- Chapter 037 -

  Extremely Flammable

  The simple act of entering the workshop was a project in itself. The heavy wooden door, built for able-bodied craftsmen, swung stiffly inward, partially blocked by the front wheel of his chair. It was a clumsy, frustrating ballet of pushing the door open with one hand while trying to propel himself forward with the other before the heavy panel could swing shut on him. He managed it on the second try, the wheel catching on the raised threshold with a jarring bump, the effort sending a dull, protesting ache through his back.

  A distant, cantankerous voice barked from within, not even bothering to look up from a workbench somewhere at the back of the room. "Shop's closing!"

  Mark wheeled himself fully inside, letting the door click shut behind him. "I was told this was the place to find a gemsmith named Carl," he said, his voice a little strained from the exertion.

  The man at the bench let out an annoyed grunt. "Your timing is poor," he snapped. "I was just about to lock up. But if it's quick, I'll hear you out."

  "My name is Mark Shilling," Mark began, taking a moment to catch his breath and take in his surroundings. The space was smaller than it had looked from the outside, and far more cluttered than he'd expected. It was less a shop and more the private workshop of an obsessive. Tools of every shape and size hung from leather racks, polished and looking as new. Trays of uncut stones were stacked precariously on every available surface, and the air was thick with the sharp smell of oil.

  His gaze swept the room, cataloging the ordered chaos, and then his eyes settled on a detail that seemed utterly out of place. Tucked away in a corner, on a simple wooden shelf, was a small, crudely carved idol surrounded by offerings of shining river stones and a single, dried mountain flower.

  It looked like some sort of pagan altar, the type he’d previously seen on television with random shows of eccentric people, normally the ones with a complete tangent on their view of life.

  In this workshop defined by meticulous precision, the logic of tools and engineering, the strange shrine was a jarring anomaly. It was an illogical, almost superstitious-looking display that didn't fit with the rest of the room's character at all. He filed the strange detail away, not wanting to pass judgement on this person too quickly.

  Carl remained at his workbench, his back still partially to Mark, his focus on some unseen, intricate task. "A name doesn't tell me what you want," the gemsmith grumbled, his voice a low, impatient rasp. "I don't do appraisals for walk-ins, and I'm not taking new commissions this week. State your business, or state your goodbyes."

  The blunt, dismissive tone was a familiar one. It was the sound of a specialist who had no time for the pleasantries of customer service, a man whose expertise was his only required credential. Mark had dealt with a dozen programmers and senior engineers with the exact same attitude. He felt a flicker of his old, professional weariness and also a broken longing for home.

  "Apparently," Mark said, his own voice taking on a clipped, no-nonsense edge as he wheeled himself a few feet closer, "you have my belongings." He let the statement hang in the air for a moment. Seeing no reaction from the stubbornly focused man, he added the context he knew would get a response. "I'm the body they found in the forest. The one from the infirmary. Does that help?"

  That finally did it.

  The high-pitched whine of the cutting wheel sputtered and died. The rhythmic, grating sound of metal on stone ceased. For a long, silent moment, the only sound in the workshop was the distant, steady clang of the smithy next door.

  A slow, world-weary sigh drifted from the back of the room, the sound of a man surrendering to an unwelcome but unavoidable interruption. Carl swiveled on his stool, his back still mostly to the room as he carefully placed a tool back on its rack.

  "Right, the infirmary case," he grumbled, his voice still laced with annoyance. "I was told to expect... wait, where...?"

  His gaze scanned the empty space in front of the counter, the area where a customer would normally stand. He frowned, his eyes flicking from side to side, clearly looking for a person who wasn't there.

  Mark cleared his throat, the small sound loud in the sudden quiet.

  Carl's gaze dropped. He finally saw him. Surprise flickered across the gemsmith's face, followed by a brief flash of professional embarrassment, and then, a dawning, intense curiosity. The impatience was gone, replaced by the focused energy of a puzzle-solver who had just been handed a box with no key.

  "Ah. Apologies," Carl said, standing up and wiping his hands on a clean cloth by his side. "The rumors didn't mention... this." He gestured vaguely at the chair, his tone no longer dismissive, but analytical. "They said you were walking."

