from the forthcoming novel, The Silvergrey Sea
Harry Tranker is a Private Eye on a backwater moon.
Divorce and missing persons cases pay the bills, but they lack a certain thrill.
All that changes when a dead man asks him to solve his own murder.
Late Night on Noir
The pull of the moons brought the ghost lampreys to the surface of the Endless Sea. Pink, orange, and purple snakes of light cast my rippling shadow on the slate cliffs to my left.
The sky was utterly black. Dense clouds of green mist obscured the docks along the waterfront a quarter mile up the beach.
The bitter brine made my nose sting.
I never felt more in my element than I did on the waterfront of Noir
It was always warm close to the water. I unbuttoned my trench coat and removed my fedora, letting the breeze cool my head.
I replaced the hat a moment later and lit a cigarette. The lighter clinked against the fifth of cheap rye whiskey in the deep pocket of my coat. As the first drag hit my lungs, I felt the light-headedness that reminded me of the bourbon sitting in my desk at the office. Time to get this over with; I began to trudge up the beach toward town.
The town was Santo Mortis. At almost two million people, it was the largest settlement on Noir. It was a town of mists and dim days lit only by the luminescent brown dwarf Geist. At night, when the saline fog wasn’t too thick, Noir’s submoons, pale red Faerie and grey-green Elf, defined the night without illuminating anything.
Rickety wooden steps led up the end of the wharf. Salt encrusted piles exposed by the receding tide passed on my right. The lower steps were rough with caked salt crystals that crunched under my first few steps.
The other end of the quay was half a mile away. This time of evening, the docks were quiet. Only one fishing boat was tied up, its catch sent to processing hours ago. The low honk of a foghorn sounded from the direction of a collection of fuzzy edged lights: another ship, this one likely loaded with heavier cargo, was heading out into the warm night.
Smells assaulted me: brine, fish, and…onion soup.
“How, are ya, Ronnie?” I didn’t need to turn around. No one had an odour like Ronald the Pestilent.
“The White Prince knows the Blue Queen’s not true!”
“Is that a fact?” I turned. Ronnie was shorter than my six foot three. He was maybe five eight, but his hunched posture made it difficult to tell.
“Evanescence is where it began; that’s where it’ll end.”
I tossed a question into the frothy mess that was Ronnie’s mind, “Any news of my client’s husband?”
“Dragon’s through the barrier. The nomad will come to rest, but not for long. He’ll be at the Marquis with his girl at nine thirty. Room Two Eighteen.”
“Thanks, Ronnie.” I handed the derelict the bottle of rye.
Ronald made it disappear in the noisome depths of his trench coat. It took a skilled eye to see it had been the same colour and cut as mine once.
“Take it easy, old son.”
“‘ware the Blue Queen, Heinrich.” Ronnie grabbed my sleeve. Milky grey eyes focussed on mine. “She’ll burn the Aions for the sake of the Rebirth.”
“Sure, Ronnie. Sure.” I detached Ronald’s hand. It took some effort.
Wiping my fingers on my coat, I headed for my office in midtown. I had a fairly long wait before the tête-à-tête and thought it best to get a little backup for the inevitable showdown.
Case Closed
On my way down to the storm sewer, I stopped to say hello to the sidewalk.
As the remains of the second-floor window showered soon-to-be bruised body, I congratulated myself on my foresight in standing near a breakable surface. I might’ve ended up like last guy who picked a fight with my client’s husband; palliative care was beyond my means.
The basso screams of said cheating spouse could be heard over the grunts and occasional meaty thwacks as various peacemakers impacted his overly fed carcass.
Deciding they could handle things for a while; I lit a cigarette, crossed my legs at the ankle, and gazed at a sky for once clear of cloud. The moons were especially pretty tonight.
I was deep in my traditional reverie of booze and broads when a voice drifted down from above. “You all right, Harry?”
I lifted my fedora from over my face. Staring down at me from the empty frame was the face of my favourite copper; his silver-streaked hair shadowing everything but his smile. “Doin’ fine, Abram. How’s our boy?”
“Medics’ll have to let you know after they’ve seen him. Doesn’t look all that bad.”
“Think he could answer questions?”
“Not till he comes to.”
