Borough Market is a series of enigmas. It sits on an artificial island in the middle of the Great Lundeinjon Lake. Built from lost shoes often found at the side of the road or hanging from overhead wires, it is the destination for the long barges travelling in aquatic caravanserai across SPOWK, carrying goods of uncertain provenance to traders of ambiguous means, piloted by Elves of unclear status, with even more recondite motivations. Few know how the Elves of the barges are compensated for their labours, some say they do it for the fun of sailing the seas, crying “Arrrr” and “Jim lad” from their forecastle perches. Even fewer know who Jim might be, and no one knows why wires are strung from poles, often in the middle of nowhere.
The building in which the market is housed is ancient, more than five hundred years old. Despite being principally constructed from steel girders manufactured before the gods turned off the electricity, it appears unaffected by the tides of time. This is because the Fae, for reasons best known to themselves, elevated its material being to immutability. To the Fae, time is essentially meaningless; they exist outside it, simultaneously seeing all time and space wherever they lay the hat of their consciousness. So, having an unchanging point of reference throughout time has a special meaning for them. When asked about it, they usually say it is something like the Chinese concept of “Jing”, which roughly translates as “reverence” but can also imply the stillness needed to listen to yourself and the universe. Why the Fae would revere a steel-framed warehouse is a matter of conjecture, one with which no self-respecting Gnome would bother themselves.
As Ironbell, Lightweasel, and Constable Biter docked at the police reserved jetty, a crowd of Elves started banging pots and pans with wooden spoons.
“What are they doing, sir?” Lightweasel asks Ironbell as they tread carefully along the slippery wooden boards lining the wharf.
“Mourning the dead, Lightweasel. Although I suspect they are somewhat precipitous. I have yet to confirm Fae can actually be killed,” Ironbell responds. He pauses in mid-stride and lowers an eyebrow. “I’m also rather hoping they can’t. That would make this investigation far more perilous than it already is.”
“Perhaps they aren’t referring to the Fae,” Biter intones, his craggy face betraying no emotion.
“Let’s not go there, Constable. We have our plates full as it is,” Lightweasel says uneasily.
They continue their march through the kiosks of the outer market, passing Elven stallholders yelling incomprehensible inducements like “forty-four for a five” at the milling humans, who seem bemused by the whole affair, and pick at piles of fresh fruit and vegetables with all the disinterest of an eight-year-old faced with a plate of greens, occasionally dropping silver coins into waiting hands and hurrying away with brown paper bags filled with whatever produce they came for, although as often as not, something completely different, eventually arriving at the back of the market proper, where they find a tall, blue, riveted metal door guarded by a solitary human police officer.
“Can I help you, ahh, gentlemen?” He says, holding up a hand to impede their onward progress.
“Yes, you can get out of the way and let us pass,” Lightweasel snaps.
“I’m afraid you can’t go in there, sir. It’s a crime scene,” the constable says, stepping in front of Lightweasel.
“It’s ma’am, not sir,” Lightweasel says, brandishing her warrant card. “And this says I can go anywhere I like, Constable.”
“You’re police officers?” he asks incredulously, barking a short, percussive laugh. “Is there a shortage of officers? I may have to contact the shop to confirm your details.”
“Oh, very droll, Constable,” Lightweasel counters. Leaning forward, she lowers her voice. “Let me introduce myself and my colleagues to you. This is Detective Inspector Camden Ironbell, the assigned lead on the case. I’m Sergeant Umros Lightweasel, his second in command. Both of us are senior to you and can make life very difficult for an intransigent flatfoot. And THIS is Constable Biter, who can make life very difficult for anyone he chooses.”
Biter growls with just enough menace to clear the streets without ripping up trees.
“I think we understand each other, Constable, don’t we? I wouldn’t want to have you assigned to inspecting drainage barges, would I?” Lightweasel waves a hand at a passing barge piled high with unmentionable matter.
The constable blanches and stammers, “No, Sergeant. I can see the picture very clearly. It’s just I wasn’t advised you were being sent to relieve me.”
“Consider yourself relieved, Constable,” Lightweasel says firmly. She steps to one side to allow him to walk away, which he does. Quickly.
