Harry’s Case Gets Hairy

The Silvergrey Sea

Part One: A Little Excitement

Harry’s Case Gets Hairy

* * *

“Abram—” Harry’s hand extended. The Hermetist gave it his usual firm grip and four pumps—”thanks for helping out with this.”

The detective turned to his right. “This is Drago, my client.” Abram extended a hand, which Drago shook. The grip was strong, just at the pain threshold.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.” The Hermetist led them from the lobby to his office.

Drago was taller than Harry, making him quite tall, indeed. Abram was a bit unnerved that the former made no sound as he moved. He thought silent movement might be a cultural trait among Hyborean males. More than once, the Hermetist caught himself glancing back to make sure Drago was still with them. That impassive face never changed, even when their eyes met.

Once they were seated comfortably, Abram offered refreshments. Harry took his usual. Drago asked for red wine. Harry raised an eyebrow at that. So, something unexpected.

Abram and Harry commenced to sip, the traditional gulping seeming somehow out of place with Drago cradling his wine like it was his first born. Neither of them went for a cigarette.

The Hermetist turned to Drago. “Harry has told you why you’re here, I take it.”

“Yes.” No change in expression. Rare was the person Abram couldn’t get a read on. The Hyborean sat upright in the chair, legs together, hands cupping the silver goblet. He might have been a mannequin for all the animation he showed.

Abram turned to the detective. Harry slouched in his rumpled trench coat. Having tossed his hat onto the desk, his short greying hair was exposed. Grey eyes impassive, square face slightly jowly, nose and cheeks just beginning to show the rosacea of a lifelong love affair with liquor. The private eye’s expression told the Hermetist he was on his own.

“Harry tells me there are some gaps in your memory, but that you remember that you are from Hyborea.”

“That is correct.”

“What I’d like to do is to perform a scan on you to confirm the time and place of your birth. It’s a non-invasive test and will only take a few minutes.”

Nothing.

“If you will please follow me.” Abram stood and went to a door to the left of his desk. Opening it, he gestured for Drago to step through. The space beyond was the size of a small closet and appeared completely featureless. “Please stand facing the door. When the chime sounds, the scan is finished, and you may exit. Do you understand?”

Drago responded with a nod.

Abram closed the door.

“Quite the Chatty Cathy, isn’t he?” Harry said.

“So, he’s always like this?”

Harry nodded. “Getting the full story from him was like pulling teeth.”

“Well, we’ve got some solid info on him now.”

“Now?” The detective downed his scotch and slid the empty tumbler across the Hermetist’s desk.

Abram smiled as he refilled Harry’s glass and topped off his own. “I scanned him before he sat down. That door—” he gestured to his left—”stays locked until I press a button under my desk. The button also sets off the chime. I thought it a good idea that we have a looksee at his info in his absence.”

“So, you really just put him in a closet.” Harry smiled.

“Yep. Let’s see what we have here.” Abram slid his right hand forward on his desk and a virtual screen popped up. The data that filled it would have looked like abstract art to a layperson. It was written in five directions and the characters themselves moved and changed shape even as he looked at them, but Abram had been reading Hermetic Script so long he didn’t notice its strangeness anymore. To the Hermetist, it spoke quite plainly. What it had to say was disturbing.

“What is it, Abram?” Harry had been able to see past Abram’s poker face since primary school.

“Your client is not lying, but only probably. He gave his age as thirty-three years UT, correct?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, the chance he was born on Hyborea is only seventy-three percent. Normally, the percentage for these things hovers around ninety-five. To get his numbers up to that range, he’d have to be much older than he claims.”

“How much older?”

“Over three hundred years. And that’s not all. One always gets low percentage odds for births on other worlds—usually under five percent; it’s an artifact of the algorithms used. I generally just ignore them. But—” here, he met Harry’s eye—”I’m getting a twenty-three percent chance he was born somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Oerth”

“If you look closely, you may notice I’m not smiling.” He wasn’t. Abram knew he believed it, so he didn’t bother responding to the quip. Eventually, the staring contest ended. Harry reached into his coat and pulled out his cigarette case and lighter. “Have you any news on who might have dumped him in a hotel in Vita?” He offered the Hermetist one, which the latter accepted and waited until after the snap of the closing zippo before responding.

