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WOLFLOCK PACED BACK and forth in the afternoon sun outside of Jaxarna’s mine, pinching his chin as he prepared for Therym’s arrival. He knew that his entire web pointed directly at the Lord. All his evidence said that the nobleman had manipulated the mayor, the carpenter, and the brickmaker with subversive influences, but he didn’t have the final information to tie his web around the fiend. So he paced.
Mothy tried to distract Girid by asking her to teach him how to sing, but he sounded so awful they had to stop after an hour of screeching. Dr Qwan fiddled with his experiments, measuring powders and liquids to get the water samples to respond accurately. At one point, a live duck flapped out of his coat and across the hills away from them. They all just stopped and stared, then returned to their pensiveness.
The sun sat barely an hour above the horizon when Mayor Merlai, Jaimeron and his Guard troop arrived. The mayor tried to approach Wolflock and ask him what was going on, but the teenager just held up his hand for quiet and continued pacing.
Half an hour later, Therym, Njord, Vanmoinen and Hase all arrived, poems in hand, looking apprehensive of each other. Mothy collected the poems and brought them to Girid, who nodded thoughtfully. Wolflock watched all of their postures and gestures before moving to look over Girid’s shoulder.
Hase looked nervous, but in a bashful sense. It was obvious why. Vanmoinen’s eyes rolled in contempt at being so close to the mine, and he muttered about the request being stupid. Wolflock could sense mountains of jealousy and contempt for the situation. Najord looked as bored as ever, and Lord Therym looked like Yule had come early. His face was lit up with glee and he talked to everyone around him as if they were old friends, uncaring that the livelihoods of two women were at stake.
“So, how quickly are we going about all this?” Lord Therym grinned.
“Once Girid has decided, we’ll have the paperwork signed and ready here.” Mayor Merlai showed him the papers with a stiff, half smile.
Girid turned to Wolflock, her hands shaking. “What do you think?”
He took up the four papers and analysed them alongside Jaxarna’s fake note. Hase’s had been written with Dr Qwan’s paper and ink in Jaxarna’s house, and so was lightly tainted with clay dust and dirt. His handwriting scratched the page with stiff, large strokes, but remained light, as if he was unsure of himself. The twenty lined poem had blemishes where he had scored out wrong words and rewritten them around the black marks. Each line was filled with childish love and adoration with a basic rhyme that would have been a tavern or inn favourite, but no one of any intellect.
Vanmoinen’s torn notebook page came from the back of some kind of pre-lined margins ledger and was lazily scrawled in handwriting similar to that as the map at his lumber mill. It was only a five lined limerick with the lines drawn so hard they left firm imprints on the other side of the page.
Lord Therym’s was on exquisite paper with delicate green painted plants in the top left and bottom right corners. The eight lines of his poem looked stiff, as if he’d found a love poem in a book and copied it, emphasised by the lighter, unsure pen strokes.
It struck Wolflock that this wasn’t a match for any of the details he’d been looking for.
This wasn’t the shiny paper with the borders that soaked through to the underside. There were no traces of purple despite being right next to the plant he suspected had been used on Girid.
“Lord Therym,” Wolflock spoke in a firm tone.
Clearly everyone had taken it as the announcement as two of the Guards stepped up to his side, ready to seize him. Hase’s face dropped in shock and Wolflock realised he’d forgotten why they were there. Hase thought this was really a competition to see who would marry Girid. The fool.
Lord Therym bounced like a child on the balls of his feet, but stopped as Wolflock shook his head. “How old is the plant on your desk?”
His smile faltered. “It... It’s only just getting its first flowers, so I’d say six months. How did you know about-”
“Have you prepared any tonics or powders from it?”
“N-no. It’s purely decorative.”
Wolflock’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at the lying lord. He had already gotten the bags for the seeds and flowers wrong, as he’d heard in the conversation from Therym’s office. He couldn’t read the instructions on the pot, so he was likely to get it wrong again without guided instruction. He lied about it being decorative, but there was a note of truth to what he said about preparing powders from it. The more Wolflock thought about it, the less it seemed that the plant was intended as a gift for the lord in the first place. Had it been given to Therym to mask who it was truly intended for?
