Friend – Aunt Ellthea Savage
The elderly patron of the former merchant house of Savage and Vic’s only remaining blood relative (aside from a few distant cousins). Well-built and caring, if inflexible in her morality, she and her late husband took Vic’s family in after their ruin. Out of obligation to her family, she will allow Vic to lay low with her after a caper and is willing to suffer the brief intrusion of his “friends” into her otherwise staid existence as a dowager. To make ends meet, she runs a small pastry shop with her husband’s daughter from a prior marriage, and she dreams of one day restoring the family fortune and seeing its line continue.

Friend – “Tapman” Scruthers

The barman and co-owner of the Lucky Ogre inn, and a former cutpurse in the city’s underbelly. He and Vic met as ne’er-do-well youths, and while he has managed to pull himself up from those humble origins he is always willing to share a drink with his old friend. While Scruthers has distanced himself from outright thievery, he still maintains a profitable sideline as a local information broker and is willing to rent rooms to thieves and others of low repute provided they behave themselves.

Friend – Pearcy Lightpocket
One of the city’s more successful thieves, Pearcy is something of an elder statesman, being all of 45 years old and still active as an occasional cutpurse—an unusual achievement. Though he generally works alone, he’s also the unofficial majordomo of a group of thieves that come to him for advice, which they trade for tips. Percy was something of a mentor to Vic some years ago and they will occasionally meet over ale to discuss comings and goings and techniques.

Neutral – Pickett the Fence
A pawnbroker of some repute, Pickett is also one of the most successful fences in the area, with a reputation for being able to turn around just about any item given enough time. While his rates are lower than some other fences, the fact that he’ll buy anything from anyone, provided that they have not crossed him in the past, has kept him afloat. His pawnshop deals entirely in legitimate items; the items he fences are farmed out to a network of apprentices in various other locations. His discerning eye for craftsmanship is legendary, as is his businesslike and professional demeanor.

Neutral – Constable Muttermelon
A sergeant in the city watch, Muttermelon has a reputation as the most corrupt and inept constable in the area. A family connection to the powerful Muttermelon clan keeps him gainfully employed and liberally supplied with information, but he is willing to betray anyone and anything for enough coin (with which he feeds a compulsive gambling habit). As such, he tends to be sought out by ne’er-do-wells as a bribery target, smuggling things in or out of the city prisons or passing on confidential information.

Neutral – “Pinchy” LaRoue
“Pinchy” is, as his name suggests, an infamous pickpocket. He is charming and popular and often hired on as additional help for rogues looking for an added put of muscle or finesse; this is counterbalanced by his occasional unpredictability and overwhelming selfishness. Rogues still talk of the Hannover Job, in which he was hired to steal a noble’s signet ring to start a feud between two houses. He performed as requested, replaced the ring with a forgery, and made a fortune selling it to an outside buyer as the noble houses and the thieves they had hired tore each other to ribbons.

Enemy – Kyr Whisperblade

Kyr is legendary in the regional underworld, not only for her skill and beauty but for her ruthlessness and ambition. She waylays, murders, steals, and plants on a whim, often stealing items or jobs from other thieves. In addition to being horrified by her methods, Vic has been upstaged, humiliated, and robbed by her on multiple occasions, and nurses a powerful grudge.

Enemy – Constable Graveline
A lieutenant in the city watch and Muttermelon’s supervisor, Graveline is a dedicated career constable who attempts to ruthlessly stamp out crime and lawlessness from his city. His adherence to the letter of the law and his willingness to take a personal hand in operations means that he has crossed paths with Vic multiple times, encounters that almost always end with Vic in jail or relieved of his stolen goods. As skilled a constable as Muttermellon is corrupt and inept, he is perhaps the most effective law enforcement in the city.

Enemy – Lady Faxhall
Lady Faxhall is the only child and heir of the Faxhall family, who were until recently a merchant family. They were ennobled around the time that the Savages were ruined, and profited greatly from buying their businesses at fire-sale prices during the plague. Some even claim that they caused the plague through sorcery to eliminate competitors; Lady Faxhall keeps a collection of family rings and sigils from families the Faxhalls have destroyed. Vic, in addition to blaming her for the misfortunes that befell his family, has been caught several times trying to steal Savage heirlooms back from her collection.

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“Okay, you’ve got your height?” Clarissa said.

“Five foot one.” Linda said from the doorway where the ruler was still balanced

“We’ll put five three,” Clarissa said. “Heels count.”

“Are you sure about that?” Linda approached the laptop, concerned.

“It’s internet dating,” said Clarissa. “Everyone expects you to lie a little.”

