I didn't leave Milverton's headquarters right away. The murder case at the Velvet Mask had become my new priority. I could tell it was a riddle presented to me by this city. A disruption to my larger plan, yes, but also a chance to test my methodology and deepen my ties to the underworld.
I returned to my rooftop abode while the night was still thick. The silence of this luxurious apartment pressed in after the bustle of the underground market. I didn't rest. I went straight to the small storeroom left of my bedroom.
There, I began preparing my tools. What I gathered this time were instruments for investigation, not weapons. I took a set of sterile glass vials for collecting samples, several pairs of appropriate tweezers, a magnifying glass enhanced with alchemical solution for clarity, and a blank notebook bound in black leather. I also prepared a new set of inconspicuous clothes, those of a low-level clerk, common enough to go unnoticed in any district. Lastly, I took two porcelain masks from my collection. One was my personal 'W' mask. The other was a new mask I'd crafted, a blank face with a neutral expression, for Milverton. Identity is the first layer of defense.
Once everything was ready, I headed to the kitchen. The potato and meat stew I'd cooked that morning was still warm atop the Essence stove. I ate quickly, not for the taste, only to refuel. A properly working mind requires calories.
An hour later, I returned to the streets of Clockthon. This time, my destination was the Jewelry District to pick up my partner.
I arrived at Milverton's headquarters just as dawn began to break. He was already waiting, dressed in a practical dark suit. His black clown mask lay on the table.
"You ready?" I asked.
"I was born ready," he replied with his usual dry tone. "Here's the report." He handed me a rolled parchment.
"Everything Aubert managed to gather last night. The victim's profile, the guest list from the Velvet Mask that evening, and a rough sketch of the crime scene from one of the City Guards he managed to bribe."
I took the scroll and handed him the porcelain mask I had prepared. "Wear this. From now on, you and I have no names. We are independent consultants hired by Madame Grivana. No 'James,' no 'Milverton.'"
He turned the mask over in his hands. "And what are our code names? Clearly I don't know, so you get to say."
"We don't need code names," I said. "We are nothing. Just two pairs of eyes seeing what others can't."
We left his headquarters and headed toward the Entertainment District. We walked in silence. I used the time to review Aubert's report. The victim, Lord Paul Bastille, was a textile merchant whose business had been declining. He had many enemies in the trade, but none with a motive strong enough to commit a high-risk murder in a place like the Velvet Mask. His wife was known to have a secret lover, a poor poet, but it was an open secret among the elites. No one would kill just for that.
We arrived at the Velvet Mask. Clockthon's most exclusive brothel was now shut down, sealed with City Guard tape. Two guards stood in front of the large mahogany door, their faces bored and tired.
Milverton — or rather, my masked partner, stepped forward. He presented an authorization letter from Madame Grivana. The guards, after checking the seal, reluctantly let us in.
The interior of the Velvet Mask resembled a labyrinth of luxury and decadence. Thick silk carpets, damask-covered walls, and furniture carved with erotic scenes. The air was heavy with expensive perfume, spilled wine, and something else beneath it. Still channeling the Motley Fool, I could smell the faint scent of fear.
The murder room was on the third floor, in the private wing reserved for the most important clients. It was spacious, with a large canopy bed, a marble fireplace, and a balcony overlooking the garden.
The City Guard had done their job, but they were soldiers, not investigators. They looked for signs of struggle, hidden weapons, forced entry. Clearly, they had found nothing.
My partner and I worked with a different methodology. He inspected the room's physical aspects, the door's lock, the window's mechanism, the possibility of hidden panels. I, on the other hand, examined the psychological aspect of the scene.
I stood in the center of the room, closed my eyes, and tried not to see but to feel. I channeled the Motley Fool's perception, the ability to read emotional traces left behind in a place.
The room was soaked in traces of lust, greed, and boredom. The standard emotions of Grivana's clientele. But there was something else—near the bed, I felt a sharp, clear emotion. Surprise. Not fear. Not pain. Just pure shock, immediately followed by nothingness. The victim never realized he was about to die.
"The door was locked from the inside when found," my partner reported near the entrance. "Windows too. No chimney in this fireplace. Theoretically, no one could've entered or left."
"A locked-room mystery," I murmured. "Classic."
