Page 27 of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter
I swam over to the desk. Ms. Haas had disordered the unfortunate gentleman’s garments in such a way that more of his skin was visible, which meant I saw at once that his flesh bore the unmistakable signs of having been nibbled at by fish and then, after some days or weeks, hastily treated with a concoction of alchemical preservatives such as might cause the desiccation of tissue and distortion of limb we had observed in the previous victims. Upon still closer scrutiny, I recognised the telltale discolouration that would be caused by tinctures of ambric green, lethocite, and other salts.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “this man was not killed by necromantic sorcery at all. He appears to have died of natural causes.”
Ms. Haas gave a sharp nod. “Quite so. Which leads us to the inevitable conclusion that this entire tableau is a sham. Not, of course, constructed for us, but to deceive the enemy for whom I suspect Asenath here still erroneously believes that we work. Now”—she raised the harpoon to aim it squarely at Miss Reef’s head—“I will not ask you again. Where is your brother?”
From her reaction, or rather lack thereof, it did not seem that the lady was inclined to be cooperative.
“I assure you,” I said, “despite everything that has happened between us, we have no wish to harm your Mr. Reef. We simply need to speak to him on the matter of his relationship with Miss Eirene Viola. Once we have the information we need, we shall not bother him again. We just need to know where we can find him.”
Miss Reef seemed to relax a little. “It’s not a where. It’s a when.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Twenty Years Hence
With only mildadditional coercion, Miss Reef revealed to us the location of her brother’s hiding place. I have intimated before that Ven is a strange city. A peculiar legacy of its history is that its streets and alleys are riddled with chinks and chasms that lead to what once would have been the distant recesses of the Vennish Empire. Only the Eternal Lords know for certain how many such lacunae there are in the city, although the largest and most stable see regular use for commercial purposes. It is these, for want of a less inaccurate term, portals that allow the great city of Khelathra-Ven to trade so prosperously with such distant worlds as Marvos, Carcosa, and the Dread Wastes of Bai. More unusual are those gateways that lead not to distant worlds but to other times. These paths are more jealously watched by the Eternal Lords, for their misuse could prove not merely disastrous but retrospectively disastrous. An ill-fated expedition to the court of the Cataclysmic Sultan could annihilate the city and everything in it, but a mistimed journey to the distant past could make it such that the city had never been. It is this outcome that the Eternal Lords seek to avoid at all costs.
There are nevertheless some individuals, guilds, factions, companies, and corporations that are permitted to traverse the timestreams within certain negotiated parameters in order that all might benefitfrom the infinite bounties of past and future. Further, there are some, such as Mr. Saltpetre, the submersible pilot who had brought us to Ven, who choose, either from necessity or greed, to run the timeways without official sanction. An unintuitive feature of the rules by which the Eternal Lords permit travel up and down the corridors of history is that the most oft-traversed paths are those that lead the furthest. If one journeys back ten thousand or even a million years, one finds oneself sufficiently detached from anything resembling one’s present world that it is difficult for one to engage in deliberate mischief. A journey to a time such as that from which Mr. Saltpetre hails, some eighty-four millennia hence, can be little distinguished from a journey to a distant land or alien world, so unrecognisable is it to anybody setting out from present-day Khelathra-Ven. Far smaller, more dangerous, and more closely guarded are those rifts that lead only years or decades into past or future.
It was through one of these, located in a tiny, kelp-covered crevice in a forgotten pit in the depths of Keeper’s Shallows, that Mr. Reef had fled, taking up residence in an instance of the very building in which we had just sought him, safely sequestered away from his enemies by the distance of some twenty years.
