Richard Ramsey was an outlander to Scuttleway. He was from Amdusias, an ashen place, with cities built on the backs of downtrodden workers and diesel-powered machinery, where hobos lived as nomads, using the trains that crisscrossed the world as transportation, avoiding the dustbowl that was growing by the year at the plane's center.

It was also known as the World of Rain, for in every storm was a demon, whose dark deals made and broke civilization, who were responsible both for the incredible growth of the plane, as well as its economic downfall that had left it a stagnant mire of acid-tinged rain and dust, physical manifestations of corporate greed.

That said, he could not help but feel a bitter nostalgia for the place, like a bad cup of coffee in the early hours of the morning. Amdusias was only in forecast to the rest of the multiverse for a couple of months every three years, and during that time he would arrange for newspapers from there to be delivered to his office in Scuttleway.

The news was never good.

He was out, now. He had escaped. But Amdusias was still home, still where he had cut his teeth as a crimebuster, first as a copper, then as a gumshoe. And even out here, a bit of his home plane's culture still brayed in his bones. His office was a window into another world. Taped against the stone wall was a pinup of the famous singer Ella Armstrong. A baseball signed by every player of the Outer Chicago Bears sat on his desk, which itself was an imported piece carved from Lyndroot, a tree-like plant native only to Amdusias. Next to the baseball was an ashtray, upon which were three cigarettes – a low number, all told, but Ramsey bought them from Prime, and thus had to smoke them sparingly.

Even his clothes were from Amdusias. He wore his trenchcoat over light leather armor, coupled with a fedora, though that right now was on the coat rack in the corner of the room, by a poster of the boxer Ben Canzoneri.

Ramsey was already lighting another cigarette, taking a look at the papyrus scroll laid out on his desk. His report of gala's events, which he had just finished scribbling down in his hurried script. He grimaced as he noticed his ink-stained hands – he had never quite taken to the ink and quill style here on Londoa, and for the thousandth time he wished he had ordered a collection of pens. Maybe on his next paycheck.

There was a knock at the door. They came through hard and steady, not like the odd, paper-thin tinnings of his old office back in Outer Chicago.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened. It was Lieutenant Antsy, a gnome who barely reached Ramsey's waist, but he had seen her take down an ogre four times her size during one of those illegal boxing matches in the slums. She had a way of lifting her nose up in just a way to look snotty, though Ramsey had learned that it was just her looking up.

“'Ey, Cap,” she said, “Amber Foundation's here to see ya.”

“Good,” Ramsey said, “Who?”

“Metal fella. Metals eyes. Long, silver hair. Smells like a real prick. An' a dwarf, toos.”

“Ah, Ichabod,” Ramsey said. This meeting was already going sour, “Bring him in.”

***

Ichabod and Urash entered into the stuffy old office with upraised noses.

Well, Ichabod did. Urash rolled his eyes at the sight of his guildmate, who was looking about the place, a sneer slowly crawling up his pasty facsimile of a face.

“Posters,” Ichabod said, “From home?”

“Of course,” Captain Ramsey said.

“Tacky,” Ichabod said.

“None of that, now,” Urash growled, “Mind your manners, or I'll make you wait outside.”

“Hrnn,” Ichabod said, “Very well.”

“Sorry about that,” Urash said, “Captain Ramsey. Hope you're well.”

“As well as I can be,” Ramsey said, “Cigarette?”

Ichabod took one, lighting the tip of his cybernetic finger with a neon light, which set the end of the cigarette up. Urash, however, declined with a simple shake of his head.

“I don't smoke, sorry,” he said.

“Understandable,” Ramsey said, “Gentlemen, have a seat.”

They sat down at the table as the Captain of the Guard gave one last look over at the scroll on his desk, before turning it over and sliding it over to them. Ichabod, who was leaning back, simply stared down at it, glass eyes piercing an odd green. Urash leaned in close, so close his beard began to dab at the still-drying ink.