  He seemed to process the new data for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of Mark's appearance. "The infirmary intake. Yes. Of course. One moment."

  He turned and walked with a brisk, purposeful stride to the cluttered shelves at the back of the workshop. Mark watched him go, a small sense of satisfaction settling in his gut. He had finally presented the man with a problem interesting enough to warrant at least some of his attention.

  Carl returned a moment later, carrying the plain evidence box. He placed it on a clear space on his main workbench with a soft thud and looked at Mark, his eyes practically gleaming with the thrill of a new and fascinating project.

  "Right then," he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Let's check if it's all correct."

  Carl unlatched the simple clasp on the evidence box and lifted the lid. The first thing he pulled out was a wadded-up, crumpled mess of dark fabric. He held it up by the shoulders, letting it unfurl. It was Mark's suit jacket, the one he’d worn to the office on that last, impossibly distant day. It was followed by the shirt, the tie, the trousers. All of them bearing the grim souvenirs of his arrival, dirt and some dark patches that were probably dried blood, and the faint, woodsy smell of the forest. He was curious if the steam cleaner would work on them.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The gemsmith held the jacket at arm's length, his head cocked to the side, examining it not as a piece of clothing, but as a strange, alien artifact. His nimble fingers, so precise on the cutting wheel, now prodded at the lapel, testing the fabric's weight and texture.

  "An odd design," Carl mused, his voice a low murmur of pure, academic curiosity. "The cut is... severe. Utterly without ornament. It almost reminds me of the descriptions of the Final Warden, the way he's depicted in the old texts."

  The casual comparison sent a small, unwelcome chill down Mark's spine. Being compared to a walking concept of Death was not a fashion statement he had ever aspired to.

  "There's some cotton in the lining, of course," Carl continued, his fingers tracing the seam of a sleeve. "And the tie... an impressive silk weave, if a bit plain." He let the jacket drop back into the box and picked up the trousers, his brow furrowing in genuine, professional confusion. He rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger. "But the rest of this... what in the name of the Founder's Forge is it? The fibers are completely inert, no magical resonance at all."

  He held a small corner of the trouser leg up to his work-light, peering at it intently. "And it feels... wrong. Flimsy. I ran a small heat test on a loose thread when it first came in," he added, as if this were the most normal diagnostic procedure in the world. "It's extremely flammable. Went up like a torch. I can't imagine why anyone would willingly wrap themselves in a material that's both weak and a catastrophic fire hazard."

  Mark let out a small, tired sigh. He was in a world of enchanted steel and magically-reinforced timber, and now he was expected to explain the modern marvels of synthetic fabric.

  "It's probably polyester," he said, the word feeling strange and foreign in the quiet workshop. "Or a nylon blend. You'd have to read the label."

  Carl pointed a delicate pair of tweezers toward the inside of the trouser waistband. "The label," he said, his tone that of a biologist indicating a strange and baffling insect. "I saw it. A tiny patch of fabric with a spare... fastener." He gestured dismissively. "And a series of baffling little glyphs. It was even less help than your nonsensical words."

  Mark pictured the tiny, symbols for 'machine wash cold' and 'do not tumble dry'. Mentally Mark admitted he also failed to know those symbols most of the time, but baffling little glyphs. The sheer absurdity of it was almost too much. He was too tired to even begin to explain the concept of a washing machine, let alone a tumble dryer.

  "We'll have to return to the mystery of your flammable clothing later," Carl said, setting the crumpled trousers aside with the finality of a case temporarily closed. He turned his attention back to the box. "There was considerably more on your body."

  His nimble fingers delved into the box and emerged with two more items. The first was Mark's wristwatch. A simple, functional timepiece with a steel case, a plain white face, and a worn leather strap. It was the kind of watch that told you the time and nothing else, a reliable, unremarkable tool for a man who managed schedules for a living.

  Carl held it up to his work-light, turning it over in his hands. "No resonance," he murmured, his thumb stroking the glass. "Not a single Whisper. The hands are frozen." He tapped the face with a fingernail. "It's dormant. Or broken."

