Thornbury Confidential – 1st chapter
Chapter 1: Boleian Investigations
It might sound ghoulish, but I’d been waiting for a murder case to come along. I just didn’t recognize that’s what this was right away. A dwarf burst into the office, but I barely looked up from my book. We get all kinds at Boleian Investigations, and an out of breath dwarf isn’t all that unusual up on the third floor.
He put his hands on his knees, gasping for air. “Where’s the wizard? Where’s Boleian?” His words came out in huffs.
I shrugged. “Who’s asking?”
He slapped his hand on the desk. “Cirdore’s dead. Cirdore Forlone. Someone’s killed him in my sawmill!”
You can only work purse snatches and missing persons for so long before your mind craves a challenge. And murder, that’s where the real detective work happens. I’d read some of Boleian’s old files, and there were plenty of times when he could have used another set of eyes and ears, another mind to tumble through the clues. With this case, I could show Boleian that he needed me full time.
To the dwarf I said, “Murder? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” I tossed the novel on the desk. “Let’s go.”
“Wait. Where’s Boleian? I need the wizard, not some elf assistant.”
I brushed the hair from my eyes, straightened my tie. “I’m not some assistant. Just because I’m not a wizard doesn’t mean I can’t investigate a crime scene.” I glared at him. “Boleian trusts me to look after his affairs when he’s— when he’s occupied.”
The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. “And he’s occupied now?” He craned his neck to look at the inner office door.
It was almost five; chances were he’d been at Sharkey’s since three. “Yeah,” I said. “He is.” I grabbed my tattered coat and sniffed the pink stain on the lapel. When had I last eaten strawberry jam? “Besides, if we’re talking murder, I’m your elf.”
As I jogged down the stairs, he tried to keep up with me. “Wait!” cried the dwarf. “Stop just a moment, lad. Murder? Who said it was murder?”
He stood a few steps above me so our faces were level. “You did.” I stared hard into his eyes. Was there something lurking behind that knobbly face?
His eyes slid to the side. “It’s all very confusing.”
“What’s your name, friend?”
“Duri Sholedaz.”
“You own the sawmill on Maple Leaf. I’m Vox. Vox Swift.”
#
But I’m getting ahead of myself. How’d an elf from the Swift clan end up working for a wizard? I met Boleian of Vedasa the day I delivered a message to him. Life’s funny sometimes. You never know when something small’s gonna become something big.
Day had barely broken the first time I arrived at Boleian Investigations, message in hand. The man who’d hired me paid double the usual rate, so I pushed my other deliveries to the side and put his note at the top of the list.
I’d half expected a closed office – you know the saying, “By moonlight the wizard crafts his spells and only sleeps ere morning’s bell.”
That’s the stereotype anyway. But the sign said “Open” so I pushed at the door. It only opened a few inches then stopped. I pushed harder, gained another inch, and slipped through the door. The morning was bright, and the window blinds cast shadows in the room. As I took a step forward, I kicked a pile of ash, sending bits swirling through the air. It stung my eyes and coated my mouth.
I moved blindly toward the windows, hoping for fresh air, and stumbled. As I turned, I saw I’d tripped over an old man stretched out on the floor. Had to be Boleian – long gray hair, a tangle of a beard and robes of gray and purple. Even in the shadowy light I could see some patches on the robe. Business must not be too good for him, especially if he was sleeping on his office floor.
I coughed and yanked on the blinds. Light streamed in, and that’s when I saw the wild flowers. The old man had a sprig of flowers tucked between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. I didn’t know much about magic then, but I knew that flowers and herbs are popular ingredient in spells – good spells and bad.
On the floor above his head sat a pile of fish bones and near the door, a pile of ash – the pile that I’d disturbed, and my first thought was murder, a magical murder, and I, Vox Swift, lowly messenger, would be the one to solve the crime. In my mind’s eye I could see the certificate that Mayor Ritter would present to me. I was just imagining my acceptance speech when the body groaned.
I hate to admit that I let out a scream and jumped onto the couch. The man groaned again and sat up. He looked at the scattered ash and let the flowers fall from his hand. His eyes burned red with anger, and his voice boomed like a clap of thunder when he said, “Who the hell are you?”
“Don’t hurt me!” My voice squeaked. “I’m a Swift! I didn’t try to kill you! I don’t know the first thing about magic.”
“Don’t be a fool; you couldn’t kill me. But you did disturb my hangover cure.” He scratched his beard, groaned, and fell back to the floor.
I carefully stepped down from the couch with the letter in front of me like a shield. “Are you Boleian? Boleian of Vedasa? A man gave me this and—”
“And you broke into my house—”
“Office,” I corrected him.
“What?”
“I broke into your office.” I suddenly realized what I’d said. “Wait! I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked. The sign says ‘Open’. See?” I pointed. He lifted his head an inch and peered at the door. I stretched my arm over his body to put the note on his desk. “I’ll just see myself out. No need to tip me this time.”
His hand wrapped around my ankle. “Pass me that bottle,” he said, “and there had better be something still in it, or someone will pay.”