He glanced at Najord’s, thinking he would have to continue his analysis of Therym’s poem and needing to refresh his eyes on a new piece, when he saw a familiar style of black border. It soaked through to the opposite side. As he flipped it over to check, it wasn’t the match of paper that caught his eye as much as it was the purple dust stuck to it.
Remembering some of the music paper he had collected from the destroyed storage shed, Wolflock drew out the largest piece he had wedged between the pages of his journal. The borders matched. His eyes moved to Najord, who leaned against the wall of the mine, cleaning his pen with his silver penknife. Wolflock’s brain buzzed as the threads of clues knotted before his very eyes. Najord returned his knife into his pocket, but, in order to do so, he had to lift his baggy shirt. Attached to his belt next to his pocket was a small purple bag.
Wolflock felt as if his guts had turned to ice. Najord was the son of a wealthy nobleman, just like he was. He resented his father, just like Wolflock did. They both loved music. The similarities mounted in his mind, and he felt disgusted by them.
“It’s Najord,” he breathed, feeling the lines of his web shine brightly as it all fell into place. With each clue, it all became clear.
Mayor Merlai nodded reluctantly, and the Guards stepped up to Najord, seizing his arms.
“What? What is the meaning of this?” he barked with surprising energy.
“Unhand him! What on Pelaia are you thinking!?” Lord Therym snapped.
“I’m sorry, Therym. Your son is being charged with contaminating the bay, forgery, coercion and blackmail,” Jaimeron responded.
“And you can add attempted murder of Jaxarna, and the incidental murder of a mermaid to that,” Wolflock added.
“You have no proof!” Lord Therym roared as Najord tried to yank his arms free.
“Mr Wolflock Felen? Are you sure?” asked Mayor Merlai in his simpering tone.
Wolflock’s mind flashed hot at the mayor’s tone. In that instant, he knew in no uncertain terms this weak politician was going to let someone off because of their position if he didn’t display everything he knew. Just like what had happened in Plugh.
He wouldn’t stand for it.
In that moment, Wolflock felt himself tear away from everything that resembled boys like Najord. He may understand him, but he had vowed to never be like him. He would sooner do away with his title and power than let justice go unserved by it.
“Yes. Without the shadow of a doubt. And I have all the proof any of you will need right here in my hand, and in this mine.” He waved the sheets of paper in the orange sunlight. “These papers have a particular sheen to them, and you’ll often find that that uniqueness is the first thing that eliminates clandestinity. The border that soaks through to the underside and the pre-lined musical bars show this paper is in easy reach of the writer, as though they use it often and, subsequently, their love to use it while composing. This is what you had Girid write the false note from Jaxarna on. This is what we found in the wreckage of the storage shed, and this is what you have written some of your best poetry on in order to win a mine you didn’t even want. My question is, why? Najord, why?”
The young man’s pale face contorted with rage, transforming his features into something monstrous. Wolflock looked at Girid, whose expression was one of pure revulsion.
“You can’t prove that at all!”
“Sorry, that was rhetorical. I know why you did it, but we’ll get to that in a moment. But, tell me this: were you hoping to destroy your father, or did you just not care if you did?”
Najord thrashed about, refusing to answer.
“N-Najord? What is he saying?” Therym paled.
“He’s lying. He’s an outsider coming in to stir trouble, that’s all. There’s nothing he can say that would prove anything.” Najord stopped, his eyes going wide with a false epiphany. Wolflock could see his mouth twitch with a contemptuous smirk. “Unless he planted this evidence he’s been talking about in your office, father.”
“What?”
“I saw him in there earlier! He was rifling through your papers. I thought he was an assistant of yours for the festival. He must have been planting evidence to frame me!”