“If you say so.”

“And I do. Right. Body type is next.”

“Can I just put my BMI?” Linda said. “It’s 27.2. They made me calculate it in health class a few weeks ago.”

Clarissa squinted at the screen. “No, you have to choose a descriptor from a drop-down menu. Take a look.”

They both leaned in to read the list of approved terms:

Thin
Athletic
Average
A Little Extra
Ample
BBW
Big Boned
Buxom
Cuddly
Curvy
Fluffy
Full Figured
Generously Proportioned
Healthfully Big
Husky
More Of Me To Love
Natural Body Type
Nontraditional
Plentiful
Plus Sized
Plush
Prime Figure
Rotund
Rubenesque
Stocky
Ultra Feminine
Upper BMI
Venus of Willendorf
Voluptuous
Well Built
Zaftig
Overweight
Obese

“Umm…” Linda said. “Did that seem a little…?”

“Yeah,” Clarissa said. “Yeah. You want some carrot sticks? I have some in the fridge.”

“I’ll be in the bathroom for a minute and I’ll meet you there. Don’t forget the prune juice.”

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Some say she is the exiled princess of a kingdom beyond the veil of the day-to-day world, some that she is the illusory form assumed by a creature or consciousness beyond human comprehension. Perhaps the most parsimonious explanation is that she is a sorceress of the Old Order who has carefully struck deals with Time and Space to be exempt from both in exchange for some long-ago service.

When encountered, she is always dressed in foreign or exotic clothes; a Perytion shayshmyr robe in Uldar, Uldarian peasant culottes and dress in Peryt. She is always accompanied by two small figures in similar clothing but with concealed faces; they appear at first to be children but may be dwarves or even marionettes depending on the observer, the season, or the angle of the sun.

Of the travelers, farmers, and others that she meets on the road, a single question is asked: what is most precious in the world? Refusing to answer or giving an answer which displeases the asker seems to have no effect; she will pass by with a cutting remark or in total silence. An answer which intrigues her, though…that will bring the offer of a boon in exchange for a service. Someone who answers that their family is precious may be offered a larger farm; a person who favors gold may be offered a sack of it.

The boon will always turn out to cost the supplicant exactly what it was they valued. The farm will be infertile; the gold will lead to poor and bankrupting investments or be seized by highwaymen. And the boon? One year and one day after the service is rendered, the person who received it will vanish, never to be seen again.

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Flanked by the local brass band and banners proudly promoting Republic Days ’13, Commissioner Reynolds stepped up to the microphone on the Republic Park dais.

“Welcome, everyone, to Republic Days 2013!” he cried. “You know, our fair town and county has paid a terrible price for our loyalty to the Union during the Civil War. Harassment by the Home Guard, brother against brother violence, and of course the postwar era when the state capitol deliberately withheld state aid and funding. But as I look at all these smiling faces in front of me, as I recall the success of the last ten Republic Days festivals, and as I consider the strong economic growth of the past decades…I think our forefathers would agree it was all worth it!”

He was met by cheers from the assembled crowd.

“Without further ado, I ask that you turn your attention to the field to your right,” Reynolds continued. “Some of our fine Civil War reenactors have a presentation they’d like you to see.”

Three men in anachronistic blue uniforms from circa 1885 stood on the green clutching trapdoor Springfield 1873 rifles. A further three approached from the direction of the Republic Tree, wearing grey uniforms with kepis and braided sleeves of the sort that the Confederates had never been able to afford for their most elite troops, much less the ramshackle Home Guard.

“We’re looking for Col. Winston,” the lead “Confederate” demanded. “The Confederate Home Guard demands that his men disarm themselves, submit themselves to the rule of Richmond and President Davis, and provide the Confederate Army the conscripted men she is due!”

The lead reenactor, “Winston,” hefted his rifle. “We the people of Crittenden County have resolved to have no part of this wicked conflict,” he intoned. “It has been forced on us by the rich plantation owners to be fought by the poor who own no slaves, like us. We in Crittenden county have declared ourselves the sovereign Republic of Crittenden until such time as the rightful Union authority can be reestablished, and will brook no interference from the so-called Confederates.” His lines, delivered in a clear strong voice, were wildly applauded by the crowd.

The lead “Confederate,” wearing the red-rimmed uniform of an artilleryman despite brandishing a carbine-length musket, sneered. “Strong words from a man married to a negro,” he hissed, carefully pronouncing the latter bowdlerization so the crowd would have no doubt that he hadn’t used the much more offensive term any real Confederate would have. “The Home Guard will take from the so-called Republic of Crittenden by force what is owed it by rights.”

