Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (12 page)

“Tremulous Portent of what now?” I asked.

“Rime. It’s a pseudonym.”

I knew that. Sorcerers often adopted ridiculous aliases to make themselves sound more mysterious and powerful. Chances were Rime’s real name was Sally or something equally mundane.

I frowned at Quinto. “Should I ask how you’re familiar with her?”

The big guy shrugged. “She’s not an old fling of mine, if that’s what you’re asking. I guess I just have a taste for previously frozen meat.”

Rodgers sniggered. I wasn’t sure I got the joke, but my stomach picked up on the reference to my favorite food group. It growled. I think my enthusiasm over visiting the Chapman Books headquarters had sent my hunger into remission, but standing in front of the corkboard had wakened the ornery organ from its slumber.

“Well, it’s worth a look,” I said. “We can hit the replica shop and the meat packer after lunch.”

“You still haven’t eaten?” said Quinto. “Count me in, then. I’m not getting hosed in the vittles department again.”

“What about you, Rodgers?” said Shay. “You want to make it a party?”

He shrugged. “Why not? As Daggers so eloquently put it, it’s not exactly a busy day on our end. Where are you guys heading?”

I smiled as I stuffed the two murder weapons into a coat pocket for safekeeping. “It’s my day to pick. Do you really need to ask?”

21

We stopped at Loaders, a sub shop known for piling their grinders so high with meat, cheese, and toppings that even trained professionals would have a hard time spotting the bread among the fatty, flavorful goodies. Shay ordered a tuna melt on wheat, while us detectives of the male persuasion indulged in meals more heavy on meats originating from animals that oinked or mooed.

After plowing through the sandwiches, we hoofed our way to Marlowe Street where Jjade had indicated the replica weapons shop resided. Honestly, I was more interested in what Tremulous Portent of Rime could tell us about our daggers than what some wizened geezer in a dusty shop would have to say, but the place was located on the west side of the Earl almost smack dab in the middle of our path to the meat packing plant.

I spotted the place by a weathered wooden sign that hung from an iron bracket in front. It depicted an image of a gauntleted fist clutching a dirk. There wasn’t any writing on the sign, but if there were, I would’ve expected it to start with the words ‘Ye Olde.’

A door-mounted bell announced our arrival as we pushed into the shop. A musty odor greeted me, similar to the scent of a used bookstore but without the distinctive smell released by acid-eaten paper. The front of the shop was filled floor-to-ceiling with shelves separated by narrow aisles, giving the place a very claustrophobic feel. The shelves were packed with all manner of curios—not just replica weapons, but armor and maps and crinkled parchments stamped with red wax. A fine layer of dust covered most of it.

At the back of the store, a glass display case snaked its way along the edge of the room. I stepped over and took a look inside. I had a hard time seeing through the grime, but it was obvious the more expensive pieces were held in the cases under lock and key—not that the security measure would do much good in the event of a robbery. Glass isn’t known for its impact strength.

Inside the cases were knives and daggers of various shapes, sizes, and styles, from cleavers and dirks to broadswords and rapiers, as well as maces, flails, axes, and war hammers. I couldn’t believe the stuff was legal to own. I felt an urge to wrap my lips around a whistle and blow until a horde of truncheon-waving bluecoats swarmed into the store, but seeing as I didn’t have a whistle, I just leaned in toward the glass for a closer look. While the weapons looked convincing, their edges were rounded. I doubted they could be used to cut anything stiffer than warm butter, though I bet someone could inflict a wicked lump or two with the flail or the mace. The latter looked to weigh at least ten pounds.

A door creaked to my left, announcing the entrance of someone from the back. Although I’d expected the replica shop’s owner to be a wizened old geezer, I didn’t realize how right I’d be. The guy that stepped out would’ve made my ex-partner Griggs look like a newborn foal. I imagine he’d had a front row seat at the party the gods threw when they crafted the earth and the heavens.

“Howdy,” he croaked as he hobbled over. “Can I help you folks with something?”

“Nice weapons,” I said. “Is this stuff legal to own?”

“Sure is,” the geezer said. “Everything you see here is one hundred percent genuine replica arms and armor, not military grade. None of the blades are sharp, and they’re made of regular steel rather than the hardened stuff. They won’t hold an edge no matter how hard you try, so don’t bother. And the impact weapons are hollow. They’ll still leave a mark if you hit someone hard enough, but so will a two-by-four.”

