The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

Afterwards, I needed to gwe myself a good hard shake before I went back to work. When you've spent a whfle contemplating Armageddon, environmental concerns don't look as big as they did. If the Third Sorcerous War comes along, there won't be any environment left to protect, anyhow.

I drowned my sorrows in a cup of coffee, wishing it were something stronger. Then, more or less by main force, I made myself call Legate Kawaguchi to find out how Erasmus was doing. People are like that: the world may be going to hell around them (and the Third Sorcerous War would be a reasonable approximation, believe me), but they try to keep their own little pieces of it tidy.

"Ah, Inspector Fisher," Kawaguchi said after I'd made it through the maze of constabulary operators to his phone. "I was going to phone you in the next few days. We expect that access spirit to become accessible to interrogation within that time frame."

That's good," I said, both because I hoped I'd learn something that would help my case (and, presumably, Kawaguchi's) and because I was glad Erasmus would make it "What other news do you have about the fire?"

"Investigations are continuing," he answered, which meant he had no news.

Or maybe it meant he just didn't feel like telling me anything. Constables are like that sometimes. I decided to give him a nudge, see if I could shake something loose: "Have your forensic sorcerers made any progress in analyzing those strange traces the thaumatech picked up at the scene, the ones the consecrated ground erased before she could fully get them into her speBchecker?"

"You have a retentive memory, Inspector." Kawaguchi did not make it sound like a compliment: more as if he'd hoped I'd forgotten. Yet another phone pause, this one, I suppose, while he figured out whether to try to lie to me.

Interesting choice for him. Sure, I was a civilian, but a civilian who worked for a Confederal agency. If he did lie and I found out about it, my bosses could make things unpleasant for his bosses, who would make things unpleasant for him.

He finally said, "The traces remain vanishingly feint, but enhancement techniques seem to indicate some sorceries of Persian origin."

"Do they?" I said. Slow Jinn Fizz moved up a few notches on the suspect list. So did Bakhtiar's Precision Burins, an outfit I hadn't yet got around to visiting. I asked him, "What enhancement techniques do the Angels City constabulary use?" I hoped my own shop could learn something new and useful.

But he answered, "Nothing out of the oroinaly, I'm afraid. We had our best results with an albite lens focusing the rays of the full moon on the speBchecker chamber that holds the memory microimps."

"Yes, that's pretty much standard," I agreed. Only a constable would call it albite; the more usual name is moonstone. Because it's opaque, a moonstone lens removes moonshine from moonbeams, thereby improving recollections.

"Is there anything else, Inspector Fisher?" Kawaguchi asked.

I wondered if I ought to tell him one of my superiors was afraid the case was connected with the Third Sorcerous War. He'd probably think I was moonstruck - or lunatic, if you prefer the Latin. I hoped he'd be right Better that than Charlie being right. Besides, Kawaguchi had enough worries of his own; a constable's job is neither easy nor pleasant "Anything else?" the legate repeated, more sharply this time.

"No, not really. Thanks for your time. Please do keep me informed on how your investigation is going, and let me know the moment Erasmus becomes available for questioning."

"I will do that Inspector. Good day to you."

The work I'd meant to do that morning took up the afternoon instead. I had to keep up with it somehow, which meant I didn't get out to Chocolate Weasel as I'd planned to do. I wouldn't manage to do it tomorrow, either, because I was going to take my little portable spellchecker over to the Corderos' house to see what it could find there. And after that I figured Bakhtiar's Precision Burins had moved ahead of it on my list if Persian magic was involved in the Thomas Brothers fire.

People complain that bureaucracies never accomplish anything. I mean, I complain when a bureaucracy I'm not part of succumbs to inertia. Half the time, though, the problem is too few people trying to do too many things in not enough time. I felt like Sisyphus, except getting over to Chocolate Weasel was just one of the stones I had to try to shove to the top of the hill. I kept running back and forth between them, keeping them all from rolling down to the bottom again but not moving any up very far. And every so often, whether I got one of the old stones to the crest of the hill or not new ones appeared.

All in all, the image was enough to get a man down on ancient Greek religion.