On squeezing through it, we emerged exactly where we had started, and I was briefly disappointed at the thought that we had gone through all that wriggling in order to go absolutely nowhere. Soon, however, I began to notice differences—small indications that while we remained in the same place geographically, we had clearly been translated temporally. The pit seemed still to have been forgotten, though the detritus that filled it was of a subtly different character, and the streets, although no more or less crowded than the ones we had left, seemed to contain more upworlders and fewer Vennish natives. The vast slabs of alien rock that formed the foundation of the city remained unchanged as I was certain they had for millennia, but the gangplanks and hoardings that had made up the more temporarystructures had either moved elsewhere or disappeared entirely. In their place stood a number of sturdier-seeming constructions, still less implacable than the antediluvian stones around them, but clearly erected out of purposeful design rather than desperation. As we swam back towards the warehouse, I noticed several commercial ventures which appeared to be doing brisk trade, including another, somewhat larger curated whelk stall, a shop selling delightfully handcrafted but otherwise utterly blasphemous figurines, and a restaurant by the name of Squamous Fine Dining, in which guests were invited to catch and devour the live fish that swam throughout the building.
On arriving at our destination, we found that the warehouse, once filled with nothing but crates and corpses, had since been repurposed as an establishment specialising in the provision of certain services to surface dwellers with a predilection for such things. It appeared now to be operating under the rather vulgar moniker of “the Erotic Order of Dagon.” We made our way through the institution, declining the several offers we received from beings wishing to subject us to depravities beyond imagining.
My companion made a noise that, in an aerated environment, would probably have come out as a weary sigh. “Honestly, I remember a time when being violated by a monstrosity from the abysmal darkness was something you really had to work at. Young people today have no idea, do they?” She paused. “That is to say, young people twenty years from the time we’ve just departed will have no idea, will they?”
“Tell me about it.” Miss Reef flicked her tail disdainfully.
We were led at last into the same back office wherein we had previously found the withered corpse that had not, in fact, been Mr. Reef. Apart from the absence of cadavers, it was much the same, a large desk hewn from some otherworldly stone, piled high with meticulously kept records on wax tablets. From behind it, Mr. Reefglared at us, producing as he did so a hydraulic pistol from some secret compartment.
“Oh, not again,” grumbled Ms. Haas. “Asenath, if you would kindly explain to your brother that he will be in danger from us only if he fails to put his weapon down, I would be very much obliged.”
One of Mr. Reef’s bulbous eyes swivelled independently to glance at his sister. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” She gave a loose-jointed shrug. “They’re weird, but not with Wilde. And there’s no point shooting her because it doesn’t take.”
After a moment’s consideration, Mr. Reef put his pistol down. He was older than his sister but bore the same marks of their inhuman heritage. His limbs were thin, his cheekbones sharp, and his manner suggestive of one with a significant facility for longevity. Steepling his webbed and bony fingers, he said, “This isn’t something I usually have to ask in my line of work, but what is it exactly that you want?”
“Information.” Ms. Haas finally lowered her harpoon gun. “But not of the sort you normally supply, for it concerns you personally.”
“And what makes you think I’d just give that to you?”
“Expediency, Mr. Reef. You’re a suspect in a case of blackmail, not a tenable position for a person in your industry.”
He betrayed no visible sign of emotion, but his tone grew colder even by the standards of our frigid surroundings. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m no blackmailer.”
“Some years ago,” began Ms. Haas, “as measured relative to the temporal reference point from which we all originate rather than the one we presently occupy, you employed a woman by the name of Eirene Viola. After serving you as faithfully as is within her capacity, she was subverted by the Ossuary Bank, who prevailed upon her to steal from you the list of their clientele that you had recently acquired.”
“And?” Mr. Reef gave a slow and, given our environment, wholly unnecessary blink.
“And so far, you haven’t done anything about it. Which strikes me as odd.”
“I’m not human, Miss...” He looked briefly like somebody correlating the contents of his mind. “It’s Shaharazad Haas, isn’t it? I might’ve known. Anyway, my kind don’t get angry and we live long enough that it’s stupid for us to hold grudges. Eirene took a chance and got one over on me. Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”
“A commendable attitude, I’m sure, but I would have thought you might want to, as it were, set an example.”
“My entire business relies on people who don’t know me very well trusting me enough to tell me things for money. It does me no favours if my associates start showing up dead.”
