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Mumbo Jumbo wrapped his frock-coat tighter around him against the late November chill. He was making his way down Ladybones Road to the small inn where he was staying, and the dark streets of London were already dusted with a thin layer of lacre. The cold had certainly secured its grip on the city as the Christmas season fast approached, and the wind told of wintry gusts to come. “Sir!” a voice suddenly called from behind Mumbo. “Excuse me, sir?” Mumbo turned, puzzled, to see a small blond man chasing after him. “Are you Levi Valentin?” the man asked when he reached Mumbo, squinting up into his face. “Yes, but I go by Mumbo Jumbo,” Mumbo said, nodding politely. “May I ask why you want to know?” “I have a proposition for you,” the man said, steepling his fingers. “You’re a writer, correct?” Mumbo nodded again. “I’m in need of a scribe of sorts. I’m a private—well, mostly-private investigator, and the number of cases I’ve been receiving hasn’t been quite what I’ve wanted to see. So, I’d like to hire you to record my exploits and publish them in a few journals in order to gain renown for my work.” Mumbo thought about this. He’d written a few biographical articles in the past in addition to his usual fiction and technology commentary, but he hadn’t ever been hired to do something like this before. Still, it didn’t sound too difficult. It’d be mostly dictation, right? “And what of payment?” he asked. “Some of us need to feed ourselves, you know.” The other man laughed. “But of course, you shall be paid handsomely! And, should you want, lodgings shall be provided if you are open to having a flatmate. Have no fear, my friend. So, what do you say?” Mumbo took a breath. He’d been barely squeaking by with what odd jobs he could pick up, and it could be beneficial to his writing and his resumé to gain such an experience. And lodgings included? It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. “I’ll do it,” he said confidently. The man beamed and seized Mumbo’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. “Anderson,” he said. “Axel Quail Anderson. Grian, for short. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” “Charmed, I’m sure,” Mumbo said, startled by how strong Grian’s handshake was. “When shall I start?” “Why, immediately!” Grian said. “Come along, Mumbo! London awaits!” “But—my things—” Mumbo gasped out as Grian tugged him along. Grian shrugged. “I’ll send someone to retrieve them. I was actually on my way to a friend’s house when I came across you. We’ll go meet up with him, sort of as a test run for future exploits. Do you have a pen and paper on you?” Mumbo patted his breast pocket where he kept a fountain pen and small notepad. He nodded and Grian grinned. “Perfect. Off we go then!” Grian was off like a shot, dodging passersby and hansom cabs with little to no respect for them. Mumbo chased after him as quickly as he could, apologizing every time he stepped on someone’s foot or knocked shoulders with a particularly irritable-looking octogenarian. He managed to catch up to Grian as he squinted up at several stately houses, counting the numbers. “Doctor Maddox is a home doctor and co-president of the currency exchange. He’s been sending me a few letters lately about an incident a while back and I’ve decided to finally go check it out.” They stopped in front of a tall, dark house that listed slightly to the left, but was still quite handsome in its own right. Mumbo caught his breath, hand on the brim of his hat to keep it on as Grian strode confidently to the front door and rapped it sharply with his knuckles. “Ah, Grian!” a dapper man boomed as he threw open the door. “How good of you to come.” The man loomed in the doorway, taller than even Mumbo who often bumped his head on low-hanging light fixtures. “My pleasure,” Grian said, grinning. “Doc Maddox, meet my new, erm—” “Amanuensis,” Mumbo supplied helpfully, scrabbling around for his notebook and holding it up. “I write for him. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” “Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” the doctor said, engulfing Mumbo’s thin fingers with a clunky, prosthetic bronze hand. “Do come inside, both of you. I’ll inform you of the situation. The dog will take your coats.” The dog? Mumbo thought, confused, but he was quickly distracted by how messy the front room was. Papers were strewn about, a few smouldering in the fireplace. Maps and pages of scrawled writing covered the walls, pinned up with tacks strung together by thread. Half-melted candles sat on every available surface and the scent of rancid meat pervaded the room. The chairs and sofa were stained with liquids Mumbo didn’t want to know the origin of. “I apologize for the mess,” Doc Maddox said, rubbing the back of his neck in an approximation of embarrassment