  "It stopped when I arrived," Mark said, his voice quiet. The hands were fixed at 6:15. A tiny, silent monument to the exact moment his world had ended. "It was about a quarter past six in the evening."

  Carl set the wristwatch down carefully. The next item was a pocket watch. It was an old, tarnished piece, its silver case smooth and heavy in Carl's palm. A faint, intricate pattern was etched into the cover, worn nearly smooth by time.

  Mark felt a small, unexpected pang of loss. It wasn't a priceless heirloom. It was a cheap find from a car boot sale years ago, a piece of junk he'd picked up for a few pounds because he liked the weight of it in his hand, the satisfying click of the lid, a perfect fidget toy. He'd been meaning to get it repaired for ages. Just another small, forgotten project on a list that no longer mattered.

  Carl's reaction was different. He handled the pocket watch with a level of reverence. He popped the cover open with a practiced flick of his thumb, his gaze immediately falling on the complex, beautiful, and utterly still clockwork within. The professional curiosity in his eyes sharpened into pure, unadulterated respect.

  "Now this," he whispered, his voice filled with a craftsman's awe. He pulled the magnifying goggles back down over his eyes, leaning in for a closer look. "The gearing is crude by our standards... no enchanted alloys to speak of... but the principle... the elegance of it."

  He looked up at Mark, the earlier annoyance completely gone, replaced by a shared, unspoken understanding between two men who appreciated a well-made thing.

  "Still no magic," Carl stated, a final, definitive diagnosis. "Just... honest mechanics."

  Mark let out a slow breath, a quiet sound in the stillness of the workshop. "You don't seem particularly fazed," he observed, the words a simple statement of fact. "By any of this. The strange clothes, the broken watch... the fact that none of it is from here."

  Carl looked up from his minute inspection of the pocket watch, pushing the goggles back onto his forehead. The question seemed to surprise him, as if it were an irrelevant detail he hadn't considered.

  "Fazed?" he repeated, a dismissive shrug in his voice. "The Militia sent a security summary around to all the Guild representatives in town, I got a copy with this box. It had your name on it." He gestured vaguely at the box. "Said you were from 'Earth'. No extra-dimensional abilities, no observable magical aptitude, no hostile intent. Just... displaced."

  He tapped a finger on the face of the pocket watch, his attention already returning to the intricate, silent gears. "You're not a threat," he stated flatly. "You're just a anomaly with a collection of bizarrely non-magical artifacts." His eyes lit up with a sudden, intense focus. "This, however..." he picked up the pocket watch again, a look of pure, professional hunger on his face. "This is fascinating. I would love a chance to properly disassemble and study it. To see how your people solved the problem of timekeeping without even a basic quartz-crystal resonator."

  Mark let out a tired sigh. He had a plan, a destination, and he was currently losing the attention of a key stakeholder to a piece of junk from a car-boot in a muddy field in Cheshire.

  "Perhaps another time," he said, his voice regaining a fraction of its old firmness. "Right now, I'm a bit short on it myself. The items..."

  Carl waved a dismissive hand, not even looking up. "Yes, yes, of course." He was completely lost in his own world, the puzzle of the watch a far more compelling project than the man sitting in front of him. "I was just closing up for the day anyway."

  A sudden, brilliant idea seemed to strike him. He looked up, his eyes sharp and decisive. "We can walk and talk," he declared, already moving with a renewed, purposeful energy. He carefully placed the pocket watch back in the box, closed the lid, and tucked the entire thing under his arm. "You're heading back toward the center of town, I assume?"

  He didn't wait for a reply. He was already moving around his workbench, flipping a switch that extinguished his work-light and covering his workbench with a soft cloth. The performance of a man who has found a more interesting way to spend his afternoon.

  As he watched Carl finish up, he gazed turned back to the box, his box. A smile crossed his face, the pocketwatch apparently was Carl's fixation, but what of his other items, eventually he was going to have to explain his phone or the half dozen strange items on his keyrings.

  Mark had become a bemused, reluctant passenger in the whirlwind of the gemsmith's sudden enthusiasm. He had come here for a simple transaction, to retrieve his belongings. He was leaving with a new, and surprisingly intense, escort.