“Hmm,” the dwarf said, “Two dead, then.”

“Indeed,” Ramsey said.

“The Doge targeted,” Ichabod said, “He's a politician, I thought that was normal for out here.”

“It is,” Ramsey admitted.

“You don't honestly think we're responsible?” Urash said.

“Of course not,” Ramsey said, “You wouldn't have sent two greenhorns to kill a Doge. You'd have sent the Wildarm.”

“I'd hardly say that Rosemary and Joseph were greenhorns-” Urash said.

“I've done a bit of homework,” Ramsey said, “Rosemary's been with you for only a year. Mr. Zheng, less so. Only a few months, yes?”

“True,” Ichabod said, “Rosemary and Joseph are pathetic, we know that. My question to you is this: Why are we here?”

“Indeed,” Urash said, “I was about to ask the same thing myself.”

He picked up the report, giving it a final read-over, his brow furrowing.

“We guildfolk were just defending the Doge, here. Open and shut.”

Ramsey took a drag of his smoke. He let it out slowly, watching it curl through the air like the whiskers of a Dragon. Ichabod grinned as he noticed the Captain of the Guard's jaw was clenched.

“You poor fool,” he said, “You want to hire us.”

“I...” Ramsey sighed.

“Rare for you, Captain,” Urash said, “Since you've taken office, you've seemed content to leave us be.”

“You're guildfolk,” Ramsey said, “That means you take jobs out in the multiverse. We're only hosting you, if I'm being honest. It's not every day that you actually do work here.”

Urash nodded at that. He could not disagree.

“Still makes you feel awkward, though,” Ichabod said. Now he was leaning in, that awful smile still on his face, “Because you want us to investigate that shapeshifter, don't you?”

The Captain of the Guard was quiet.

“Well, standard guild rates, I suppose,” Urash said, “But from what this report implies, your man's still in Scuttleway, aye? Still in your jurisdiction. You've got the Militia for this, right?”

“Are you turning down a job opportunity?” Ramsey asked.

“Just wondering why you'd turn to us at all, lad,” Urash said.

“Because that shapeshifter's of the multiverse,” Ramsey said.

“So because he was an outlander, you're all scared,” Ichabod said.

“It's more than that,” Ramsey said, “This isn't just your average everyday murder. Two people are dead, but to be a bit blunt, that's something to be expected on nights like this. Elections are dicey affairs.”

“It's because it happened at the Doge's house,” Ichabod said, “And he's not letting you in.”

“That's the first reason,” Ramsey said, “The Militia and the nobility... our relationship is tense, so to speak. On paper, the Militia protects Scuttleway and is involved whenever something disturbs the status quo.”

“Cops,” Ichabod sneered.

“In reality, the Great Houses have gotten to the point where their influence is greater than any other in the city's,” Ramsey said, “The Militia can't do anything if they choose to not play ball. The Doge is a role traditionally taken by one of the aristocracy.”

“And by hiring us...”

“Two reasons. The first is that you are outsiders. You were tangentially involved with the affairs at the gala, but for the most part you're underneath the Doge's radar. If he sees me actively doing investigation work on this, he'll shut me down.”

“Surely, you'd think he'd want to have people investigating his assassination attempt,” Urash growled.

“He does, but it's in-house,” Ramsey said, “That's all the nobles want to do, keep it between themselves. I wouldn't be surprised if he already knows who it is, and is planning a counterplay.”

“The second reason is that the shapeshifter's from the multiverse,” Urash said.

“Indeed,” Ramsey said, “Usually, a hit like this comes from local muscle. An assassin from Darkheld Landmass. A triggerman from Salthirn. This is the first time they've hired from out in the multiverse, whoever this is. And I like to know who goes in and out of my city.”

“So we find this shapeshifter-” Ichabod said.

“Who might be off-plane at this point,” Ramsey said, “Though I doubt it.”

