A City of Wax - Episode 1

-Episode One-

~A wise man once considered a piece of wax. He felt its surface, its weight, its solidity. But near to an open flame, all of those things were changed. It remained the same piece of wax, though his senses were now deceived by its new shape. To truly grasp the nature of things, he said, one must ignore the lies of the senses and focus on the use of his mind.~

    Wax slid the flat of his thumb rhythmically back and forth over the rounded corner of his smog box. The tin had once been brushed with a brass-colored hue, but that particular corner now bore a dull, silvery smear; his callused thumb had undressed it years ago. The familiar odor of a fresh-lit smog wafted over from the other side of the moderately crowded tavern, and Wax’s fingers ached with desire to open that tin and light one of his own- but he resisted. Instead he withdrew his hand from the pocket of his dark leather greatcoat and lifted it to sweep the bangs of his pitch-dark hair from his face. An aging, tarnished silver pocket watch lay open on the table in front of him next to a half-finished mug of ale. The Aven eyed it casually as he leaned against the back of his chair. The timepiece ticked softly, the delicate black hands indicating that the hour was near a quarter ‘till one in the morning. His eyes moved to the door.

    As if on cue, a Heartlander man in a dark coat hurriedly entered the tavern. His collar was turned up against the wind, though it did little to mask his identity from prying eyes, which Wax suspected was more likely the reason behind it. Wax’s dull blue eyes tracked the man as he quickly made his way to the bar and took a seat. The barkeep gave a familiar nod to the man and, as if by habit, placed three freshly washed shot glasses in front of him. He filled each in turn with an amber colored liquid from a dusty carafe, and the man immediately threw back the first. “That’s one…” Wax muttered to himself as he finished the remainder of his ale and collected his watch from the table. He stood up slowly, pulled his greatcoat around himself and made for the door.

    The stiff cold of the autumn night had grown bitter during his stay in the warm refuge of the tavern. He shoved his hands into his greatcoat pockets, closing his fingers around his smog tin and giving the corner a rub. Escaping the smell of the tavern had done little good to quell his desire to smoke, but again he resisted. A casual backward glance through the window of the tavern caught the gleam of the second glass hitting the bar top. “That’s two” Wax muttered to himself. He casually strolled to the corner and turned into the alley next to the building. He leaned against the wall, and drew his flintstriker from an inner pocket of his coat. Without removing it from his pocket, he snapped open the smog tin and selected one with his finger tips, clasping shut the tin and placing the smog between his lips. He casually rolled the wheel of the striker under his thumb, lifting a hand to shield the smog from the stiff wind howling down the alley from the street side. He paused as he heard the familiar clap of the tavern door shutting and gazed sidelong at the road. The man from the bar stepped momentarily into view, rummaging hastily in his pockets. His fumbling fingers located a pipe, which he clenched between his teeth as he jammed a pinch of shag into the bowl. He struck a kindle stick, carefully lighting the contents and giving two short experimental puffs before one longer one. He tossed the extinguished stick to the cobble, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and hurried on.

    As the man disappeared past the wall of the neighboring building, the smoke from his pipe drifted directly toward Wax. It smelled strongly of a pungent vanilla and immediately flooded Wax’s senses. He slowly lowered the unlit smog from his mouth and returned it to the tin, replacing his flintstriker as well. “That’s three,” he breathed as he stood from the wall and began to walk. The man in the darker coat had already gained quite a lead on him, walking at a much brisker pace than Wax kept, but the choking aroma of his pipe smoke lingered strongly in his wake. Wax maintained a sight’s edge distance between himself and the other man, but made sure never to lose sight of him for longer than the pipe smoke could compensate for. Twice, the man looked back over his shoulder, forcing Wax to casually slip into an alley or a doorway, but he knew better than to expect much more than that; suspicious men check over their shoulders, and those who don’t want to appear suspicious take care not to.

    After nearly eight blocks, the man arrived at an inn. It was a small, unkempt building with faded lettering on the placard hanging over the door. Wax watched through the large front window, remaining out of sight in the shadow of a wall across the road. Once inside, the man shed his dark coat and quickly gazed about the mostly-empty room. His graying hair and mildly aged complexion were a quite familiar sight. As Wax watched, from across the room, a figure stood. She wore a dark green bodice, a black skirt and a pair of black silk gloves cut off at the base of the palm. Earthy brown, lightly curled tresses hung to the middle of her back, and her lips were painted a vibrant red. Her features were immaculate. The man embraced and kissed her briefly before the pair retreated up the stairs and out of sight. Wax had seen what he’d needed to. He snapped open his smog tin, drew his flintstriker and with a satisfying drag, lit up.