Blank gunfire erupted from both sides; when the black powder smoke cleared, the three “Confederates” were sprawled on the ground.

From the stands, Ms. Hanna Maurer watched the pageantry with rheumy eyes. It was all very well and good, she thought, to see the town so proud of its past.

Pity it was all based on a lie.

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“I was living with my lazy older sister and her smarmy, scheming boyfriend. My parents’ deaths had driven a terrible wedge between us, and her boyfriend’s greed and two-faced ways made things worse. I watched as he viewed the child they had out of wedlock as a ticket to more money from the government, and I had to give him my obsolete computer, the only one I had, just to convince him to try and get me a job at the bank where he worked.”

“Tell me more.”

“All the while we were living in a run-down two-story apartment on the bad side of town. It opened onto a maze of city alleys and a small dilapidated green. I…you sure you want to hear the rest, doc? You’ve already practically got me in a straitjacket.”

“Yes, tell me everything. It’s the only way to begin the healing process.”

“Well…strange things began to happen. Choruses of whispers from the shadows. Strange rustlings. Noises I couldn’t hear but were the sort of thing that maae my loyal dog cower. And a strange mailman, not our usual guy, seemed to be standing in front of our house every time I opened the door. But he never delivered anything. I…no one else could see him, and he drew nearer each time I was at the door. He’d vanish before reaching me, a sight which always filled me with such terrible dread…”

“What happened next?”

“Finally, he made it all the way to the door before I could close it and began to speak. His voice was horrible, shocking…I slamemd the door in his face, but he simply passed through it in a flash of blue light. He began speaking to me, very strangely in that horrible voice, asking where things were (assuming that I knew what he was talking about) and cautioning me that ‘they’ were nearby and anxious to get their hands on ‘it,’ whatever ‘it is.’

“Interesting.”

“The…the conversation goes nowhere, until he barged past me into the long, thin storage and tool room at the back of the apartment. I heard him ransacking the place, looking for something. I followed him, and he was waving around a rusty screwdriver like a shiv. He shouted at me to shut the door, to be quiet (even though he was being pretty loud) for fear of attracting ‘them.’ There was a sound outside, and he nervously slid up to the door, ready to attack it. It was just my dog, doc, but…he just keeps rambling and ransacking the place. All the while it’s seeming more and more eerie, more and more familiar, then then…well…”

“Come on, don’t stop there.”

“I gradually realized, doc, that the guy was me years in the future. It was clear as day from the way he talked and the way he acted.”

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No one is quite sure how it got there, or how it remains even after the annual mini-monsoons in late July. But every time a curious onlooker walking their dog near the vet’s office peeks over the lip of the drainage ditch, it’s visible. Mud-spattered and a little rusty, but still there.

A child’s bicycle, still with training wheels, set upright in the drainpipe under a bridge, like a refugee from a bloated Stephen King horror.

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“You don’t know what kind of guy you’re dealing with here. Richardson named his own daughter Euskara after the Basque word for Basque.”

“So? Celebrities have named their daughters after the English word for apple before.”

“And after that he only spoke to her in Basque. He wanted her to follow in his footsteps and being a native speaker of a language isolate was his first move.”

“Hm. Did it work?”

“We contacted Euskara after Richardson didn’t come home. She lives in an artist’s collective in Prague, goes by Kara, and told us she hoped her father was dead. If that answers your question.”

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You have a fast food soda cup that has been fitted with a small waterproof video camera that peeks out the hole in the “o” (perhaps the “o” in “McDonald’s”), and you take it to a meeting with a shady and squirmy person you supposedly knew from high school that doesn’t seem to correspond with any actual high school classmate you can remember. After he begins talking you point out the camera, which is enough to shock him into compliance with your request (which you forget the moment you make it).

Later you’re among a much larger group of people and a much more competent person is threatening you with bodily harm, death, and dismemberment in a way that he thinks is secret. Once he’s said enough incriminating stuff you point out the recorder, only you tell him that it’s a live circuit to the FBI (which is a bluff; the recorder is actually recording to a USB drive hidden in the bottom of the cup). To your great relief it works, and the threatener abandons his weapon and flees.

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Manuel Exposito had risen from extremely humble origins to become one of the preeminent sculptors in the cultural flowering of 1920s and early 1930s Spain, a movement that was inextricable from the turmoil of Alfonso XIII’s late reign and the Second Republic. While he had trained under Gonzalez and inherited the latter’s love of traditionally unorthodox materials and designs, Exposito also worked extensively with stone and was willing to partake in traditional sculpted forms that many of his Cubist and avant-garde contemporaries shunned. Hence he worked without irony on the Our Lady of the Ebro marble statue at the same time as the wrought iron and quartz Howl of the Liberation. His pieces tended to include bits of classical sculpture emerging from cubist or art deco conglomorations of lines, shapes, and figures.