“We get who hired him, and you start breathing down the neck of the client,” Ichabod considered his own cigarette for a moment, “A lot of work, for a simple job like this, at a time when jobs like these are common.”

Ramsey nodded.

“Call it a gut feeling,” he said, “Whatever this is, isn't over. If the client starts bringing in people off-plane for their dirty work, other Houses will, as well.”

“An escalation,” Ichabod said.

“It certainly pulls in business,” Urash said, “You think they'd appreciate that.”

“It also invites competition to you,” Ramsey noted, “Guilds other than the Amber Foundation setting up shop in Scuttleway.”

That got the dwarf interested. He gave a sour frown.

“Not bad, son,” he said, “Before this, I was going to bring this up to Guildmaster Wakeling. See if this was something in our forte. We're a generalist guild, but we don't often play gumshoe.”

“Of course not,” Ramsey said.

“But you've removed the wool from my eyes, so to say,” Urash said, “Ichabod's on the case.”

Ichabod's smile dropped, “What.”

“Standard guild rates,” Urash said, “We'll expect payment up front.”

“I'll start getting the funds together,” Ramsey said, “Do you prefer Scuttleway Claws, or Federation Credits?”

“Now, hang on,” Ichabod said.

“Credits, if you please,” Urash said.

“It will take more time, then,” Ramsey said.

“I didn't-” Ichabod started

“Shut it, lad” Urash snapped, “Just use Claws, then. The more expedited, the better. Wakeling likes it when the gold's in front of her.”

“Right, then,” Ramsey said.

“I didn't agree to this!” Ichabod snarled, standing up,“I thought I was just here to look pretty. Why, you... you...”

He glared down at Urash. The dwarf was taking out a contract from his bag.

“You already knew what the Captain was wanting, didn't you?” Ichabod said.

“I had a feeling,” Urash said, “That's why I brought you along.”

He pushed the contract forward.

“Ready made,” Urash said.

“You seem rather prepared for this,” Ramsey said.

“Never be caught with your pants down when a deal presents itself,” Urash said, “I'm a merchant prince from Krenstone, I always have paperwork on hand.”

“Right, then,” Ramsey took the contract, reading it over, taking a smoke, “It will take me a second to read through all of it.”

“We can wait outside,” Urash said, “Ichabod, come on. Don't whine in front of the client.”

Ichabod rolled his eyes, walking out with his guildmate. They were out in the hallway, the door closed behind them, before he wheeled around and opened his mouth. Urash just put a single finger up.

“Hush, lad,” Urash said, “And hear me out.”

“Why me, then?” Ichabod said.

“Because you're the best damn investigator in the guild, that's why,” Urash said.

“Becenti's better,” Ichabod said.

“Becenti's better than you in a lot of ways,” Urash said, “But not here. He's a soldier. You're an investigator.”

“It's not-” Ichabod grimaced, and the dwarf noticed he absently scratched his left arm, “It's not a good past, Urash.”

“Your past is your past,” Urash said, “No prying from me. But I know you. I've seen some of the jobs you've done. Remember Dilondia?”

“Please, it was a simple frame-up,” Ichabod said, “Nothing major.”

“Well, you saved Lazuli from a heap of trouble,” Urash said, “Come on, Ichabod. You know this is fishy, don't you?”

Ichabod was quiet. His snarling indignation had relaxed into his usual sneer.

“It does ring odd,” Ichabod said, “Call it a gut feeling.”

“You'll get first pick of a partner in this,” Urash said, “You'll lead the way.”

“...Fine, then,” Ichabod said, “Fine. I'll be your guy, for this.”

He leaned in close to Urash, seeing him eye to eye, removing his sunglasses as he did so. Urash, to his credit, did not flinch as the cybernetic man's eyes flashed a harsh emerald.

“But you tell Wakeling,” Ichabod said, “When you're convincing her that this was a job that we had to take, for the good of keeping the competition out of Scuttleway, that I deserve an extra share. I want double my usual slice of the pie. Deal?”