We shared a chuckle.
“Not really important. I’ve got almost everything I need.”
“So, you coming up, or what?”
“Yeah, I’ll be right there.” I had been enjoying the lie down, as I hadn’t had much sleep lately.
Abram’s head withdrew into the building. I levered myself to my feet, groaning, and headed for the entrance to the brick apartment complex, straightening my coat as I went.
⁂
It was hardly worth the trip.
Big Ugly was awake, but groggy and being helped down the broad steps as I walked across the lobby. Abram, wide brimmed hat back in place, met me halfway. “Any paperwork you need from me?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We just need a verbal confirmation that this is the guy you’re looking for.” He lifted Ugly’s chin as he passed.
Blonde jarhead haircut. Check.
Chin wider than forehead. Check.
Shit brown eyes. Check.
Oft busted nose. Check.
“Yep, that’s him. What about his squeeze?”
As four other Hermetists dragged the bum out of the building, Abram hooked a thumb backward. “She’s still upstairs. A bit shook up, but otherwise fine. She said our buddy here paid the rent on that place till the end of the year.”
“Really?” I doubted that; I’d checked.
Abram shrugged. “I gotta get this guy on ice.”
“You’ll be in place, later?”
“Of course.” The Hermetist winked as he left.
Abram and I had been friends since our misspent childhood on another world. His being stationed here had decided me on fleeing to Noir after things went seriously bad for me on the planet of by birth. This was home for us both, now.
⁂
I took the stairs up to the apartment, again admiring the décor.
This building had gone up during the city’s first wave of prosperity.
It had survived various economic downturns, natural disasters, and three prolonged gang wars. Its current owners had evidently decided to spruce the place up and had run out of money somewhere along the way. The stairs were chipped and worn marble. A runner of carpet had been added to cover up the worst of it. The first-floor landing had been tiled in pale green slate. It had also seen better days. Linoleum almost matching the colour of the tile now covered much of it. The walls had been repapered in a pattern of deep red and green. The paper itself had the texture of velvet. The public areas were lit by recessed sconces of frosted glass near the ceiling. The place smelled like bleach and despair.
The apartment was nearest the stairs leading up to the next landing.
Varnish was peeling at the edges of the darkly stained hardwood door, which was still open a crack. I let myself in. “Miss…?” I spoke loudly enough to be heard over the creak.
“Yes,” echoing down the dim hall, probably from the sitting room. She sounded like she’d been crying.
I let the closing creak of the door announce my entrance to the apartment. No protest. The main hall, lit only from ahead, was painted a dark green with a hardwood floor and a plaster ceiling. I walked down it and into the sitting room, first on the right.
Since my first appearance, the lady of the house had donned a quilted silk dressing gown in powder blue. Her eyes were puffy and red, cheeks flushed. Medium length ash blonde hair was still an unkempt mess.
She was trying to light a cigarette, but her hands were too shaky. I stepped up, took the heavy lighter from her, and lit her smoke. She took a long drag and gave me a real smile as she exhaled. “Please sit, Mr. Tranker.” Her ‘little girl lost’ demeanour remained in place. I was beginning to suspect it was her defense against the whole world rather than merely bait for her carnal hook.
I sat, placing the rock-crystal lighter on the coffee table next to the overflowing brass ashtray. Before speaking, I used my zippo to light one of my own. “I know you’ve had a rough night, miss. I just need to clear up a couple of loose ends, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
She nodded.
I took out my epad and swiped through pages until I got to the one I wanted. “You’d been seeing my client’s husband for a little over a year UT, correct?”
Nod.
“He set you up here–” I waved toward the room–“two months ago.”
Another confirmatory head-bob.
“One thing I don’t know is how this apartment was paid for.”
“He paid for it.”
I was looking for the tell when she spoke. It was there, but only if you were paying attention: a slight twitch of her eyes to her left. I decided to sneak up on the lie. “But you did sign the lease, right?”
Big brown eyes gave me a perfect simulation of surprise. “I never knew anything about a lease; he just said he would pay the rent for me.”
“Hmm. That’s odd. The landlord told me he requires six-month leases on all new tenants. He wouldn’t show me his files, of course, but he did tell me there were no exceptions. This apartment is rented in your name. Even if your boyfriend did give you the money, you would still have to have to sign a lease.”