When the Civil War broke out, Exposito offered his services to the Republic. Wary of sending a sculptor of some international renown to the front lines, Exposito was instead commissioned to make a morale-boosting sculpture in Madrid from non-strategic materials. With the city flooded by left-leaning talent from all over the world, Exposito was able to gather his materials of choice, quartz and glass, and employ several models and fellow sculptors to speed the process. The overall design was of three crystalline female figures emerging from a jumbled chaos of lines and angles representing the war, to be cast in quartz with glass as a structural support.

In the process of completing the sculpture, Exposito apparently fell in love with one of the models: Karin Sandström, a Swedish anarchist who had come to Madrid with her father and brother (the famous Karl and Erik Sandström) to support the Republic. To this day the exact details of the relationship are unclear, but two love letters from Exposito to Sandström survive, the “crystalline muse” letters, so named after their dedication. Small Expositio studies and figures also turned up in the effects of Karl and Erik when they were shipped back to Sweden after their deaths in the Battle of the Ebro.

Karin Sandström died of disease during the death agony of the Republic in early 1939 (sources differ on whether it was dysentery or typhus), while the completed portions of Exposito’s sculpture were destroyed during Casado’s coup and the resulting street fighting between communists and socialists. Devastated, Exposito had to be bodily carried from the city by his assistants to evacuation in Cartagena, and thence to exile in Mexico.

The artist never completed another sculpture; instead, he immersed himself in amateur geology. In particular, he became a noted authority on quartz crystals and would pay handsomely for specimens sent to him by admirers and correspondents. To anyone who suggested he begin sculpting again, Exposito would only laugh. He declined rehabilitation at the hands of the Francoists, declined to return to Spain after Franco’s death in 1975, and would offer only boilerplate prepared remarks when asked to speak or be interviewed. He also adamantly refused to allow anyone into his studio, insisting that it was only being used for storage.

Upon Manuel Exposito’s death in 1996, at age 98, authorities in Veracruz opened the studio, intending to auction the contents to pay years of rock-hunting debts run up by the sculptor. Inside, they found a massive final sculpture made out of highly polished quartz crystals.

It was a portrait of Karin Sandström, and each crystal was a brushstroke capturing her as she had been in those far-off and dangerous days in Madrid.

Inspired by this image.

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Though much of the collection was off-limits to anyone without the proper credentials, the Kochenarchiv did have a large annex with research assistants, photocopiers, scanners, and access to less-important portions of the collection.

Ramsey was particularly interested in one of the sub-units, the Ungenießbar collection, which served as a documentary record of the worst cooking of all time. Most people knew about entries like the legendary Concrete Cakes of Zurich, the 1000 Screaming Demon Death Fugu of Kagoshima, and of course the Six Day Colon War Latkes of Kibbutz Shlomi. But Ramsey uncovered further events in the Archiv that had been officially suppressed for years and were only now opening to scholars.

The so-called Doom Salad of Vancouver, for instance, was apparently able to spontaneously generate salmonella bacteria even in a sterile environment. 50 people had been sickened by it in 1981, so many that the Canadians had feared a biological weapons attack. Ironically, the cook, one Esther Grumaüt, had later been recruited by the Intelligence Branch to study the weaponization of her food as an area-denial weapon during the Cold War, an effort only abandoned when Ottawa signed the Convention Against the Use of Noxious Foodstuffs in War in 1990.

Ramsey was most interested in the case of Suzanne Mayotte, though. It was a case cross-referenced with the Zaubereiarchiv in Munich but one for which many of the incidental details had been censored. A call to the Zaubereiarchiv confirmed that no records like the ones the Mayotte file cited existed (at least not that they were willing to admit). An Australian, Mayotte had apparently inherited a knack for sorcery and cantrips from a distant ancestor who had been sentenced to penal transport for buying goods with unstable faeriegald.

During a study abroad in East Germany circa 1985, Mayotte had been cut off from the extended family and network of restaurants which had thus far sustained her. Forced to cook for herself using the ingredients her communist hosts made available, her knack had resulted in unpredictable “wild magick” effects. One batch of pasta taken to a potluck resulted in 13 hospitalizations for acute newt-related injuries. An apple strudel caused a fellow stident’s eyes to be opened to the infinity of the cosmos. One particularly nasty loaf of bread transubstantiated everything in a 500-yard radius.