All eyes turned to the black-haired boy as rage bubbled up inside him. He thought he had seen himself in Najord. Bored with life, disdainful of those less brilliant than himself, and desperate to get out of his family’s shadow. But no. Najord was just a lying, spoiled brat who would use any trick to reach his means.
Well, I can play that game, too, he thought darkly.
Wolflock saw the sun touch the horizon, and knew he didn’t have long. When the sun went down and the moon came out, the mermaids would come to the bay. They had to have their solution now or else Himi would die.
He could see her happy and smiling face leaping from wave to wave, surrounded by her loved ones, playfully rushing the fish to their favourite destination. Then, without fear or hesitation, swimming right into the murk of the bay, coughing, choking, and leaving, not knowing why anything had changed. Being powerless to help and naïve as to why her pod was dying.
Wolflock eyed the purple bag at Najord’s side. He would get justice for Himi, Jaxarna and Vanmoinen. He wouldn’t let a corrupt family have exorbitant power over the town.
“I believe a demonstration of your intent is in order.” He tugged Najord’s purple bag free and felt the inner lining of stones grind together. “Did you think you’d be needing this?”
The young noble’s eyes went wide with fear. “Don’t! That’s my only-”
“This is what he did to Girid earlier today, forcing her to write a letter on his paper, as if her mother was asking for help to take over Vanmoinen’s lumber mill. All to destroy their mining project.” Wolflock tipped the bag entirely into his hand and blew it into Najord’s face, making him cough and splutter. As the young man’s eyes dilated, Wolflock turned the bag inside out to make sure he had eliminated all of it.
“Release him,” Wolflock instructed the Guards. They looked to Jaimeron, who nodded, his burly arms crossed in front of his armour.
Najord’s shoulders drooped, and a goofy grin spread across his face. Everyone else remained silent. Lord Therym had gone so pale he looked as if he might faint.
“Najord, can you hear me?” Wolflock asked.
“Mmm.... Ja.”
“I need you to answer my questions honestly. Can you do that?”
“Ja...”
“How did you find out there was malachite in this copper mine?”
“I scratched it with my knife when father and I went to talk with them in the mine. I got bored waiting for father to plead for the engagement to be kept.”
“Why?”
“So he could get the mine when we were married.”
“Did your father know about the malachite?”
“He knew before I did. I just found out how much of it was in here. I came back here every night for the past fortnight.”
“And you were dressed as Hase?”
“Ja...”
“In order to make Jaxarna believe Hase was trying to sabotage the mine, yes?”
“Mmm... Ja.” Najord’s eyes glazed over as Wolflock said the bricklayer’s name.
“What?” Girid’s eyes went wide. “Why? How? Your father would never let you go out dressed like my Hase.”
“I snuck out after dark. I stole his clothes.”
“You stole my clothes?” Hase leapt to his feet.
“I followed her,” he slumped his head towards Girid, “and found her sharing my music with you in the forest. I stole your clothes after you finished taking them off. I was looking for my songs but took the lot instead.”
Hase and Girid went beetroot red.
“When was this?” Wolflock interrupted before Vanmoinen could reprimand his son’s deceit.
“The day after the bricklayer bought the mine and broke off the engagement. I had only shared my music with her,” he nodded at Girid again, “with the knowledge that my intellectual property would be safe under the contract of our marriage... my mistake...”
Even with that sleepy grin, venom laced his tone.
“And when did you find the storage shed of illegal brewing materials and slaves?” Wolflock gazed around at the faces of the onlookers for their responses. Universal shock rippled across them, including Lord Therym. Vanmoinen squirmed in shame.
“I knew the whole time. I’m the one who made sure my father approached the lumberjack about using his empty sheds for storage.”
“With your powder?”
“Ja...”
Lord Therym jerked back in horror, shaking his head at the information.
“And how did you know the sheds were empty?”
“She,” he nodded to Girid, “would go down there and sing. I followed her. Then he,” he nodded to Hase, “joined her with his lute and ruined it. I had to make sure she sang my songs right... They aren’t made for a lute.”