She shrugged, free hand twitching toward her tangled hair. Her glance to left lingered this time. “He did say something about paying in advance, I think.” She wouldn’t meet my eye at all.
“I know he didn’t pay for this place, Miss. I know how he makes his money, where he hides it, and what he spends it on.”
She jabbed the stub of her cigarette into the pile of butts and grabbed another. I flicked open my zippo and lit it for her. She took a drag and exhaled into her lap, fingers playing with the belt of her housecoat. She knew she’d been caught. I could almost hear her wondering how much I knew.
I decided not to keep her guessing. “The landlord recognized you from a picture I showed him. He confirmed you paid cash and signed a lease. I need to know where that money came from.” I was almost sure I knew, but I wanted confirmation before confronting my client.
She spilled it all. A woman had struck up an ‘innocent’ friendship with her months ago and had manipulated her into taking a loan for the rental of a love nest. From the description she gave me, I knew it was same the woman who’d hired me to find evidence of philandering she could use in a divorce. I told Big Ugly’s girl how she’d been manipulated. I didn’t mention that I had been as well.
I left after telling her I hoped she enjoyed the apartment and instructing her to start looking for a new one before the lease ran out. She was genuinely surprised when I told her she wouldn’t have to pay back the loan.
⁂
My final meeting with my client went as planned. I got my final payment, plus a hefty bonus for getting her husband arrested and charged with attempted murder. Then I sprang on her my knowledge of the set up and the consequences she knew would follow. She was still gawping when Abram and company entered and arrested her for conspiracy to commit murder.
The point of hiring me, of course, was not to get enough evidence to divorce her husband, but to get him put away so she could access his wealth, none of which was on the books. She set him up, knowing his paranoia and violent tendencies would lead to the debacle that ended with me going sidewalk diving. I’m not averse to being played for a chump if the money’s right; but I value my skin above gold. So, it was with considerable satisfaction that I watched her cuffed and dragged away.
Finally, barely an hour before dawn, I retreated to my office.
⁂
As Geist began to lighten the night, I sipped my third bourbon while updating my ledger and journal by the light of a green glass desk lamp. One of my many quirks was a fondness for paper and pen when it came to certain activities. I could hardly avoid a using an epad and web access in my work, but I found a peculiar joy in the scratching of a fountain pen on parchment when totaling my money and recording my cases.
The streetlights were still on as I finished, casting blades of light through the blinds and onto the hardwood floor. The ceiling fan was just enough to cool the pre-dawn air, though I’d had to shed my coat and fedora. They hung from the stand to one side of my office door.
With a sigh, I thumped closed the ledger, leaned back in the creaking wooden swivel chair, and took a longer drink. I decided not to bother going home; it wasn’t an inspiring place. Truth to tell, this office was where I spent most of my time.
I poured another drink.
A New Client
I was awakened from a dream of water nymphs by a feeling I was in a boat on stormy seas. It turned out to be a hand shaking my shoulder.
My mouth tasted like a rat’s toilet. I slowly rose, upper vertebrae complaining, until I was approximately vertical. My left forearm was numb from where my head had lain on it. I knew, from memories of previous mornings at this desk, that my left cheek was red, my head severely bed.
As my vision cleared, I took note of the…man (fortunately) standing at parade rest in front of me. He was over six foot and trim. His black, straight hair was lacquered back from his vaguely Asiatic eyes. The suit he wore would have befitted a funeral director.
I coughed…for a little while.
After the fit passed, I swallowed–not wanting to spit in front of a potential client–cleared my throat, and tried speaking again.
Finger combing my hair and straightening my shirt as surreptitiously as possible, I said, “Civilized people knock before entering a room.”
The ghost of a smile, condescension writ large in the creases across his forehead, “I spent some time doing just that, Mr. Tranker.” His tone was civil enough.
“Ah. Yes, of course. You’ll pardon me, I hope. I worked rather late last night.”
Two pairs of eyes darted to the empty rock crystal tumbler at my elbow. Thankfully, the empty bottle was behind the desk where my visitor wouldn’t spot it unless he sat my lap. I decided to ignore the glass. “Won’t you have a seat, Mister…?”
