“What do you think it to mean, Dúrkind?”

“Hm…” The young officer mulled it over. The words rearranged, decomposed, pulled apart and recombined into whatever form the currents of his thoughts deigned… like cadavers, ferried into formation by the rage of a river stormed. “Testing me on poetry now?”

“Who can call themselves a true Hygeian if tone-deaf, mindless to poetry?” Mons-Vido half taunted his partner. The tone of his voice falsely stern.

“I must be Aesturian, or Nurthrasami, then.” A pair of fingers scraped his chin, attempting to accelerate the rate at which he considered the poem’s meaning.

A silence, brief, although charged, took them.

“I cannot… Ha…” A crossing of arms allowed for his head to shake.

“Me neither… Let us be iconnu together, then.” He consoled Dúrkind, as his gloves, slick at their edges in rot, fell off his hands, and into a leather pouch filled with herbs, which he then pocketed, held under his coat.

“Shroud yourself with its brilliant arms!...” The young officer even raised his voice’s tone for the words, as if attempting to bring their meaning forth via the magic of declamation. “Has he hidden something from us…? In plain sight?”

“Who, the elve, or the man?” The inspector asked, absentmindedly, as he fished for his ledger, once again.

“Be serious… Is there something we are not seeing?”

Heos cackled, only avoiding a curling, laughing fall by holding on onto Swan … sweet-like far way chimes, his joyous voice, muffled by feathers. Tears pooling at the edges of his sharpened eyes… He had only just discovered how humorous something as this was. No, even hiding from his sister, shadowing her, he found, was not as comical.

“As long as we have no answers…? We see nothing.” He noted down the carved words, his fingers, again, stained by the powdered blackness of the graphite. “Hmmm…” Once done, he focused, watching the cobble, the alley, the perspective… “Consider for whom these words were laid, carved here… the perspective of the person who would chance upon them.”

Dúrkind looked back, his neck straining, as his eyes wallowed into the highlighted darkness of the alley’s depth, contrasted by the summer sun.

“I suppose… if someone were to enter from back there.” He pointed with his thumb. “They would chance upon the words and the body…”

“Like the inscription in a painting’s plaque… in a museum.” The inspector muttered. “Considering the cadaver’s position, the carving… it is as the dossier said. They entered from back here, and he...” The graphite, pinched between his fingers, motioned forward, almost blending into shadow. “came from there…”

‘The dossier…?’ Dúrkind’s confusion soon morphed into realization. “You were given a dossier by Hiéron?”

“Yes.” Another thought barged its way into the medulla of Mons-Vido’s mindscape, flowing out, turned to lines, settling on the ledger’s pages.

“They?” Somewhat annoyed, the young officer questioned. “Did the report tell of two figures entering the alley?”

“Yes.” His eyes had not turned from the cadaver. “It is as you suspect…” The words fizzled, accompanied by the scraping of letters written. “The Hiéron confirmed, via sighting by one of their agents, or confirmation of rumors, or… hearsay. Two figures entered this alley, one…” A smile.

“Small, childlike, dressed in white, and blond.”

“Yes.”

Dúrkind did not protest, or question why his partner —more alike to his mentor—, would keep the dossier from him. He understood, throwing a tantrum over it… redundant, absurd. Rather, he would much satiate his curiosity if Mons-Vido knew…

“Why are there Hiéron agents stationed this far down the South-side? I do not see how else they could get this confirmation.”

“Why would they not hover over these hovels…?” The ledger closed, a sound pleasant, distorting the wretchedness of cadaverine, heat packed air. “The information is not as complete as you may think…” He pinched his nostrils for a breath, as he looked high above, again, perhaps consulting the stars, veiled in sunlight. “Whatever means they used, it seems they know little more than a vague description of the elve, and that, at least, he half-exists. The man, well… nothing. The corpse, here.” He pointed, indifferent. “No one knows… he was not even seen entering the alley.”

“So, what, a child…?”

“That or a dwarf… a real one, not, uh…” Mons-Vido tapped his temple, lightly, as if doing so would realign his thoughts, cause their fall into their respective, proper cells. “I’ll show you the file, it is back at the quartier’s cantonment…” His hands, ledger and all, fell into the overcoat’s pockets. It seems he was done with the scene, mimicking a fly round carrion and all… Flies which were strangely absent from a fuming corpse, amidst the blazing summer atop… He would consult the coroner. “We were given offices, even. Are they not quite cordial, Dúrkind?” Vague sardonic tones needled through his words.

“Hm.” Was all the young officer dared to profess. His words, true, unobscured, would drizzle over him unnecessary trouble if overheard, not with the inspector, of course, who shared his own mind…. He did not enjoy outward vulgarity, anyhow.