I opened my eyes and began a physical inspection of the room. I wasn't looking for obvious clues. I was looking for discrepancies, small things out of place.
I noticed a half-full wine glass on the bedside table. I took a small sample using one of my vials. I saw a book lying open on the floor. I noted its title and page number. I looked at the outline of the victim's body marked in chalk by the City Guard. The posture was relaxed, as if he were chatting with someone he trusted.
Then I saw something tiny, nearly invisible, a thin scratch in the wooden floor beneath the thick carpet near the bed. A fresh scratch. Maybe something heavy had been moved and then returned.
I gestured to my partner. Together, we rolled back the carpet. Beneath it, nothing. Just clean wooden flooring.
"There's nothing," said my partner.
"That's the problem," I replied. I pointed at the scratches. "These show something stood here. Something heavy. And now it's gone."
I knelt down, inspecting the floor with my magnifying lens. I found tiny fragments, almost like dust. Reddish metal shavings. Copper. And a faint strange scent, like ozone, like the air after a lightning storm.
"A machine?" I thought. "Some kind of mechanical construct?"
The room's door opened. Madame Grivana entered, flanked by two large bodyguards. She was a striking middle-aged woman, still beautiful, with sharp black eyes and a black silk gown.
"Consultants," she greeted, her voice calm but tense. "What have you found?"
"The killer was highly professional," said my masked partner. "And likely not an ordinary human."
"I already knew that," Grivana hissed. "I didn't pay you to tell me what I already know. I want a name."
"We've found a few unusual things," I said, standing. "There were signs of missing furniture in this room. And traces of copper residue and the scent of ozone."
Grivana's expression shifted at my words. A flicker of recognition passed through her eyes, quickly hidden.
"I don't know anything about that," she said too quickly.
She was lying.
"Madame Grivana," I said gently. "This murder happened on your property, in your most secure room. This wasn't just an attack on Lord Paul Bastille. It was an attack on you, on your reputation. Whoever did this wants to show they can reach your most important clients anytime they want. If you don't help us, we can't help you."
She stared at me for a long time. Internal conflict played across her face. "Very well," she said finally. "There was an item in the room. An antique mirror. A family heirloom of the Bastilles. He always brought it wherever he went. Said it helped him 'sleep soundly.'"
"Where's the mirror now?"
"Gone," she replied. "The City Guard assumed it was stolen. But there were no signs of a break-in."
An antique mirror gone missing. Scratches on the floor. The smell of ozone. Puzzle pieces began clicking into place in my mind.
"That mirror, did it have any… special properties?" I asked.
Grivana hesitated. "I don't know for certain. Lord Paul was a collector of esoteric artifacts. He once said the mirror could reflect things that are, and things that should be. That's all he ever said."
An artifact mirror or something of the sort. This was becoming more interesting, and more dangerous.
"Thank you for your information, Madame," I said. "We'll continue our investigation."
We left the Velvet Mask, leaving Grivana with her unease.
"So the killer is an Evolver who can teleport, stole a magical mirror, and killed his victim without resistance?" my partner said as we walked back to the main road. "This is getting absurd."
"This riddle only seems absurd because we're using the wrong frame of logic," I replied. "We think this is an ordinary crime, a murder, a theft. But what if it's neither? What if the murder was just a side effect, and the theft a distraction?"
"Then what's the real objective?"
"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I know where to look next. We need to learn everything about that mirror. Its history, its maker, its properties. We need to go to the only place in Clockthon that might have records of such an artifact."
"The Forbidden Archive at the academy?"
"No. Something older, and definitely unofficial," I said. "We need to visit a rare book collector known to keep texts from the Age of the Fractured Moon or Broken Moon Cataclysm. A man known as the Ghost Librarian."
My plans to focus on the Barthalzan hunt had completely derailed. I was now entangled in a murder case involving strange artifacts I'd never seen before, secret factions, and ancient mysteries.
I looked up at Clockthon's gray sky. This city had turned into a labyrinth, where each door I exited only led to deeper, darker corridors.
But in moments like this, despair was not an option. That much was obvious. As a "private detective," I was now fueled by the thrill of unraveling the puzzle laid before me, and, of course, the promise of considerable pay.
"Milverton," I said to my partner, "Arrange a meeting with the Ghost Librarian. Tell him W wants to buy a story."
A new game was about to begin.