stepping out of Central Station revealed a sea of activity, people moving like the flow of a stream, all with something to do or a place to be. Gothic architecture loomed overhead, immense stonework and sculptures, watching over cramped alleys that harboured mischief. The poor sat openly begging, the fortunate delighted by the clatter of coin in their begging bowl. Carriages, some pulled by horse and others steam-powered, ebbed along to their destination, sometimes dangerously fast, forcing those in their path to quickly scurry aside. Civilization had rooted itself deeply here and showed no indication of regressing.
No sooner had Wyld emerged from the Den, than she slinked into the shadows and walked familiar alleyways to attend to her own business. It was her nature to avoid the crowds when feeling guilty and the weighty lump in her side bag seemed to ooze that feeling. She kept her head bowed when eye contact was made, turned back as soon as the law was in sight, and swept into every shadow much like a fox.
* * *
Muddick’s Curiosity Shoppe lacked any genuine curiosity for those who entered. A person never found themselves walking through the door not knowing exactly what they wanted. Every wall was stacked with knick-knacks, the ceiling blanketed in hanging lamps of every size and colour possible. The store resembled more of an unsorted warehouse than a place of business.
Muddick himself was sat behind a walnut counter, though sat was too generous a word. The old man slouched on his stool, lazily scanning the day’s paper. Flecks of tobacco escaped the suckled cob pipe that bellowed smoke. Tobacco lined every glass jar behind him, crudely labelled but of the highest quality – good tobacco, not that wet rag that got passed around as a good smoke.
Again he wetted his lips, flicked to the next page, and traced each word with bony fingers. Whilst his eyesight may be failing, obvious from the absurdly thick glasses that had already half slipped down his nose, his hearing remained as sharp as ever. It picked up the jangling door chime as the door eased open. He heard the latch click back behind the person. He counted each footstep as they approached.
One. Two. Three.
The hollow rattle of the beaded curtain that the customer passed through.
Four. Five. Six.
On cue he breathed out the last inhalation of smoke, and flicked his eyes upward.
‘Aha,’ he cooed. ‘I was wondering when you would turn up. I saw your handiwork in here.’ Muddick flicked the paper to its cover, pointing to the enlarged lettering.
DARING MIDNIGHT ROBBERY OF THE EPILIM MUSEUM!
PRICELESS ARTEFACT STOLEN!
Wyld pulled at the neck of her poncho, dusting some of the loose sand that had deposited itself in the folds. ‘Priceless is it now?’ She smirked. She looked proud of herself, much like a cat would with a mouse in its jaws. ‘I thought everything had a price.’
‘Some prices are far from the reach of others, hence the term.’
Wyld reached for the canvas satchel on her waist, carefully revealing the stolen artefact and placing it on the rough counter. The gilded gold leaf ran the china egg’s circumference, then spiralled into intricate floral patterns, leaves flanked by perfectly cut gems of ruby and topaz. Along its surface was the very clear depiction of a man, or what seemed like a man. He was taller than other men who stood before him, for they were kneeing with hands gesturing towards each other. The taller figure was depicted with a halo of gold crowning his head and engraved blocks of what seemed to be feathers.
It was enough for the shopkeeper to part with his pipe and place it beside him on a copper tray.
‘Not a fake?’ Muddick asked. He didn’t need to, but this was just a formality and everyone received such scrutiny no matter their track record.
‘The real thing,’ Wyld replied.
Muddick pressed in an eyepiece before shunting himself over the object. After a series of grunts and huffs, he concluded that Wyld was telling the truth. The eyeglass popped out and he placed his spectacles back into position.
‘You have others?’
‘I have plenty.’
‘Are you offering this one to me?’
‘It depends what you can tell me about it for starters. Then we go from there,’ Wyld replied, ever so matter-of-fact.
‘Made in the Vallanteij period,’ Muddick mused. ‘Six hundred years old or so. Exquisite leaf work, ever so delicate considering the subject matter. The stones are princess cut, brilliant clarity with no imperfections. No damage at all during its transit, which is ever so remarkable and will boost the resale considerably.’
‘No, no, no!’ Wyld interrupted. ‘I don’t care about that. Tell me about the piece, the imagery.’
Muddick raised his well-crinkled brow.
‘Clearly it’s an Angel being depicted, a protector of the Holy Sorceress. Iconic. It’s common for relics to depict singular Angels; the regions have their favourites from lore and such. Look here, these beneath are people revering him, arms outstretched. There’s something to the left of him, this cuboid design is depicting something – a rogue Spirit most likely as it follows the design found in ruins of the era, depicting Mazalieth, Brohnmeath, Alpo, and Limit and such. Normally you find this design on pots of celebration, but this seems to be a piece resembling an offering. It’s small, very lavish, and only depicting this singular Angel.’
‘Which one?’ Wyld asked.
Muddick paused.
‘Which Angel does it depict do you think?’ Wyld repeated, just as seriously as before.
It was quite an unusual request and very precise.
‘Does it matter?’
‘It matters to me,’ Wyld flatly replied.
Begrudgingly, the old man continued his assessment, squinting. ‘I’m not sure. He is not fair-haired. He is not decorated. The wings, I expected to be grander considering the nature of the piece. I must confess, I do not know. The Angel of the water maybe, at a push, if I had to guess. The portrayal is quite … unique.’
‘A guess is good enough.’ Wyld smiled.
‘I never took you to be the religious sort. I won’t presume to know your plans.’ Muddick retrieved his pipe. ‘But I strongly suggest you be careful if you’re looking for excitement out there. We’ve had an outbreak of gangs encroaching on one another’s territories. Whilst arrests were made, things have been on edge for the past month now and with the law being so active, you couldn’t even get a look at the Vault let alone ransack it.’
‘Oh?’ Wyld paused, clearly quite curious at this revelation, placing a coin between them to encourage the flow of information. ‘Please, do tell me more.’
* * *
Jacques had spent the better part of the morning haggling for supplies. It seemed to be that every store or stall was determined to strangle every coin from his purse, coin that was needed to stock the Den with food and other such necessities. Costs were rising and business could have been better. Shopping whilst being dressed in all his finery meant negotiating