“Before we call the gendarmes… another… interesting detail; it came with the file, so look it over as much as you like —although it stumps me.” He yawned, unbothered by the flooding perfume of death. “The same day the elve and the man were sighted here, a similar sighting was reported, again, and at a near hour, and spun out of who knows how many whispers —into this report— by the Hiéron…” He cleared the edges of his lips, his words airy. “In an islet off the coast of a garden, or parc, or… well, near the Rue Bleue, yes? and on Caedes islet, some claimed to have seen a figure, of white and gold, standing among the bevy of black swans, which soon disappeared into the waters… peculiar, is it not? A trick of the heat-haze, some say, a nymph, others… Or the rich’s idle imagination.”

“Ha… Too coincidental.” Even if, now, Dúrkind did not dismiss it so brusquely, as tall-tales, little much, his derisive frown showed his thoughts, clear. “I believed the Hiéron would have more important matters than to catalogue every street-corner fantasy_”

“Wah… Somebody saw me there?” Heos half-asked, to Swan, one supposed, not really caring for an answer.

Mons-Vido chuckled.

“Even if vaguely coincidental and… strange, whoever the “elve” is… to cross the entire city whole, side to side, in scant hours, even if in carriage —it could be, well…—, and then land a top a Rue Bleue islet unseen, then be seen —for what reason?—, then disappear into the river… swim away? Where to? Unnoticed?” As his fingers tapped his forearm, marking the tempo of his thoughts, Dúrkind shook his head, unimpressed. “Curious, yes… yet, there is a reason they sent us… you, down to the South-side, not to Bleue.” He settled his sight on the corpse, again, the black-blot, distended and absurd adhering to his mind, as if infecting it. “No.”

“I merely thought it pertinent to say… Read the file if you may…” Mons-Vido commented, half-hearted.

“What do you think?” Dúrkind asked. Perhaps his partner, versed in detective work for much of his life, would hold a clue, or a thought, to clear away the fog which to this case clung. Fog his own eyes meandered in, lost.

“Many people see many things. And one would naturally wish for them to be wondrous… I do, for one…” The corpse, to his eyes, sunk deeper and deeper in darkness, until, perhaps egged on by his imagination, it was little more than a pool of nothing, eating away at the cobbled floor. “Just as these slum dwellers wish for a fairy, or an elve… for it would somehow, to their minds, clear away all the filth and poverty of this place… Why would the noblesse, up the Bleue, not wish a nymph to be true? Would it not color their idlings into prettier things?”

“So?” Although he agreed, somewhat, Dúrkind did not find how this assessment would properly clear away the doubt this new sighting brought upon them, or him, rather.

“We should visit the Bleue, anyhow…” He sighed, holding his brows. “I only fear if we must come and go from here to there constantly… To cross the city each day.”

“Well, I suppose it will not hurt…” Surveying the apparent apparition’s islet would only bring them nothing, or benefit. “Should we ask help from Hiéron? We have the assigned gendarmes here, south-side, but, up the Bleue? How would we question, or… search for witnesses by ourselves?” Some hope marked the young officer’s tone, the opportunity to work with Hiéron a more pleasant idea that even the help they would bring to the case.

“The Hiéron is too busy with…. something, which is why we were delegated this case.” Mons-Vido, sadly, crushed his hopes.

Dúrkind responded only with a regretful hum.

“We’ll make it work, worry not.” The inspector chuckled. “And, perhaps, if we solve this, and cleanly enough, the Hiéron will approach you… who knows?”

The young officer was not a child, to be pacified and brightened by such vague hopes. He appreciated, nonetheless, his partner’s efforts to enliven him. He snickered —a laugh more self-deprecating than anything else—, holding back a retch, then.

Taking his eyes off the corpse, and already weighing another constellation of thoughts, Mons-Vido spoke, uninterested, as if the crime scene had turned to smoke, and so, no longer held him.

“Call the gendarme to carry the body. They should know to do at least that much… We’ll see what the coroner says.”

“Yes.” Recovering from the heave, Dúrkin straightened, and, handkerchief once again to his features, left to fetch the gendarmerie.

*

The inspector and officer pair readied to leave, as the gendarmes prepared the body, and tensed out the cloth with which to cover it.

It was curious, Dúrkind thought, how with time, and the reclaiming of death, a him, once moving, could, so soon, become an it.

The sun, almost mocking, trussed them in sweat.