“Drago” The legs of one of the wooden chairs squealed as he pulled it out and folded himself neatly into it, black eyes boring into my head across the dark stained oak of my desk. Had I a hangover, that look would have made me sick.
“What can I do for you this morning, Mr. Drago?”
“Just ‘Drago’, thank you. I need your help, Mr. Tranker, on an urgent matter. There has been a murder.”
I’ve been in this business too long to let anything but cynicism show. I’m sure I looked as disinterested as I had before. I began with the standard line, “This is probably a matter better handled by the Hermetists, Drago. You’ll find the local chapterhouse up–“
“They cannot be involved in this.”
“Why? Were you involved in some way? I will not be a party to concealing any crime.” Mostly true. I’d bent a few laws in pursuit of my career, but always the choice had been mine alone.
“I was involved, you might say. But not in any active way.”
“I think you’d better explain yourself, Drago. I can’t decide whether to take your case without sufficient facts. Why don’t you start at the beginning. Who was murdered?”
“I was.”
Twice Taken
A roar and a tumult.
The reaction of the rogue Hermetists to his appearance was pleasing, he had to admit. The sudden incarnation of a Great Soul into the poor sod they’d trussed up for sacrifice caused exactly the sort of panic for which he’d hoped. Not that it would do to let them know that. Concealing his glee behind a feigned terror and rage required little in the way of stagecraft.
More difficult to achieve was surviving their attempts to kill him while making them think they had succeeded. This was a bit harder, but not overly so.
The thoroughly demoralized conspirators dropped what they sincerely thought was his corpse over the side of their ship, a day’s sail out from the hidden islands called the Evanescents.
So far so good.
Now, to make sure he was in the right spot. Letting his senses play out, the Great Soul found one of his chosen candidates quite close. This Harry Tranker was not his first choice but would do. The being pretending to be Drago would need to drift with the tides to his intended destination and his chosen human agent. Projecting his senses again, he felt the Silvergrey Sea’s current and wind direction.
The place he needed to be was close, though not close enough. He began stroking his current meat suit in the proper direction.
He was lucky. The host spirit, the Hyborean Drago, remained stunned and unaware until he had reached the right spot before waking and storming into his own forebrain to take back control of his body.
The unexpected ferocity of the attack made the Great Soul lose a mental step, but that was enough. He was thrown into the back of Drago’s mind.
⁂
Drago came to himself amid no sensations at all.
A familiarity with the feeling puzzled him, as he had no memories.
The first of his recollections returned and he knew this was what it had been like at the beginning, before his birth.
That meant another birth must be in his future.
But wait.
Wouldn’t there have to have been an end to another life?
More memories came. His youth and young adulthood; the anxious wait for his eventual capture. It was then that everything had gone so very wrong.
He began to feel motion. Opening his eyes, he saw nothing, though he felt a blinding pain in them. Closing his eyelids didn’t help. Excruciation woke up all other sensations and all emotions, each adding its particular ache to the mix. He began flailing, his limbs moving slowly, as if something was holding them.
No, that wasn’t it.
He was immersed in something too thick to be water with no way to tell which way was up. His lungs were reporting to him a dearth of air. He needed to do something fast.
Coordinating his arms and legs, he struck out in a random direction.
His arm left the medium he was in very quickly; he felt the cold running down it. His legs kicked strongly once. Again.
He was out!
A loud gasp and sweet air filled his lungs. His eyes were still afire, but the pain had diminished. He tried wiping the goop off them. It didn’t seem to help much, but he was desperate to see where he was.
Opening his eyes actually diminished the pain. Or perhaps it was the sight that greeted them as the latter made all other concerns trivial by contrast.
The air was an ill-defined colour, resembling grey. It was filled with…stars? No, it couldn’t be. There were far too many for one thing. They didn’t twinkle, either. The sky seemed coated with sparkles of light, like silver dust.
He was floating in something he couldn’t see. Grey, like the sky–exactly like, in fact–with a suggestion of waves felt though unseen. His body was invisible beneath the hypothesized plane of the liquid.
Turning as fast as he was able, he scanned for a horizon.