“So, you were at the lumber storage sheds the day one was destroyed?”
“Ja...”
“How was it destroyed?”
“I... knocked out a leg of one of the big brewing pots. It crashed into the other one and everything caught on fire.”
“Why were you in there?”
“To... stop the escaping slave. They’d seen my face a few times. They were going to give me away.”
“That’s why you were there when it exploded?”
“No...”
“Then why?”
“To get more powder. Astraxis had promised me more, but his men wouldn’t cough up. I was nearly out... I am out now...” he looked mournfully at the purple sprinkled over the dirt path.
“Did you push the debris into the river, or did it just fall that way?”
“I didn’t push it into the river like that...” Therym sighed with relief as Najord spoke, but a sinister smile crawled across that dozy face. “But I’m glad it did. My father is ruined for keeping me under his thumb. Astraxis is ruined because he wouldn’t give me more powder. She’s ruined for stealing my songs. And the lumberjack and his son are ruined for being stupid.”
Lord Therym shook his head in devastated disappointment, but the rest of the room glared at Najord with a terrible fury for his disdain for the people he knew.
“I found the same music paper with this silky sheen in Najord’s hands at Lord Therym’s house, as well as scraps of it at the destroyed storage shed, and finally,” Wolflock waved the fake Jaxarna letter, “this one incriminating Jaxarna. We have the same paper here that Najord has presented his poem on in order to win the mine today. Winning this mine would have given him true financial independence for a time, as he could sell the malachite to the magic users in Mystentine, releasing him from his familial duties.
“Everyone thought Jaxarna had started the infection into the bay with her mining, but her practises are so refined and careful that there was no way she could have contaminated it. The tide, also, does not reach high enough inside the caves to touch the malachite crystals. The pool she has been swimming in collects only rainwater. Dr Qwan, what are the common symptoms of malachite poisoning?”
Without missing a beat, Dr Qwan smiled, counting the symptoms off on his fingers, “Shortness of breath, chesty cough, sinus inflammation and general anaemia.”
“Thank you, doctor. So, Jaxarna wasn’t the first to be infected with what is in the bay. She was the first to suffer from malachite poisoning. I also know that Jaxarna was not the one to write the note here, as everything she touches becomes layered in clay dust from her work as a bricklayer and from the mine. Every seat, every door handle, every tool and, of course, every piece of paper she comes into contact with, becomes stained brown. Similarly with Vanmoinen, everything he touches is sprinkled with wood shavings from his own occupation at the lumber mill.
“Two weeks ago, the illegal brewery exploded with Najord’s assistance, covering much of the evidence that slavers were using it, awaiting a Mr Astraxis to collect them. The contaminated beer, mixed with the refuse of diseased people and the newly dammed river, flowed down into the town and into the bay, where it remains because of the ice and currents outside of the bay. Najord then used this catastrophe to fuel the dissent between Jaxarna and the town, positioning his father as the master manipulator. But there were a few details that just didn’t add up. One of them being, why would Therym be gifted an immature Dominia Mendis Impertio-”
“Also known as Lady Mind Master,” Dr Qwan interjected.
“-in a pot with instructions he can’t read?”
The surrounding audience remained silent.
“Because it wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for someone in the house that could read Shell. Someone who was less in the public eye than Lord Therym. Someone who would go unnoticed and was apathetic enough to reliably use this powder demonstrated here, in this specific purple bag in which Mothy, Dr Qwan and I all heard Mr Astraxis telling Lord Therym to put the flowers into. Blue for seeds, purple for flowers, is that correct?”
His piercing blue eyes cut to Lord Therym, who took a shaking step back as if he were about to run. He looked at his son, who still managed to glare contemptuously back through his dopey grin, and nodded.
“Someone who also knew, if any scientists or mages from Mystentine were to come and offer assistance, that they would be found out. I found the same purple powder on Mayor Merlai’s Lucimpus coat in his office. The same coat he came to your office in to discuss how to get assistance from Mystentine. Is it true that, when he was leaving, you ambushed him, using your powder to convince him to stop seeking aid from Mystentine?”