One had the idea to drain the corpse, before its move, so, it tilted by hand of a couple of gendarmes. The cobble was showered in a broth of blackened bile, and reddening flesh. The stone, cracked, filled, as if trounced upon by a summer shower. The opened windpipe served as funnel, as did the growing holes of the bluish skin; a deep indigo, beautiful if not for, to rotting death, being adhered.

The reeking airs of the black waters, as if dissolving into vapor, and rising with the light, plagued all those present, as they attempted not to step on the swamped grounds. If not accustomed already, they would have emptied their stomachs, no doubt.

The body needed to be wrapped, multiple times, again and again, for the scent and rot still shone through that single layered cocoon. The gendarmes, although no neophytes to death, retched and heaved and held their lips, as the cadaver, even drained, sloshed and spilled, almost liquid in its consistency; tinting sections of the growing chrysalis of cheap linen a watery, deep red jam, with edges of chalky black.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It wasn’t only Dúrkind’s curiosity the one possessed by the absurd, almost mundane, grotesque scene. Heos looked on, as well, bereft of breath and mystified by the cadaver’s transformation.

To think a person could so soon become water and air… was that the effect of death…? Perhaps what he saw was the most mundane of all magics, silently carried along, unnoticed by all those who looked… a miracle of metamorphosis without the need for a mage’s intervention…

If so… was truly magic so foreign to humanity, to cynn…? Or were they all, merely, mages and cynn both, blind…

If all things that grew and died under the sun, which changed and moved, were beset upon by cycles of magic, then… Well, the thought died then, he would need to see, to think more, if he wanted the revelation to build itself whole.

As the gendarmes carried the body, to be placed in a wooden tumbril, Heos looked to follow behind the officer-inspector pair, already leaving.

Swan nudged him, pausing his stride. Its beak, like an arrowhead of amber, pointed ‘cross the stone-shorn walls of the alley, across the city’s body, ending in some inscrutable place, where, the phantasm believed, they would find more answers, answers the silent body was, now, left bereft of.

“But…” Heos was unsure… a couple of destinations rang in his mind.

He could simply follow Swan, or… search, in the slums, for tall men and women, following the future steps of the inspector’s search…

However… his curiosity strung him along, behind the Sûreté. If unseen, he could, if agile enough, follow along into the cantonment, where the inspector and his partner were headed…

What he would find there…? The reason to so carelessly intrude into such a place…? He could half-way justify it all with this so-called dossier; which spoke, not only of him, as he heard, but of whatever the Hiéron knew of the dead man, now cocooned.

He doubted this approach, however… Had the old mage not advised for him to forget the Hiéron? They —whatever they were—, according to his words, knew nothing of worth about the men attempting to murder him… Or, perhaps, he meant the previous waves of feverish attackers, years before… About this one? Well… why not assuage himself by seeing this dossier?

It did not matter how he justified it, he knew, all was window dressing for his caprice… his curiosity.

“Hm…” Why justify it at all…? no one heard his thoughts, why justify to himself that which his own soul wished for? He felt —and had so for long— as if his whims were not merely his own… but his own self.

“No, let's follow them Swan… we can go there later, we have time…” And he smiled. The phantasm did not protest, he did not mind, his pointing was all but a suggestion, not something he wished to impose onto the prince.

Adroit, he weaved along the gendarmes, both those carrying the corpse and those picking up the teeth and bone strewn across, like stars in a night sky of black pools and rusted scabs.

He caught up with Mons-Vido and Dúrkind, shadowing them.

The inspector felt a chill, like wind moving against the world’s natural grain. His neck turned…

He looked. A dark maw agape at his back, the slowly emerging gendarmes immersed, middlingly, in a play of sunbeams and black.

“Hm…”

“Hm? Something?” The young officer asked, almost startled by the brusque turn.

“No, nothing.”

They kept toward the cantonment.

Dúrkind was glad to leave the alley behind, even if cadaver’s scent reared up one or twice, as it was carried along by the horse pulled tumbril and hidden by the linen shrouds.

*

The cantonment sat atop the Rue des Larmes.

This aged rue no longer formed cobbled mosaics, but, rather, built its straight narrow ways in large cyclopean blocks of greyish, slick stone, like cracking, leaden flesh, gushing out crystal, spring water, instead of blood.

The walls, the cracks and seams cried. Blossoming moss peeking from their openings. Even emerald spills of string algae, and flowers, dew dropped, unthreaded and inclined, took root under the wetted slabs, and rose up, into the sun.

Here, all ways, where all men and carriages trotted, sported ample gorges, grooves, like deep, gargling cuts, algae, and moss filled —the marked, eroded ways of a thousand, thin springs bursting from under the stone.

One had to walk mindfully, lest their foot slip or lodge itself into some unseen crack.