“Some of the tips look pretty sharp, though,” I said. “I’d bet you could still stab someone with a number of these things.”

“Yeah, so? You could also stab someone with a screwdriver or a fork, but those haven’t been made illegal—yet.” The old guy’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking, anyway? Are you four up to no good? I don’t sell to ruffians, you know.”

“You’ve made us out all wrong, old man. We’re on the other side of the law.” I flashed my badge.

“Oh,” said the old guy. “Well, I don’t know why you bothered bringing the goon squad.” He nodded toward Quinto, who was perusing one of the shelves. The big guy looked hurt at the accusation. “Everything here is properly permitted and registered. Even my business license is up-to-date. I’ll have to dig it out of the back if you want to see it. Might take me awhile. Not entirely sure where I stored it. Memory’s not what it used to be.”

Shay sidled up next to me. “That won’t be necessary. We’re actually here for a different reason, Mr.…?”

“Feltznoggle. Scooter Feltznoggle.”

“Seriously?” I said.

The old guy gave me a sideways glare, but it might’ve been because of his cataracts. “Blame my parents, not me. So what do you want?”

I rooted around in my coat and produced the two murder weapons: the first, with its silver filigrees and arabesque designs, and the second, with its darkened blade and hefty hilt. I placed them on the glass display case in front of Feltznoggle.

“What are these?” the old codger asked. “I didn’t sell ‘em. You can’t pin these on me.”

“Relax,” I said. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything. We’re just here for information.”

“These weapons were involved in a couple of murders over the past two days,” said Steele. “They don’t have any foundry marks, so we know they must be at least a half-century old. They’re also rather ornate and…unique, for lack of a better word. The police department doesn’t employ an expert on ancient weaponry, so we thought we might see if you knew anything about them.”

“Ahh, well you came to the right place,” said Feltznoggle. “Back in the good old days, before the city’s edict banning blades, I used to sell the real deal.”

“Back when you were a spry fifty?” I said.

Scooter gave me the cataract glare again. “Are you a comedian or a cop? Because you appear to be terrible at both.”

I frowned, but I should’ve known better than to try and out-snark a geriatric. They’re notoriously cranky. Griggs had taught me that, but several weeks of light, witty banter with my new partner had dulled me to the limited social skills of the elderly.

Shay pinched me in the arm beneath the edge of the glass, adding in a menacing glance. I think she wanted me to lay off the cheek.

“Could you take a look at them for us?” she asked.

“I suppose,” said the old guy. “Let me find my glasses. They’ve got to be around here somewhere.”

“They’re hanging on a cord around your neck,” I said.

The codger grumbled as he put them on. Shay gave me another glare. I shrugged. What was I supposed to do, coddle the geezer in regards to his failing senses?

Feltznoggle picked up the first dagger and peered at it through his spectacles. “Hmm. A stiletto. Hardened steel, expertly engraved. Based on the patina, I’d say it’s about two hundred years old. Maybe more. Heft’s a bit off, but it’s made for stabbing, not slicing. Definitely a collector’s piece. These channels running down the sides are interesting.” He pointed at them. “Bigger blades are often channeled. They need a path for the blood to flow across, otherwise it’ll spill onto your grip hand and make everything slippery—”

“Lovely,” I said.

“—but these channels are different. There’s two of ‘em on each side, and they run all the way to the hilt. Wouldn’t help with blood flow. Not that you’d need ‘em on a stabbing weapon, anyway.”

Grandpa Scooter picked up the other stiletto. “This one’s steel, too, though it’s had some serious bluing done to achieve that nice dark gray finish. Not as old. Maybe a hundred years, tops. Heft’s off, too, especially considering that thick handle. Might be hollow. Not sure why you’d want that in a stabbing weapon. Normally weight’s a good thing in those.”

Shay gave me one of those ‘well isn’t that interesting’ sorts of glances as Feltznoggle put the weapons back down and slipped off his glasses.

“Well?” I asked.

“Well, what?”

“Can you tell us anything useful about these? Who made them, where they came from, or who might’ve owned them?”

