The Wayward Witch Chronicles

“So ma’am, I imagine ye’ve an inklin’ already why I’m here.”

West and the headwoman had relocated to his rented room for the night, far and away from the crowd in the pub. There were probably a few ears at the cracks in the door, but West didn’t mind locals eavesdropping; he just wasn’t interested in audience participation. This conversation needed to cover ground and get action quickly, and the stodgy elders haunting the pub downstairs would just slow that down.

“You’re looking for the witch on the road,” said Headwoman Baker.

“Well, ‘twas likely nae a witch, to tell the truth,” West mulled. “If it’d been one o’ those lot, yer lad would’ve likely gotten a nasty hex fer his troubles a’fore he could run off. Nae to mention, witches are usually workin’ in covens, while this sounds like a lone actor. More likely, we’re lookin’ at a hedgewizard.”

“If you say so, Investigator. I don’t see much difference,” Deanna sniffed.

West blinked. “Aye, well, mebbe nae fer ye, but it makes a wee difference fer my work.” The Investigator chatted away happily, despite the Headwo man's dour reception. “Witches, ye cannae do much negotiatin’ most o’ the time. It’s right rare that ye find a witch that’ll listen to any law they don’t lay down fer themselves. Hedgewizards, though– they’re usually driven more by curiosity, worlds easier to work with.”

If the headwoman understood the distinction, she didn’t show it. If anything, the sharp lines of her face pressed more tightly now.

The Investigator shifted forward in his seat. “Anyways, the real matter to be discussin’ is, who do ye figure this magicker for? Do ye think it could be one o’ yer folks here in the village?”

“Certainly not!” Headwoman Baker rejected the notion with a scoff. “Sure as the night chases the sun, it’s one of those damned Frogfolk at the lake.”

Any trace of youthful cheer evaporated from the Investigator’s face. He sighed. “One o’ the Nuralli? What makes ye so sure?”

“You’ve heard the whole story already, or not?”

“I’ve got me reports,” West replied, touching his pack. “So far as they go, one o’ yer local boys met with a woman on the road and figured she’d magicked up her looks, aye?”

“That’s right. And when he ran off, he saw the witch-” West drew a pained face at the word, “shifting into her true form. One o’ them Frogfolk.”

West blew out his breath, striving for patience. “Did he say that’s what he saw?”

Deanna looked stern. “He said she was shrinking. Less than half his size, by the sound of it, and what’s that sound like to you? I’m telling you, those Croakers are up to no good again.”

The Investigator wrinkled his nose at the crude slur Croaker, but didn’t comment on it. “I can see why ye’d go to that way o’ thinkin’, but it’s nae likely. With them livin’ so close by, you oughta know Nuralli live only twen’y-five, thirty years, aye? Most forms o’ magicking take a long bout of studyin’, and Nuralli’ve nae the time or teachin’ to do it.”

“Except when they do,” Headwoman Baker asserted, crossing her arms.

The Investigator gave up with a shrug. “Aye, except then.” There was no sense in arguing– so far as the headwoman was concerned, they were dealing with a Nuralli witch. It made no difference to his work what she thought, so there was no sense in pressing the point further. “Whatev’r it is what’s out there, we’ll be findin’ out properly tonight. What needs figurin’ righ’ now is, makin’ sure that yours are keepin’ themselves out o’ trouble in the meanwhile. Once the sones down, all ye folks here gotta stay inside, doors and windows shut til morn, and I’ll get the rest worked out. Can ye make sure that’s known?”

“You won’t have to ask twice,” the headwoman snorted. “The whole village is in a terror, and nobody’s going to do anything stupid til you’ve sorted this out.” But if you don’t, we’ll find a way to sort it for ourselves, was the unspoken warning. “Is that all you need, Investigator? You’ll be able to take care of our problem?”

“Aye, that’ll be all. Thank ye kindly fer yer time, headwoman.”

The headwoman rose and strode to the door, nearly tripping into a gaggle of eavesdropping village elders. West could hear her scolding them roundly as she closed the door behind her.