“Done,” Urash said.

“Good,” Ichabod said, “Go finish up your negotiations with the Captain. I'm getting to work.”

He turned around with a swish of his longcoat. Urash blinked.

“The Captain probably has evidence! Information!” he called at Ichabod's back.

“You heard it from the man himself,” Ichabod said back, raising his voice as he walked away, “The Doge gave him nothing! He's a blind man, scrabbling for clues!”

“And where are you going?” Urash said.

“To the guildhall!” Ichabod said, “Right to the source!”

***

It was storming as Ichabod walked through Scuttleway. He did not enjoy it, for it brought back darker memories of a time before the guild, an in-between, transitional period between happinesses, when the rain came down hard on his broken form, a stitched-together crosspatch of flesh and metal cast out in the mud, homeless and bereft of a soul.

As such, his already bad mood soured as he strode through town, taking side-roads and alleyways to avoid the brunt of the market. Noise was the last thing he needed today, and even the distant clamor of instruments and voices was setting him on edge.

Most of the darker elements of Scuttleway left him be. They had learned long ago that the cybernetic man carried weapons foreign to Londoa, twin pistols, sleek as the moon of the Outer World, with enough firepower to punch through armor.

Worse, he was allowed to keep them, and not have them torn away from his person by High Federation officials. He could have become a king in the slums, if he so wished. A god of worms.

The dark thought amused Ichabod, who let out a dry smirk as he rounded one last corner and entered back onto the main road that snaked up to Castle Belenus. His chosen partner was already out there, on the steps leading up to the guildhall's entrance, experimenting with her keytar. G-Wiz almost always had it keyed to a synth-heavy setting, the electric beats filling the late morning with a far too energetic cheer.

A cheer that was not on her face as she glanced up to Ichabod.

“Sup,” she said.

“Good morning to you,” Ichabod said, “Fancy some guild work?”

“Depends,” she said, “Does it involve breaking some heads?”

“It might,” Ichabod said, “It's investigation work. I need a Watson to my Sherlock.”

“I don't know what that means,” G-Wiz said.

“They didn't teach you good literature back on your plane?” Ichabod said.

“Nah,” G-Wiz said, “Just music. The bad shit, I mean.”

“Ah, yes, the classical pieces,” Ichabod said, “Not bad at all.”

“God, you sound like Noodle,” G-Wiz sighed, “Alright, what're we doing?”

“Finding out who tried to kill the Doge last night,” Ichabod said.

G-Wiz narrowed her eyes.

“And why would I be interested?” she said, “I hope the old gnome burns.”

“My, my, testy today, aren't we?” Ichabod said.

G-Wiz sighed. When she looked back up at Ichabod, he noticed her gaze went through him and towards the horizon beyond. To the fields.

To Nole.

“Right,” he said, “Today was an important day for him, then.”

“Three years ago, today, he took me out on my first job. I hated it,” G-Wiz said.

“The... Arranyar job, right?” Ichabod said, “With the gargoyle?”

“The same,” G-Wiz said, “Sorry, I'm getting in my head about all of this.”

“Urash said I'd have first pick of partners on this one,” Ichabod said, leaning up against the stone railing, “And I figured, why not the person who hates life just as much as I do?”

G-Wiz smirked.

“Alright, then,” she said, “Let's do this shit.”

***

They found their witness in the back gardens, sitting at the fountain, sipping a cup of coffee while watching the Dreamer's Lament ascend higher and higher into the sky. He had a dour expression on his face – but then, Joseph Zheng always did. His nose had been freshly healed a few days ago by Elenry and he still looked like a sour grape. He was wearing his customary digs of a blue jacket over a shirt donated to him by the guild. In this case, it was a green one that clashed something awful with his coat, which read 'Mountain Spew.'” Somehow he wore it with a mixture of pride and shame.