The buildings drooped… and it was not so for cause of a simple trick of the light… Years of built foundations, of erosion and flooding, of stone over stone being pulled down into the swamped depth of the rue’s underneath, left a cityscape irregular, sinking and rising in oscillating waves, as if the rue coasted over the peaks and valleys of a frozen tide.

This sinking phenomenon had been resolved —or rather, slowed beyond the care of any one generation— by time of the Hellian’s reign. An immense effort, a miracle of engineering, was carried out for the stabilization of this particular section of the southern quartiers. Still, the waters sprang forth, and claimed yet, from constant erosion, this or that alley, foundation or building, which, years before, had been missed or overlooked…

Strangely so, this rue, older still than athalic rule in Romanse —as some said—, held somewhat unchanged. The facades and overlooking structures —more reminiscent of ancient stone watchtowers and monoliths than contemporary homes— had preserved their appearance across the years. And all those who lived in their cold waterlogged bellies had done so for generations.

So defined a boundary was there, between the modern Hygeia and this time swept place, that its inhabitants were known to all as Émus, a somewhat endearing term, as one would think it to signal a group of sentimental, and teary eyed peoples… however, those who were natives of the Rue des Larmes and its surroundings, had the fame of coldhearted, insensitive and frigid men and women —in contrast to the rest of the vivid and playful Hygeians—, characteristic for their angular, sharp and pale features. Even if adherents to athalicism, it was said that no áradal blood had intertwined with the Émus, and so, they remained nearer to the ancient inhabitants of Hygeia than to the modern, westward peoples.

It was in summer, strangely enough, when the Émus were envied by the rest of the city, as the rue remained cool, even under blazing suns, by account of its constant springs and cold, flowing waters, flooding all places where one walked, and gushing forth from ground, wall or what else. It was in winter, however, that the rest pitied them, as the waters cooled over and froze. Such was the biting, bone-breaking cold which the Émus endured during snowed-in months that one had to wonder how anyone still lived in this cursed, swamped islet of stone…

An ill understood set of ecological conditions —some theorized—, made it so flies and other water bound pests did not proliferate, even in the cracks and poolings, and springs of the rue’s turns and ways… it was, as most oddities particular to the place, another point of interest for academics.

The Larmoyants, as they were also called —in another twist of playful irony— held, fruit of their conditions and history, a noted pride, which, in their collective agreement, signaled them out as steadfast and strong-willed, among their more-so hedonistic, lavish Hygeian peers…

As for the cantonment… it towered, somewhat, even amongst the spiring buildings of the rue. It stood leveled to the highest plane of structures in the area, where the wealthiest of the Émus lived —an oddity, as the affluent lived, as was known, in the northern quartiers… it was only because of the Larmoyants’ particularities that they settled, still, here… fashioning a city within a city, of sorts.

So, one had to climb ramps and stairways to reach its entrance. Not so inclined, nonetheless, as it was barely noticeable step to step… the incline was gradual and barely sloped.

It was a walled, three tiered, old fort; Gnarled, weeping willows littered its inside, as the stony, carved façade presented armored forms, lounging and holding regal banners, or defending some unknown lord with grey-wept shields and spears. Columns lined it, and glass panes marked the rooms outwards. It looked much more alike to the grandiose buildings of the Asphodeli than to the cyclopean structures of the rest of the Rue. Interestingly, historians used it to mark the old height at which the entirety of the rue once stood at, as they wrote in their textbooks, papers and magazines. This ancient, forted area, in payment for some unknown, remarkable, and forgotten effort, had never sunk, and stayed level, even when beset with erosion, water and passing time.

Its silvery, ornate gates —through which one could see a white-stone path carve a mossy, tasteful garden in half— were guarded by more grey-men, who almost blended into the stone. Muskets rested on their shoulders —their black boots perpetually wet—, they opened the gates, and made way for the Mons-Vido and Dúrkind —unknowingly, for Heos too, who stumbled from time to time, or slipped, as he watched the before unseen vistas, near entranced.

Behind them, the rest of the gendarmes, and the horse and tumbril, the corpse, as it swerved to a side.

The grey men scattered, some guiding the beast, others going to their duties, imparted by Mons-Vido, some more to do this or that, except for one, Vasse, who accompanied the pair to a receiving hall…

It was unthinkable, to imagine something as this welcoming hall —even if not extremely luxurious or opulent— to inhabit the same Rue des Larmes as the rest of the weathered, scarred stones… it almost transported one to the northern quartiers.

Dúrkind was impressed, evidenced by a pleased hum, as he looked above, and enjoyed the light streaming into the hall.