The sight of the ship stopped him. It was only a black shape of sails and rigging at this distance, but it was visibly retreating.
Then he remembered.
Hoping it would carry, Drago vented a scream of rage.
Wasn’t there another?
Yes, the one who grabbed his mind and threw him tumbling back into his own unconscious. He remembered fighting furiously to see, to feel, to be.
Now he has back, but how and why? And where was the other?
He rummaged around in the back of his mind.
Nothing.
Gone!
Something happened to him then. A point of light and an intense pleasure.
What had he been thinking?
The ship. The hanging.
Wasn’t there something else?
No. Probably not.
⁂
Drago had no idea how long he floated in the sea. The Silvergrey Sea, as he recollected. He should be dead. Contact with the stuff of the Sea was invariably fatal, so he’d been told.
There was no sense of time here. Drago thought he lost consciousness at one point. He came to himself still floating when common sense told him he should have sunk and drowned. Maybe he was still dead or had died after his plunge into the liquid of the Silvergrey. This whole experience certainly seemed dream-like enough to be an afterlife.
Drago was still halfway between dream and death when he felt a tugging sensation and then cold as someone lifted him out of the Sea. Naked and shivering, he lay on a hard surface while raven-like figures fluttered across sparkling greyness above.
Who were they? He felt he should know, but his exhausted mind refused to work properly.
Movement again. He was going somewhere. Again the figures, people in black clothing he now saw, were carrying him. Who were they?
Home? Life? Death? Were these reapers, come to take him to hell?
He closed his eyes…
Awakening
…And opened them to a view of grey again. No sparkles.
A humming noise. Drago turned toward it. Something sticking out of a window.
Window.
Wall.
He looked up…ceiling! A grey painted ceiling.
Drago sat up. He was in a bed. Judging by its appearance, he was in an inn of some sort.
How had he gotten here? As his mind cleared, he remembered more. Being lifted out of the Silvergrey Sea; the endless journey in it; being dumped off the ship after…after being hanged!
He felt for the noose around his neck as the sharp memory of pain–rough hemp biting into his neck, crushing his throat, his mouth filling with blood–flooded his mind. No rope, but a band of roughened skin: a scar where it had been. No pain did Drago feel. The wound was healed. There was no mistaking that memory, though.
Who had done it?
The ones in black. Hermetists.
He knew them, now. They’d taken him and…what?
Before that, before he died, there had been…?
Begin again, Drago told himself.
He had been waiting his turn on Hyborea in the village of his birth. Most of the other young men had already been taken. His father had told him not to worry, they’d never hurt him. That was the deal, part of the treaty that had ended the war.
Finally Drago had been snatched, but by men and women in black. Some with white as well and there had been one all in blue.
Then nothing that he could remember, until he had been dropped into the hold on the deck of a ship, the rope snapping taut; the noose tightening so fast, he was sure his head would pop off. Searing pain. Couldn’t breathe!
What had happened in between those moments?
He thought he remembered voices, calling, crying, screaming. Was there one calm one, talking under the rest? People in black with wide-brimmed hats. Hermetists.
A memory of being pulled from the Sea before his hanging. The one in blue–was that the owner of the calming voice?
No. That voice was within him. But how was that possible? Drago was alone in his head, always had been. He’d heard of people with other voices in their minds. Poor souls. Mad most called them. But that had never been him. It must be the trauma making him misremember.
Fear, panic, and violence Drago remembered coming from him, but not by him. He remembered being terrified and things happening, things he made happened that he couldn’t stop. Many deaths, bodies flying apart. Then the ship, the hold, and his death. Another death. Had he lived before? He thought he had, but he recalled only his one birth, on Hyborea. Only one life there before everything went to hell.
Bits & pieces of memories was all Drago had left. Most of it was scrambled non-sense that likely had no truth. Drago sighed.
No help there. His memories would return, or they wouldn’t; there was nothing to be done about it. For now, he needed to figure out where he was.
The Hyborean got out of the bed. It took a couple of tries, as he was weak. His legs had trouble supporting him. His vision went fuzzily dark, his head spinning as he tried to balance. Drago leaned on the nearest wall and waited for it to stop. It felt warm, that wall, and a bit sticky.