“Nice morning?” Ichabod asked.

“Just seeing Phineas off,” he said, “He's going to Chliofrond to help Lady Sunala with some magical research.”

“Must be nice to have the room to yourself, eh?” G-Wiz said.

Joseph shrugged.

“Doesn't matter to me too much,” he said, “What do you want? You don't think we're still doing dancing lessons, right?”

“Of course not,” Ichabod said, “Rosemary told me all about your time at the gala, and I'd rather not see your... footwork.”

Joseph reddened.

“Sh-she didn't say anything too bad, right? Come on, just drop all that shit already-”

“He's joking, Noods,” G-Wiz said, “We all know you're bad; we don't need videos or hearsay for that.”

The metahuman rolled his eyes.

“Where is she, anyways?” G-Wiz asked.

“At Sunala's,” Joseph said, “Where do you think? What do you even want with me?”

“Questioning,” Ichabod said, “The Captain of the Guard hired us to do a bit of investigation on that shapeshifter.”

“Ah,” Joseph said, “That.”

“Tell us what you know,” Ichabod said.

“Yeah, or else,” G-Wiz growled. She rested a single foot on the fountain by Joseph, plucking the cup of coffee out of his hand and taking a sip.

Then she pulled a face.

“God, what do you put in this?” she said.

“Cream,” Joseph said.

“Joe, this is all cream,” G-Wiz said, “Want some coffee with it?”

“Ah, shaddup,” he said.

“The gala, Joseph,” Ichabod said, “What was our shapeshifter like?”

“Well,” Joseph said, “He could shift his shape.”

“Very funny, Mr. Zheng,” Ichabod said.

“What am I supposed to tell you?” Joseph said, an exasperated tinge in his voice, “He was a shapeshifter. He was a lot of people that night.”

“Shapeshifters come in all shapes and sizes,” Ichabod said.

“That's... kind of the point?” Joseph said.

“He means that there's different types of shapeshifters, Noods,” G-Wiz said, “Get with the program.”

Joseph rolled his eyes.

“Right, then,” he said, “He was a shapeshifter. When he wasn't transforming, he was a mass of off-white goo. Really sticky. Like oobleck.”

“Oobleck?” G-Wiz asked.

“Like, it acts like a solid when you poke it really fast, but a liquid when you poke it slowly,” Joseph said, “I learned about it in science in junior high, didn't you?”

“I learned nothing but music,” G-Wiz said.

“I'm jealous, to be honest,” Joseph said.

“Right, non-Newtonian, then,” Ichabod noted, “Interesting. What else?”

Joseph scrunched up his face, trying to remember.

“He was... he liked going humanoid, most of the time,” he said.

“Ah, no imagination, then,” Ichabod said.

“But when he went all in, the entire room was trashed, and he could stand against Ket,” Joseph said, “That's the Exodus Walker who was with Moriguchi.”

“Who the hell is Moriguchi?” G-Wiz asked.

“Another Exodus Walker,” Ichabod said, “Read the reports, Galatea. Maybe you'll learn something aside from showtunes.”

G-Wiz stuck her tongue out at him as Joseph took his coffee back, using his soul's claw to neatly nip it out of her hand. He took a sip.

“Like, Ket's no joke,” he said, “Has all that shadow magic, and shit.”

“Very descriptive,” Ichabod said.

“What I'm saying is that be careful, if you're going after this guy,” Joseph said, “Rosemary and I could barely handle him.”

“Noted,” Ichabod said, “If we were to face him, what would you recommend?”

“You can wear him down, but he's got a lot of endurance,” Joseph said, “He took everything Moriguchi, Rosemary, and I threw at him. And then he took Ket. And he got away.”

“And he prefers humanoid forms,” Ichabod said.

“Yeah, though he can go full goo if he wants,” Joseph said, “Almost suffocated Moriguchi that way.”