    The crowd at the tavern had not cleared much when Wax returned. He discarded the stub of his smoke on the cobble before entering, and headed for the stairs. Fishing a key out of a pocket of his greatcoat, he clicked open the bolt of the third door down and walked into the room. A pale-faced Heartlander woman sat, red-eyed, on the end of the bed. An Aven man in a suit of piecemeal leaned against the far wall, burly arms folded across his chest. The woman looked up at him as he entered. “You’ll find him at the Copper Cog a few blocks from here” Wax said, closing the door behind him. “I’d estimate you have about an hour, maybe an hour and a half.” The man by the back wall snorted and smirked, and Wax ran his thumb over the corner of his smog tin. “Bear in mind,” he continued, “that estimation was drawn more on her behalf than his. Had I not been granted the opportunity to observe his mistress, I would have given him ten minutes at the most.” He finished.
    “Mister Wax, please…” spoke the woman quietly, “Thomas may be an unfaithful man, but he is still my husband.” She explained.
    “Though not for much longer, I wager.” Wax said dryly. “I’m only here to collect what I am due, Miss Gunderic. As for you,” he said, addressing the other man, “do what she’ll have you do with the husband. Don’t hurt the girl; she’s only a troublesome strumpet. Just send her on her way.” The man leered at him.
    “Prostitution’s illegal, might I remind you, Mister… Wax…” he grunted.
    “Did I say she was a prostitute? I believe the term I used was “troublesome strumpet,” and I would thank you kindly not to put words in my mouth. I put enough of them there without assistance.” Wax retorted. He ignored the hired man’s glare and turned back to the woman. “My fee, miss?”

    Wax waited for the pair to be well on their way before leaving the tavern. He idly gauged the weight of the purse of shillings he’d been paid as he stood in the cold night air. It was every bit of what he was due, to be sure, though it was still disappointingly light. Wax had accepted long ago that this kind of investigative work did not always result in an unprecedented windfall in terms of compensation, though he was growing very tired of these menial tasks. He was sick of tracking down cheating husbands, petty criminals and debt dodgers. He lit up another smog, pocketed his flintstriker and set off. It was nearly three in the morning by this point. Inconsistent sleep patterns were no stranger to Wax, and neither were strolls through the city in the ungodly hours of the night. However, as he turned down the next street, he began to feel as though something were amiss.

    The streets of the city were deserted and empty. He walked alone down the poorly lit streets as he headed home, though he was unable to shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Curious, he paused a moment and listened. Nothing but silence. He glanced behind, but the street was as empty as it had ever been. He tossed his smog stub to the ground and extinguished it with his shoe. He reached into his pocket, but his fingertips did not feel for his smog tin at first. Instead they pressed through the thick fabric, tracing the outline of the revolver that hung at his hip. The hammer was locked. The weapon was ready to fire. Feeling slightly better having confirmed this, he drew another smog from the tin and lit it, continuing on his way. When he began walking, however, he took a different pace: slower, at first, then more quickly, and then slower again. He listened as his footsteps echoed off the walls of the buildings lining the street. Suddenly, as he began to step forward, he halted his heel in midair just before it reached the cobblestone. A phantom footstep rang out in the street. Wax lifted his head slightly, and then heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon sliding against its holster.

    Immediately Wax’s hand flew for the grip of his revolver. The tail of his heavy greatcoat flew, catching the wind as he whirled to face his attacker, dropping to a knee and pulling his weapon with blinding speed at the same time. Wax fired. The sound of seven shots rang out into the night. Wax fired only one. The figure opposite him crumpled into a heap in the street. As Wax stood and carefully approached the figure, he slowly became aware of a burning sensation in his left arm. Reaching across to his bicep, his hand returned bloodied. One of the other man’s shots had grazed him, fairly deeply too. He allowed his left arm to fall slack as he moved to examine the corpse of his assailant. The figure was definitely a man, but no one that Wax recognized. A stuttergun lay on the cobblestone where it had fallen from the dead man’s hand. Wax frowned at it. A repeating weapon… Whoever this man was, he was no professional. A true marksman needed only one bullet to finish a job. This man had failed to do so with six. He holstered his revolver and scooped up the discarded stuttergun. He searched the man’s body, retrieving a cheap, broken pocket watch, an empty box of snuff, and a purse containing over five thousand shillings- more than triple what he’d been paid earlier that night. Something was very wrong with this picture.