Behind a dark-wood desk, carved with an adorned, laurel wreathed shield into a marbled base, a stern looking gendarme waited. His ashy blond hair slicked back, his angled, murky-blue eyes inscrutable.

“Inspector Mons-Vido, Officer Dúrkind, welcome to the 23rd south cantonment, or the old fort, as we call it.” A pale smile flashed, coloring his thin lips. “I’m gendarme Jouanc.”

The stern gendarme rose, and offered a hand to both men, as he stepped from behind of his front-desk.

“A pleasure, gendarme Jouanc.” The inspector returned the gesture, a formal smile grazing his average features. “Did the documents and dossiers I sent here from the Bureau arrive safely?”

“Yes inspector, they were all placed in your office… If you would allow me guide you there.” He signaled with his hands, and Vasse dispersed, running to complete the previous assignment Mons-Vido had placed upon him.

“Certainly.”

Dúrkind nodded, so as to affirm his partner’s words.

Heos watched them, ready to follow behind… He noticed his feet, before cleaned by the crystal waters of the rue’s springs, leave almost invisible marks, on the mosaic ground, a broken constellation of white and blue colored porcelain tiles.

Uncaring, he did not fret, it would not be noticed unless one wished to pose their eyes in search of them. And, soon, dried from constant stepping, did his steps no longer leave a stele.

Jouanc led them to a side, cordoned off by wooded doors, doubled, framed by an angled pediment, and carved tympanum, where some warriors, as wild beasts, tore each other, and speared their bodies, garlanded by stony flowers, forever in bloom.

The hall was surprisingly narrow, gilded in sunlight, and with view of the willowed gardens; where a regal statue, dressed in flowing marble robes, and holding an opened book in hand, an imposing kite shield in the other, posed his grey-lead eyes into ether.

They reached an open room, filled with desks, chairs, implements, cabinets… a marked and detailed map of the quartier, and moving men, grey-men, like worker ants, or springs and gears, walking from here to there, noting things and conversing in name of this or the other event.

None focused on the arriving pair.

“Further down here, Inspector, Officer…” He opened, again, a door, now less ornate, not doubled… a portal into another narrow corridor, this time of soft, bistre-ochre wooden floors, in exchange for the previous mosaic tiles. “The Overseer would meet you, however, he is busy… indisposed at this time… as soon as he is done with his duties, he assured me…”

“I would not wish to impede his duties… do not worry, gendarme Jouanc.”

The stern man, now softened, only nodded.

Mons-Vido did not care, really, if this Overseer’s absence was feigned or true. Even if he were unhappy, and put off any meeting as a soft, meaningless revenge, in name of having his jurisdiction impaired by Sûreté involvement, why would Mons-Vido care…? If this was some childish payback, the overseer would, or could, do little more, this was all ordained, as he surely knew, by Hiéron… it was as if the orders came from the lips of the king himself.

“This here, is your office, Inspector, Officer. It is large enough to accommodate you both… I hope you find nothing to displease you… If so, please tell me so and we will do all in our power.” The clear pacifying reverence was not to Mons-Vido dislike… Dúrkind cared little.

The gendarme opened the door, allowing them to see a spacious study, dossiers neatly arranged a top one of two mahogany desks. A window half-shone summer light, as a pale-ish curtain covered it by half. A smaller, less distinct map of the quartier hung on a wall, spacious, as cabinets littered a side and implements the other. There was little to improve.

Stood at the treshhold, holding the opened door, Jouanc spoke, again.

“Before you accommodate yourselves, Inspector, Officer… would you wish to meet the coroner? He is in at this time and has surely received the cadaver already… He would not mind you two spectate the autopsy.”

“Hm… Well, yes.” Mons-Vido agreed. Dúrkind, so far ever silent, showed no opposition, to which they continued down the corridor, after Jouanc closed the office door.

Half down the way, their footsteps ringing, the inspector remembered the dossier. Certain it would be useful during the autopsy, and wishing to pass it over to his partner, he spoke, and reigned in his steps, for a moment.

“I’ll go back for a dossier. You go with the gendarme, Dúrkind.” He turned, scratching his temple.

“The coroner’s office is the last room down and to the left, Inspector.” Jouanc nodded, coupled with his reminder. Dúrkind just affirmatively hummed.

Returning to the study, as he opened the door, the pleasant half-shrouded sun, for a moment, filled his view…

All he saw after, as his eyes could not turn away from the bizarre view, was a single dossier, black covered, floating, opened, held by nothing… As if a magician had strung it by a crystal string, up to the roof…

A single word crossed the inspector’s mind.

‘Elve.’

He leapt at the opened file.