As Wolflock turned his attention to Najord again, the mayor gasped in horror. His eyes were filled with tears.
“Ja... It wasn’t the first time, either. I had to use it on him two more times to make sure he only asked for fish from Irid and, then, so he thought he had some silly award to win if he kept his mouth shut. Lot of good that did me.”
“Good to know that the powder doesn’t completely erase your repugnant personality,” Wolflock scoffed. “Things weren’t moving fast enough for you, though, were they? If Girid could sing at the festival tonight without giving you recognition, agents from Mystentine would scout her and take all the glory, wouldn’t she? That’s why, last week, you sabotaged the wooden beams with your silver knife. I found the traces of silver and the cut in the wood. You weakened it enough that it came down on Jaxarna, injuring her chest and exacerbating her lung condition even more. Did you mean to kill or maim her?”
“I did not mean it to get the bricklayer. It was meant to land on her.”
Najord nodded again to Girid, who paled. Hase wrapped his arms around the shaking lady, snarling at the noble boy.
“Ma thought your father had sold her bad wood! That’s why she’s been so spiteful this past week.”
Vanmoinen stared in horror. “I... I would never. I could never. I would have rather refused to sell her anything at all rather than have her injured.”
Wolflock saw Najord’s pupils begin to contract as the powder lessened its grip on him.
“Finally, I know the answer to this, but for the benefit of those present, why did you do all this? To what end?”
Najord huffed out of his nose as fury cut creases into his bored face. “To be free... of my father. Of this town. Of all these idiots. I want to compose the greatest music of all time, and I could never accomplish that in this backwater town with a foolish, unfaithful fiancé. I deserve to have the greatest orchestra at my disposal, and these country bumpkin fools would never give me that. So, I took it. This mine belongs to me. My father’s estate is mine. I will have all the money I need to fund my own endeavours, and no one will tell me otherwise.”
Wolflock let the vile words spill from his entitled mouth and silence suffocated the air between all of them. He looked at the mayor, who still eyed Lord Therym as if asking for permission to do the right thing. Such a weak-willed politician would never stand up for what was right and, as the sun melted into the watery horizon, he knew he was out of time.
“And so, Captain Jaimeron,” Wolflock turned to the leader of the Guard, “I leave this evidence and confession in your capable hands. What punishment will be most suitable? Can I suggest he help lay out some kind of net or device to prevent the mermaids from entering the bay and suffering the same fate as the one the mayor was attempting to care for?”
Jaimeron coughed uncomfortably. “Uh. Well, we’ll have a trial first and then he’ll likely be put to hard labour until all the families who have suffered feel that they have received recompense. He won’t be doing any conducting for a few years with this mess he has to clean up-”
“Clean up!” Dr Qwan shouted, making them all jump. He began flinging things from his jacket pockets as he dug through them. After a few moments, he pulled out his water analysis kit and laid it out before them on the ground. “Excellent. Here we are. And the last ingredient...”
He tapped a fine white powder into each test tube. The first turned black, the second turned cloudy white, the third turned clear, and the fourth-
BANG!
-exploded.
Dr Qwan fell back and Wolflock and Mothy rushed to his aid, helping him sit back up.
“Alright! Don’t mix it with pure magnesium. Good to know. I have the answer!” He smiled brightly up at the boys. “Fresh water. The answer has been fresh water all along!”
Wolflock thought back to how Dr Qwan had pushed him into the river and the malachite pond. Both of which had been completely fresh water.
“That’s why it’s able to thrive in bodies. Humans are full of salt, and mermaids even more so.” Dr Qwan said in a matter-of-fact tone.
This is how we’ll save Himi, Wolflock thought, filled with determination.
“Jaimeron! Gather your men.” He stood up, summoning every inch of authority he could muster. “We need to clear a dam.”