How much to tell? In the day since Harry first came to him for help, Abram had uncovered information that frightened him. Not for his own safety, but for what it implied about an organization that had been home and family to him since late adolescence. The Hermetist covered his hesitation by taking a long drag from the smoke. A little bitter and lacking the licorice that flavoured his own preferred brand, but a good ciggy, nonetheless.

Abram decided to tell Harry most of the truth, still feeling oath-bound to keep some things back. He had to hope this disaster could be contained before it infected the entire Order. This hope was kindled by knowing his conspiratorial fellow Hermetists had always been exceptionally good at hiding traces of their too frequent misdeeds.

“The three who pulled him from the Silvergrey were mates on a ship that had just pulled into Vita harbour. They didn’t know who he was, nor why he was in the Sea.” All True. They hadn’t been enlightened about anything until they’d reported the incident.

“Their names?” Harry sighed, suddenly looking tired. He didn’t expect and answer.

Abram shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Alright. Is the ship still here?”

“It left hours later.”

“The same day it docked? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but not unheard of.”

“May we assume finding Drago had something to do with its sudden departure?”

“A safe bet.”

“Can you tell me if finding people in the Sea happens a lot?”

“Never.”

“So, the rumours are true.”

Abram nodded. “Death is the inevitable result of even minor exposure to the stuff of the Silvergrey Sea.”

“How long does it take?”

“Only minutes. I’ve seen it myself.”

Harry’s eyes widened; he’d seen his friend’s expression. “That bad?”

The Hermetist nodded again.

“Whose idea was it to dump him in a hotel room? I would have thought reporting it and studying Drago would have been the priority.”

Now to dance around the truth. “I can’t find out.” Technically true. Abram had enough info to make a strong guess, but telling Harry Tranker would likely get both of them killed. Better he did his own figuring. If the P.I. came to the same conclusion he could safely be ignored as he would never get the proof.

“Is it safe to say they were told to?”

“I can only assume.”

Harry took out his ever-present epad and began typing something on its virtual keyboard. He paused and chewed his fingernail for a few moments. Abram took the opportunity to refresh both of their drinks and light up a cheroot. “Harry?” he had to wave to get the private eye’s attention. He shook his head at the proffered cigarillo. Harry hated the things, but the forms had to be honoured. Abram lit, inhaled, sipped bourbon, and blew a fat smoke ring.

“They expected him to die.”

Damn, that was fast. “How do you mean?”

“They dumped him in a hotel room with clothes and money, but no I.D. They thought his exposure to the Silvergrey Sea would kill him, eventually. He’d be just an anonymous death. Without a missing persons report, there wouldn’t even be an investigation; no autopsy, either.” Harry’s eyes bored into the Hermetist’s “Abram, how much did you tell your superiors about this?”

“I left names out, but otherwise I was thorough. I did mention in passing that the object of my curiosity was deceased.” They both knew the consequences if the upper reaches of the Order of Hermes took a personal interest in their little backwater of the Pax Hermetica.

“How did you explain the query at all?”

“Someone at the Hammett recognized Hermetists the night Drago was brought in and reported the death to us as a matter of course.”

“Did they? Report the Hermetists, I mean.”

“As it happens, yes.”

“So, as far as your superiors are concerned, the matter is closed?”

Abram nodded.

Harry nodded in return, the beginnings of his crooked ‘shenanigans’ smile appearing as he pecked away on his epad. “Good. Good.”

“So,” the Hermetist asked, knowing the answer, “what’s your next move?”

Tranker’s smile turned upside-down as he met his friend’s eye, “Hyborea.”

“Still nervous about travel, I see.”

“Only by the Silvergrey. I hate not knowing where I am.”

“I’ll see what I can do to make your trip less stressful.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, September 2026

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