“We'll keep our distance, then,” Ichabod said, “Anything else to add?”

“I hate you,” Joseph said.

“The feeling's mutual,” Ichabod said, “Have a good day, Joseph. Try not to get your feet tangled up.”

***

They left him to his coffee, G-Wiz raising an eyebrow at Ichabod as they walked back into the Main Hall, pushing by Lazuli and Mallory as they carried a table-sized piece of machinery with them out the door.

“That's all?” she asked, “Nothing on what he was doing, or what went down?”

“I read his report this morning,” Ichabod said, “Before I was roped into this.”

“You... read those for fun?” G-Wiz had a sick look on her face, “That's gross, dude.”

“I read most reports that we submit to the Federation,” Ichabod said, “You always misspell 'immediately.'”

“Whatever,” G-Wiz said, “My point is: Noodle had an entire statement he made to the Captain of the Guard. Why didn't you press him for the whole story?”

“Because he's already told it twice,” Ichabod said, “I got the cursory information from those. I needed to drill down into what kind of shapeshifter we're dealing with.”

“Right,” G-Wiz said, “We might want to do that soon. What are the chances he's still in the city?”

“...It depends,” Ichabod said, “I've got a few ideas on what our shapeshifter could be.”

He was going upstairs to the library.

“Think Barb's got a book?” G-Wiz asked.

“Dear Barbara always has a book,” Ichabod said, “Our catalog is more extensive than you think. Much of it was collected by Titania Amber herself.”

He walked into the library, giving a nod to Barbara. The great toucan nodded back, a book perched in her claw titled, 'A History of Elfkind.'”

“Light reading, then?” Ichabod said.

Barbara clapped her beak in response. Her eyes narrowed at the cybernetic man.

“Right, bad joke,” Ichabod said.

“Morning, Barb,” G-Wiz said.

“Good morning, Galatea,” Barbara said, “Have you at last come to peruse something other than the music collection?”

“Oh, reading's not much for me,” G-Wiz said, “And I'm not much for reading. Ignore Ichabod – he's in a mood.”

“Ichabod's always in a mood,” Barbara said.

“True,” Ichabod said, “I need a book that you retrieved from the High Federation a few years ago. Converted from a datarod from one of the Library Worlds.”

“Which one?” Barbara asked.

“That one that covered the different species in the Elch-Dieran Paradigm,” Ichabod said.

Barbara rolled her eyes. She put her own book down and took off, flying to the ceiling, turning and gliding alongside the shelves before she deftly grabbed one from its place, flitting back down to her desk and presenting it to Ichabod.

“It's a High Federation record, Ichabod,” Barbara said, “You know the rules.”

“Right,” Ichabod said, “We'll keep it in here.”

He drifted over to one of the tables, book in hand. It was a larger tome, with a plain blue cover upon which read 'Elch-Dieran Paradigm: Record of Species and Races.' It had a nasty, plastic-y smell that made G-Wiz's nose crinkle. Federation records were usually stored in crystals, rows and rows of them, in cavern-like Library Worlds in the Iris and Inner Reach regions of the Silver Eye. The process that converted them into paper was artificial, esoteric, and lost to time – only the machines worked, somehow, in ways that even High Federation officials couldn't truly understand past the most basic of maintenance. What was known was that it gave off an awful stench. The paper probably wasn't even paper – just some weird replacement instead.

Ichabod flipped a couple of pages.

“Elch-Dieran Paradigm,” he said, “Region of the multiverse that's only in forecast every so often. A cluster of planes explored by Epochians almost thirty thousand years ago.”

“Neat,” G-Wiz said, “If I wanted metahuman history, I'd ask Becenti. I'd also be drunk as a loon.”

“Bah,” Ichabod said, “It's not the metahumans I'm interested in. Let me see here...”

He flipped through a couple pages. Then gave a grimace.

“Barbara!” he said, “Where the hell is Vicenorn?”