“Bloomin’ local plod. You’d think they’d have better things to do than obstruct colleagues,” Lightweasel observes, shaking her head sadly.
Ironbell nods in agreement. “Turf wars are common, I’m given to understand. It’s a question of who gets the unofficial emoluments. Let’s go and have a look, shall we?”
The entrance is covered in yellow police tape and a large notice is stuck to the middle of the gate, “POLICE FORENSICS. DO NOT ENTER.”
“Lightweasel, would you kindly check to see if the foreign sicks have finished with whatever they’re doing in there? We need to do some detecting,” Ironbell says as he pulls the corner off a sweet bun, pops it into his mouth, and undulates his eyebrows like a pair of drunken caterpillars.
“Do you mean forensics, sir?” Lightweasel responds while pulling out her notebook. She always notes any verbal orders in it to avoid confusion later when asked, “Why did you do that, Sergeant?”
“I believe they’re French and, as we all know, they have some unedifying habits, Sergeant. I think I got it right,” Ironbell responds. He reaches out and grasps the handle of the large, blue iron door leading to the market storage facility. He finds it surprisingly malleable, given it is a quarter of an inch thick and studded with bolts which could knock a man unconscious if wielded without consideration.
“Be careful wiz zat. Eet iz evi-donse,” a thin voice issues from the cavernous warehouse beyond.
Ironbell looks at Lightweasel, his lips compacting into a thin line, as if he were suppressing hitherto formulated observations concerning the speaker’s character. Waving a hand to usher her through the doorway, he points his head toward the voice. “Go on then, Sergeant. No point in dilly-dallying. Sort that retinue of test tube tinkerers out.”
“What if they don’t want to be interrupted, sir? You know what the Fr-ench are like. One moment it’s all focus and science, and before the next moment has taken its first breath, the soup du jour is all over the tapestries,” Lightweasel smiles weakly at the Inspector but before she can take a step forward, the translucent sheets separating the interior from the outside world are swept aside, and three white coated scientists march through the entrance carrying piles of boxes.
“Zank you, doorman,” the first of the scientists says as he nods at Ironbell.
“That’ll be Detective Inspector Doorman to you,” Ironbell growls.
The scientist stops suddenly, almost causing a pileup, “Detective? Inspector?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m the lead on the investigation. What do you have in those boxes?” Ironbell says as he steps in front of the scientist, who eyes him up and down.
“Ah, yes the new Metrognomes. I ‘ave been told you are now in charge of ze investigation. My apologies. Let me introduce myself and my colleagues.”
Pointing at a plump woman with pebble glasses, “Zis is Doctor Eloise Barbeau, a specialist in Fae influx, or as we call it, ‘inFAEstation’. Just a leetle joke, you’ll understand.”
‘Ma’am,” Ironbell nods at Barbeau.
“And zis is Doctor Antoine Abadie, the world’s foremost expert in magical narratives,” the scientist says, waving a hand towards a tall, dark-skinned man, whose handsomeness is only exceeded by the depth of his brown eyes.
Abadie takes Lightweasel’s hand and plants a kiss on it. “Le plaisir est tout à moi.”
“Ewww,” exclaims Lightweasel, retracting her hand.
Abadie smiles furtively and purses his lips. “Mmm Eau du Gnome. Mon préféré!”
“And I am,” the first scientist interjects hurriedly, “Professor Pierre Roux-Lefebvre, ze world famous enquêteur of ze non-human phenomena. But I am sure you know that already.”
Lightweasel cocks her head to one side. “Ummm, no, not really. Enquêteur? Does that mean investigator?”
“Mais oui. Certainement,” says the Professor, looking slightly taken aback.
“Thank you, Professor,” Ironbell says. “Now, the boxes. What do you have in them?”
“Why, of course, Inspector. Zey are… raclures, how you say? Scrapings!” says the Professor.
“Scrapings of what?” Ironbell says, leaning forward and lifting the lid of the top box.
“Everything,” exclaims the Professor. “Except the THING. We cannot get near it, even with the sharpest of blades.”
“What thing?” Lightweasel says.
“This THING,” the Professor says, pulling the translucent sheets to one side and waving the three officers inside…
To be continued…
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