I spied a corked bottle on its side by the window and retrieved it. The old man propped himself up, using his desk as a backboard. The bottle made a loud POP as the wizard pulled the cork free, and I jumped, in spite of myself.
“You’re an elf. How can you not know magic?”
“Well, I know a little theory I guess. From school.” I glanced at the bookcases lining the walls. What I could do with a few spells in my pocket. “Can’t cast though. There’s so much to know. To be a magic user, I mean.”
He drank from the bottle. “But you want to learn?”
“Do you need an apprentice?” I tried to keep the excitement from my voice.
“No.”
“But you just asked me if—”
“What’s it say? The letter? What’s it say?” He took a long pull on the bottle.
Here I was thinking I might line up a side gig with a wizard, but he slammed that door right in my face. “I don’t know! I don’t read the messages; I just deliver them. Sir.”
“‘Course you read it! Any Swift worth his salt—” he peered at me. “His, yeah? Hard to tell with elves. You all have long hair and smooth skin.” He took another drink from the bottle.
Without thinking it through I tugged my shirt away from my chest and tried to lower my voice. “My name is Vox.” It is my nickname anyway – no one calls me “Voxxa” except my mother.
“Sit down, Vox.” He offered the bottle. “Have a drink.”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t.”
“First you destroy my cure, and now you won’t even have a drink with me?” His eyes narrowed. “Listen lad, who’d you say sent you?”
“A man. A human.” I coughed and tried to drop my voice and keep it there. “Stick thin. Yellow hair, no beard. He said to bring that note to you.”
“Peter.” The wizard held the note to his face and blinked. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “Here, you read it,” he said and thrust it at me.
“I couldn’t – I wouldn’t open your—”
“Read it,” he repeated, an edge of menace in his voice.
With shaking hands I broke the seal and read aloud. “Boleian, by the time you read this, I’ll be dead.” I scanned the next few lines and closed the letter quickly.
“What else does it say?” he demanded, but I shook my head, unable to go on. The wizard sat up straight and looked at me. “Peter’s never been that brief in his life. What else does it say, elf?”
I opened it again. “By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. And everyone will think you did it. You will finally pay for what you did to Penelope.”
The wizard was silent when I finished, and then we both heard footsteps on the stairs. The old man scrambled to his feet and put his finger to his lips. He flicked his hand at the door, and it clicked shut. He took one step toward me and stretched out his hand. I shrank away, sure that he was about to grab me. Instead he reached past me for his staff. I let out a sigh of relief, but then with his free hand he grabbed my arm. “You’re coming with me,” he said quietly.
“But—”
His huge hand covered my mouth. “Not a word, lad. Not a sound. You’re the only one who knows the truth about Peter Bane.”
#
Truth’s a funny thing. Everybody’s got their own slice of it. Two people see the same scene but don’t have the same experience. Shifting the facts, finding the common truths, that’s what detectives do. But sometimes it feels like an impossible task. Take the Cirdore Forlone murder case – too many facts, not enough truth.
The elf, dead at Duri Sholedaz’s sawmill, cut in half, right before quitting time. I’d never met him, but I didn’t need to – any elf who works at a sawmill is one tough son of a troll. Most elves are nature lovers, as a general rule anyway, but there are always exceptions. I can’t say I long for the forests of my birthplace, but I’d never stoop low enough to kill trees and chop them up. It takes a special sort of a mind to become a butcher.
I’ve never felt especially at home in the forest, even though I grew up in the Olden where there are still trees hundreds of feet tall, and the forest floor is a cushion of fallen leaves. I grew up there, and I left it. But I’m glad to know that it’s there. Elves need a place to call their own. The days still pass in relative peace in the Olden, and as long as the clans pay their taxes and keep the gold and silver mines open, Central leaves them alone.
But there’s nothing for me there – nothing but memories. Besides, Thornbury suits me just fine. The city is a humming beehive – an elf can get lost in the throng. No one asking me questions, no expectations. It has its tradeoffs, though. For months just the thought of the gargoyles made my skin itch. They’re atop almost every building, watching us and reporting trouble back to Central. After a while though I got used to them. You can get used to just about anything, I find.
But what matters most about living in Thornbury is freedom. I just need to make Neryssa understand that. Neryssa, the elf who married my cousin even though she loves me. It was for the best, she said, but things are different now. We could be ourselves behind closed doors and still walk hand in hand in the street because to the city I’m Vox, the male detective not Voxxa, a silly girl from the Olden.
And I’ll wear this disguise for forever, if it convinces Neryssa that we can be together. The life I’ve carved out here, it works; we can make it work. If only she’d trust me, trust my instincts, trust Thornbury in all her glorious, wide-armed indifference.
Until that day I’ll walk the city alone. In the city I can forget her lovely face, sometimes for hours at a time. Other times the loneliness just feels like it’s chewing through your heart, and you need something to hold on to. Thornbury’s there for me whenever I need her. The city opens her arms and takes in all the strays, not just me but all the lonely souls scattered across Varana.