“I suppose,” said the old codger. “Is that what you want to know?”

I was starting to wonder how the geezer supported himself off his replica enterprise. With a disposition as sunny as his, it was no wonder the dust in the shop hadn’t been disturbed in months.

I rubbed at my brow in an exasperated manner. “Yes, please.”

“Well,” he said. “Any number of masters could’ve forged these. Gruzbald, Lord Gentry the Third, Tallhelm the Forbearer. Maybe a half-dozen others. They were probably owned by lords or nobles, given their intricate design. Likely display pieces. But as far as who owned ‘em? Your guess is as good as mine. Heck, better than mine, probably. You should have experience tracking down the owners of lost goods, seeing as you’re cops and all, but then again, I’ve already surmised you’re not particularly good at what you do.”

The old geezer rested his head on a fist and screwed up his lips as if he were getting ready to spit—where, I had no idea. I was liking him less and less by the minute.

“Seriously?” I asked. “Is that all you’ve got?”

He glared at me. “Pretty much. Now are you going to buy something, or not?”

“You’ve got to know something else,” I said, tucking the knives back into my jacket. “What about weapon enchantments? Swords of flame, daggers of frost, that sort of thing? Know anyone who dabbled in those?”

Feltznoggle turned to Steele. “You need to get this guy away from the hard liquor and the tabletop dice games, you know that?”

“It’s not like that,” said Shay as she shook her head. “I know where he’s coming from, it’s just…well, never mind. It’s not important. Thanks for your time, Mr. Feltznoggle. You’ve been very helpful.”

Less honest words had never been spoken, but the codger accepted them with a nod and a grunt. He shuffled off toward the back of the store as we shifted toward the front, picking up Rodgers and Quinto along the way.

“Get anything?” asked Rodgers.

“From that old windbag?” I shook my head. “I’ve had more insightful conversations with barstools.”

Quinto raised a brow. “You talk to those?”

I shrugged. “If I’m drunk enough.”

“Come on, Daggers,” said Steele as she stepped out through the door. “You don’t really think our conversation with Feltznoggle was useless, do you? If so, you’re losing your edge.”

I put all my mental faculties to use in analyzing the data we’d gathered from the shop owner and confronted Shay with the conclusive results. “Huh?”

She shook her head. “Let’s head over to that frost mage’s place. I need to run something by her, but I’m fairly sure I’ve figured out at least one of our mysteries.”

22

We rickshawed our way across the Earl and south toward the outskirts of New Welwic where the meatpacking plant resided. A faint whiff of turpentine socked me in the nose before I realized our proximity to the book bindery, so I promised our driver a few extra coins to take a mild detour through less odorous portions of the city.

The smell set off a few firecrackers in my head, though. I passed the rest of the ride trying to engage Shay in a conversation over the merits of paperbacks versus hardbacks, but the complete and utter silence she threw back at me made it less of a conversation and more of a monologue. She kept looking back towards the rickshaw Rodgers and Quinto occupied. I think she felt bad for Rodgers for having to share a seat with the big lug, but it was the driver who really deserved her sympathy.

After a lengthy trip that was sure to draw the ire of the Captain when it came time to balance the books, we finally arrived at the plant, at which point I realized just how much Quinto had undersold the place. It was less of a factory and more of an independent commonwealth populated by animals who were soon to be converted into entrees. Huge warehouses sprawled across multiple city blocks, each housing different facets of the meat industry—a slaughterhouse, a cannery, a cold storage facility, and a bustling transportation hub, to name a few. Behind them stretched hundreds, if not thousands, of pens housing everything from pigs and chickens to bison and guffalopes.

Suddenly I understood why the facility was located near the outskirts of the city, and it had nothing to do with the smell, which, surprisingly, wasn’t that bad. Whatever scent of death emanated from the slaughterhouse was masked by the earthy, dung-like aroma that erupted from the pens behind the factories. But moving all the animals from the countryside to the stockyards must’ve been a logistical nightmare, and having the facility in the city proper would’ve certainly drawn the ire of the city planners. If horse-drawn carriages had been outlawed in favor of human-powered rickshaws due to excrement concerns, I couldn’t imagine hordes of dung-spewing cattle stampeding through the streets would’ve gone over well with the city’s fat cats.