Inside a frosted glass dome in the ceiling was a wan, cheerless light.
Its glow revealed a room that was a dull grey, floor carpet, ceiling. Only the one window to his right, lower half-blocked by a humming machine blasting cool and painfully dry air into the space. The upper part of the window, partially obscured by a tan curtain, revealed only blackness beyond.
A door to his left looked like wood, but a wrinkle in it suggested it was only painted paper made to look like wood. The Hyborean thought must lead out of the room.
Ahead, past the end of the bed was another, slightly ajar. A light brighter than the one here shone from the crack. Hoping he might find something to clothe his nudity there, Drago decided to try it first.
He waited until felt strong enough to try walking. Thought it wasn’t exactly an epic journey to what turned out to be the bathroom, it was an exercise in concentration. The Hyborean’s legs were rubbery, his balance questionable. It was like learning to walk all over again. His exertions made his throat sore as the desiccated air, smelling of tin, scrapped it and burned his nostrils on its way down. Finally, though, Drago was able to grip the jamb and pilot his way into the room.
It was white and dingy at the edges of the walls. Fungus stained tile floor. A shower cubby, whose glass enclosure either frosted or mineral-stained opaque, was in one corner. Shelves with towels and a bare selection of soaps in the other. Immediately in front of him was a toilet, porcelain gleaming he was surprised to see. A mirror over a sink completed the fixtures.
The Hyborean took a step in and turned to his right to face the bathroom mirror. The only light in the room was directly above it. Drago had to squint, at first.
His face was unfamiliar, which caused a momentary panic. The scar across his neck was no darker than the rest of his skin. It looked old, like the wound had been inflicted years ago, which made as little sense as everything, just now.
While he stared at the stranger in the reflective glass, something emerged from behind his eyes. By the time he noticed, it was too late for Drago to do anything; he’d already been shoved into the back of his own mind.
⁂
After a brief, ugly struggle, the Hyborean was once again contained away from his conscious self. Wasting no time, the Great Soul headed back to the room, to the closet at the far end. Dressing and grabbing the cash and ID left by the thoughtful Hermetists for him, or more likely the hotel staff expecting to find his corpse, the spirit pretending to be Drago, headed out. He needed to get to this man Tranker and activate him. It was only the first step in a long, dangerous process.
The Case of the Murdered Hyborean
My first instinct was to hustle Drago out the door as quickly and politely as possible; I get more whackadoodles in this job than I’m comfortable with as it is.
He anticipated my reaction and clarified immediately by showing me an old rope scar across his neck. As a private eye, I’d seen my share of suicides. I had to admit it looked like a hanging scar, though I’d never seen one healed before. Whether or not his story checked out, he did have good reason for supposing he had actually died.
“How long ago did this happen?”
“I’m uncertain of the timeline. My memory of the hanging is fresh. I would have thought no more than a day or so before I woke up in Vita. That was two days ago.”
“Your scar is a lot older than that.”
He nodded. “My memory is unreliable in this instance to be sure.”
“Maybe you should start at the beginning. How did you end up at the end of a rope, anyway?”
“I was born and raised on Hyborea, a world on the Hermetist’s trade routes through the Silvergrey Sea…”
⁂
Drago’s story took some time to tell. What made it hard was Drago’s habit of using the least number of words possible. I had to drag details out of him, though he never evaded a question. Before he was halfway through, I knew I was going to take the case. I also knew it was going to be one of the riskier endeavours of my career.
While Drago told his story, something feral flashed in his eyes for just a second, like an enraged animal was trapped there. It startled me but was gone before I could speculate as to why. By the time he reached the end of his tale, it had happened twice more. I added it to the list of things to ponder about this new client.
I thought the issue of my fee might be a sticking point, but I needn’t have. It seemed that, along with everything else, Drago’s rescuers had left him a fat roll of bills. It was Hermetic Scrip, too, not the local currency. He paid for the first week plus my estimate of expenses and, at my suggestion, went to find a room at a local place I recommended.
I told him I’d start my preliminary inquiries that evening and the next day and that I’d come to see him with my initial findings the day after.
I saw him to the door and stretched out on the cot in the back room for another couple of hours of sleep.
—Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, February 2019
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