Once she was good and away, West leaned back in his chair, blowing out an exasperated sigh.

“Feckin’ bigot,” the Investigator grumbled, fumbling through the sheaf of papers from his pack. Sure enough, there’d been no mention in them that the reported magicker was a suspected Nuralli.

It was a running joke among the Investigators that whoever assembled the reports left bits out on purpose, just to make sure that the Investigators were keeping on their toes and following up with their own research, but it went too far when critical information was missing. Typically, West’s next step would be to track down the source of the rumor– the fabled farm boy that had survived the encounter– and try to coax out some straight answers.

Today though, he had a better avenue. If he guessed right, any moment now, it would be time for his second meeting of the day.

A knock on sounded on West’s door, and a familiar voice brought a grin to his face. “Investigator, may I enter?”

“Dover Vulpes! A’course lad, come on in!”

West rose to his feet as the door opened, and in stepped the white-haired Acquisitor. Dover often set his face too seriously for his young years, but West’s broad grin softened a smile out of him. “I hope your travels were pleasant. Is it West today?”

“Aye, West’ll be right fer here. An’ they went well enough.” At West’s welcoming gesture, Dover pulled the chair out eagerly. “It’s been a couple o’ years, ain’t it?”

“Not so many. Still one of the junior members in Acquisitions.”

“Aye, but ye’ve come a long way since runnin’ messages and hunting down rumors. Heard ye got promoted after six months.”

“Seven.” Dover ducked his head modestly. “All thanks to your guidance.”

“Still a right fast transfer,” West admired. “I’d nae be surprised if ye get yer Investigator badge a’fore the century turns. Assumin’ yer still wantin’ it!”

“Absolutely. Acquisitions has been some fascinating work, but I’d rather be curing the disease than chasing the symptoms.”

West’s smile flattened. “Eh… dinnae be losin’ sight o’ the fact that the ‘disease’ happens to be people, laddie.”

Chastised, Dover backpedaled. “No, no, I haven’t! I mean– it’s a hell of a thing. Most of the time, I’m collecting harmless little contraptions. But one in ten, they’re just– unthinkably wrong. Some half-trained mage tinkers around with pieces they pulled off a rotting chimera, the enchantment goes sour, and you get a bag that’ll bite the hand off of whoever’s reaching into it, or a glove that sets buildings aflame whenever you snap. And then you get the ones that do have malice, as well as power and imagination….”

“Hm. Yer sure nae the low man on the totem if yer takin’ Acquisitions like that in,” West noted. Dover grunted with a shrug of one shoulder. “Yer right, lad. Things can go devilishly wrong, especially if a magicker with more power than sense gets tanglin’ with tricks outside their means. Even so, most o’ them are nae doin’ any harm. The first step toward settin’ things straight is simple talkin’. Takes a fool to pick a fight with a magicker without tryin’ another way first, and there’s no fools among the Investigators, laddie.”

“I get it. I do!” Dover insisted at West’s firm stare. “But I’d still rather be on the team doing the talking than the team cleaning up the mess after.”

“Aye, well. This’ll be an interesting one fer ye then, seein’ as yer here a mite early fer the clean-up.”

A smile slipped through Dover’s attempt at a neutral face. “Well, it just happens that our departments have some overlapping interests here. It doesn’t make much sense for me to sit around when we’re looking for the same thing, now does it?”

“I’d be well in my rights tellin’ ye to do jes’ that– but truth to tell, I’m thinkin’ this’ll be a good chance fer ye. Jes’ so long as ye swear to do naught without me say-so, aye?” Dover nodded. "That's fine then. Now, my case papers gave me the impression ye may’ve tracked where our mysterious friend is like to turn up?”

The Acquisitor nodded. “It looks like they cobbled together a portal gate of sorts. That’s what the hunter found out by the creek– I’m assuming they didn’t omit that from your reports, did they?”

“Fer once, no,” West answered. “Well then. Let’s be off to go see this portal in person. Assumin’ yer ready to head out?”

Dover broke into a full grin, straightening to attention. “Whenever you are, Investigator!”