“Vicenorn?” Barbara said, “He was going to be helping Mallory and Lazuli out with some repairs to that gaudy machine they found.”

“Galatea, be a dear,” Ichabod said, “Get him.”

G-Wiz's eye twitched.

“Please,” Ichabod said.

“Better,” G-Wiz said, “You owe me big for this, Ichabod.”

“Mmhmm,” Ichabod said, flipping another page. G-Wiz stood up and walked out.

***

She found Vicenorn outside with Mallory and Lazuli, the three of them staring at a blocky excuse of an engine that they had just tried to power on. It obviously hadn't worked, as an ugly black smoke was guzzling out of its side, and the air around them smelled strongly of spent coal.

Vicenorn was a cybernetic man like Ichabod, though he hailed from Izos, the World of False Stars. He overall reminded G-Wiz of a crab in human form, his left arm replaced by a red-hued robotic chunk of cybernetics that was twice the size of his other arm. He carried himself like a crab, too, always swaggering about and taking up as much space as possible, as though he were trying to pull the world into him. He was scratching his red pepper beard as he looked at the smoking wreck.

“Told you, Laz,” he gruffed, “Shouldn't have brought it outside. Rain ruined the thing.”

Lazuli's head was a monitor, upon which was a digital rendition of a face. A face that was now rolling its eyes.

“If it gets busted by rain, then it was junk in the first place,” he said, “I mean, come on, I can stay out in the rain all day and not short-circuit!”

“Unfortunately,” Mallory grumbled.

“'Sup, dipshits,” G-Wiz said.

All three of them turned to her. G-Wiz felt a dark sense of delight at the dour look Mallory gave her.

“Hey, G,” Lazuli said, “What's up?”

“Not much,” G-Wiz said, “Hey, Vice, Ichabod wants you.”

Vicenorn nodded.

“Is that leg of his giving him trouble again?” he asked.

“What? No,” G-Wiz said, “We've got a couple o' questions for you, is all. Come on, he's in the library.”

Vicenorn nodded, turning around to look at the engine.

“I'd say strip it for parts, at this point. Mallory, a lot of this could probably be used for the Titania Amber. You said Becenti and Meleko were showing you how she worked?”

“Yeah,” Mallory said, “I'll take a look at it.”

“Lazuli, next time convince Mal that you need to do a rain-test. Those don't exist,” Vicenorn ordered.

Mallory shot a dark look at the android, who let out a beeping chuckle before the two of them got to work looking over the thing. Vicenorn turned back to G-Wiz.

“Right, then,” he said.

***

Ichabod turned as Vicenorn swaggered into the room. He gave a curt nod as the large, beet-faced man broke into a smile.

“You look a bit lost today, friend,” he said.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ichabod said, “It's nothing.”

“G-Wiz said you needed me. It's not the leg, is it?”

“It's not,” Ichabod said, “I assure you. Your work is flawless.”

He gave a smile, and G-Wiz was surprised to see that it was genuine.

“Bah, no such thing as flawless work,” Vicenorn said, “If it starts doing that squeaking sound again, you let me know.”

“Thank you,” Ichabod said. He let a nervous pause settle before continuing, “Now. To business.”

“Right,” Vicenorn said, “What have you got for me today?”

“You happen to read through the report that Joseph and Rosemary made about the gala?”

“No,” Vicenorn said, “You read through the reports in your spare time?”

“No,” Ichabod lied, and he shot G-Wiz a warning look, “Not often. Only for when I'm on a job. And G-Wiz and I are on a job.”

“Hmm,” Vicenorn said, “I know something went down, since Joseph's nose was all broken and his suit was in tatters. Rosie's dress was, too.”

“Joseph told me that a shapeshifter attacked them was non-Newtonian when not morphing,” Ichabod said, “Sound familiar?”

The old buccaneer scratched his beard for a few moments.

“Non-newtonian, aye?” he said, “Reminds me of something from my travels in the Elch-Dieran Paradigm.”