that Mumbo was sure he didn’t actually feel. “Please, sit down.” “Why, Maddox, it looks like you’re trying to solve a mystery of your own!” Grian said, peering at the papers on the walls as Mumbo tried to find the cleanest spot to sit. “Of a sort,” Maddox replied carelessly. Dog! Get in here and take my guests’ coats!” “I’m not a butler!” an annoyed voice called back, and a rakish young man entered the room. “I do have my own business to attend to, you know. Mr Fires isn’t going to protest himself,” he said to Maddox, waving a finger. Still, he snatched Mumbo’s hat and coat from his grip despite his protests and accepted Grian’s proffered jacket. “Reynolds,” the man said wryly. Sirius Reynolds. Ren. Or Dog. Or anything, really, so long as you don’t call me late to dinner!” Grian laughed heartily at the joke and Mumbo forced out an awkward chuckle. “Thank you, Dog,” Maddox said, shooing the younger man from the room. “Now, to business. As you know, I’m currently one of the few people running the dockside currency exchange. We had a few rostygold statues out front that were stolen during the, ah, conflict a few months ago.” “Ah!” Grian said, leaning forward attentively. “And you want me to find the thief!” “Actually, I don’t,” Maddox said with a toothy half-smile. “They were delivered to the steps of the exchange recently with a note I think you might find interesting.” He pulled a folded piece of thick paper out of his pocket and handed it to Grian. “I don’t much particularly care who stole them. I’ve made enough of London angry that it would be searching for a needle in a haystack, and I have no need for a needle at this moment in time. I want you to find who returned them. And, if that’s who took them in the first place, well. That’d be quite the serendipity.” Grian took the folded note with interest. “Jabbered,’” he read aloud. “That’s it?” Maddox nodded. “One word. Makes me think of that one crazy fellow who went around leaving those strange notes all that while ago.” “The Jester?” Grian scoffed. “He’s been gone for a while. Probably got bored and moved on to bigger and better things. Like arson. No, this is someone completely new, either a copycat or someone completely unrelated.” “Excuse me,” Mumbo said timidly, looking up from his notes. “But I don’t see what the problem is. You have the statues back and no one got hurt, so—” “My dear fellow, do yourself a favor and stop talking,” Grian said sharply. Mumbo reddened and fell silent. “It’s obvious the man just wants to know who did it and why the statues were returned instead of melting them down and selling them for scrap.” “I suppose you won’t accept the explanation that they were just doing a good deed,” Mumbo grumbled, crossing his arms in a huff. Maddox shook his head wryly. “No one does good deeds in London for nothing, least of all for someone—for me. It’s an...occupational hazard, you might say.” He laughed. “Other than the healthcare and currency exchange.” “And what exactly is th—” Grian cut Mumbo’s question off. “Were the statues returned with anything other than the note?” he asked loudly, shooting a warning glance at Mumbo. “Oh, no, no, no, my dear chap,” Maddox said brightly, staring at Mumbo the same way a cat stares at a mouse. “Let the man speak. I’m sure he’s just aching to know the answer.” He swiped his tongue over his lips and Mumbo shrank back in his chair. “Erm—I—” he spluttered, squirming in his discomfort. “Take your time,” Maddox said, leaning forwards in expectation. He looked… hungry. Grian buried his face in his hands and groaned. “I apologize on his behalf, Doc,” he said, muffled. “I just…wanted to ask what your occupation was,” Mumbo said in a small voice. “Other than…other than what you do at the currency exchange.” Maddox grinned at him, baring strangely sharp teeth. “There we are. I am on a quest of sorts.” He grinned wider. “Looking for a certain Name.” “A Seeker!” Mumbo gasped, drawing back in horror. That explained the state of the room at the very least. “And what of it? We’re not so bad once you get to know us, sir,” Maddox said, smirking and licking his lips again. “Be polite, Mumbo,” Grian scolded, not looking up from the note which he was now examining with a jeweler’s loupe. Mumbo flushed. “I just—” “You’ve seen the posters,” Maddox muttered. “‘The Public Is Advised Not To Heed Voices Coming From Wells.’ They’re right, to be completely honest.” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s just something to keep me busy.” Mumbo cringed. Seeking wasn’t the first thing he’d turn to to “keep busy,” not by far. He’d seen Seekers before, knew what they did to themselves and others. Obviously, this man was mad. Absolutely barking mad. Still, Grian seemed to trust him, so Mumbo would have to put up with him. “My condolences,” he mumbled, only half sarcastic, and Maddox forced out a laugh.