useful to learn, but I doubt it. Oh, unless one of you want to go over it?” He held out the book to Shale, who just rubbed her eyes, and then across the table to Aran and Naia.

“No thanks, I value my sanity,” Aran said.

“Same here. I don’t really want to touch it. Besides, I’m sitting here contemplating going power-mad, so I’m pretty busy.” Naia breezily waved the book off.

“You’re never going to forget that comment, are you?” Aran sighed.

“Not a chance! So,” Naia said briskly, grinning. “Watch me, I’m going to do an Ailmon now: We can’t sit around wondering about the money since we don’t have enough information to make any kind of conclusion on it. So, we should head off to that shop-museum thingy and ask if Corwin was there.” She looked quite proud of herself and smiled confidently.

“I would have said ‘let’s go to The Astounding Cabinet of Unbelievable Rarities’,” Ailmon commented. “But close enough.”