“Exactly!” Ichabod said, “I remember you telling me a bit about it. During that job in Enroi, with the moot and the story-telling challenge.”

“You hated it,” Vicenorn chuckled, “Should have seen the look on your face. As sour as a grape, you were.”

Ichabod's face became a very subtle tinge of red, though not enough for Vicenorn to notice, but G-Wiz could pick it out nonetheless. She tried not to burst into laughter.

“Regardless,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “I'm curious as to what your thoughts are.”

“I see you've got a book already,” Vicenorn said, “Non-Newtonian, aye? Like oobleck. Nasty stuff, when it rains...”

He swept forward, taking a look down at the book for a few moments. He flipped a couple of pages over.

“Aye, here we are,” he said, “Non-Newtonian shapeshifter. Maizimorphs, that's their name.”

“Maizimorphs?” G-Wiz said.

“Shapeshifters from Gadrad Zoon,” Vicenorn said, “But they were found on a couple of other planes, too. Nasty little bastards. I'm surprised there was one here. And Joseph was sure?”

“Yeah,” G-Wiz said, “He seemed pretty dead set on it.”

Vicenorn nodded, a somber look in his eyes.

“What's the story with these Maizimorphs, then?” Ichabod said.

“Well, they're outlawed by the High Federation,” Vicenorn said, “Not many left as a result. Feds had a big extermination campaign against them, a few years back.”

G-Wiz paled. Ichabod, however, nodded.

“So our man's an endangered species, then.”

“Completely,” Vicenorn said, “Most keep a low profile. I remember hearing stories of them in colonies built on their old honeycombs, back on Gadrad Zoon. They're like cryptids, at this point.”

“So our guy's a ghost,” Ichabod said.

Vicenorn nodded.

“Any idea who he could be working for?”

“A guild, most likely,” Vicenorn said, “One of those ones whose membership list is locked up tight, and whose membership is fluid.”

“Why a guild?” G-Wiz asked.

“If you got a license, and you look the part, you get no questions,” Ichabod said, “All the shapeshifter has to do is look pretty and have a license.”

“There's, like, a million guilds out there,” G-Wiz said.

“Then it's a question we'll have to ask him,” Ichabod said, “Let's keep that in mind. We at least have an idea of what to look for, aside from Mr. Zheng's rather generous description of 'he's a shapeshifter.'”

He closed up the book.

“Thank you for your help, Vice,” he said.

“Any time,” Vicenorn said, “If you need any more help with your investigation, I'm always here.”

“I've got enough muscle with Galatea, here,” Ichabod said.

“Besides, he's got to be able to concentrate,” G-Wiz said.

“Enough with that, now,” Ichabod said, his tone waspish, “Barbara! I'm making a copy of your book in my database.”

“Fine,” the toucan said. G-Wiz watched as Ichabod flipped through the pages detailing the Maizimorph, his eyes glowing neon green as he took in the records.

“Ah. Perfect,” he said.

And he closed up the book.

“I'll be heading out, then,” Vicenorn said, “Good hunting.”

“And with you,” Ichabod said.

“I'm... not hunting anything.”

Ichabod went a deeper shade of red.

“Oh, off with you,” he said.

Vicenorn chuckled, giving them a wave as he walked out of the library.

“What now?” G-Wiz asked.

“We know what to look for,” Ichabod said, “Now we just have to ask around the city, see if there's anyone – or anything – that matches what we're looking for.”

“Ichabod, he's a shapeshifter,” G-Wiz said, “Who can turn into anything if he wants to.”

“Not so,” Ichabod said, a smile creeping onto his face, “Come. Let's get to the Horrid Welt. I'll expect that Clytus has seen someone matching who we'll be looking for.”

“How?” G-Wiz said.

Ichabod was already walking out the door, trenchcoat swishing behind him.

“I'll explain on the way,” he said.