The Gnome Office squad room is unpretentious; two ancient partner desks set at not quite right angles to each other, atop a threadbare carpet, which has seen better days, three one-way windows facing Number 8 Downing Street’s thronging protestors waving their “Gnomes Go Home” banners, and a surfeit of briefing papers covering every surface, each emblazoned with “Urgent: Office of the Prime Minister” and stamped in red with “PLEASE IGNORE – Office of Queen Flaxmain.”
The noise of disco music coming from the Serious Frog Office in the adjacent room seeps through the walls as a dull thrumming, just loud enough to create compression waves in Ironbell’s Bracken-Tea.
“Umros, could you ring the frogs and tell them to turn that racket down?” Inspector Camden Ironbell says as he plumps his flattened seat cushion for the third time that morning.
Sergeant Umros Lightweasel waves her shell-phone and rolls her eyes. “I’ve tried, sir. They’re just ignoring me.”
“Have you threatened to arrest the buggers?” Ironbell lowers his eyebrows, an act akin to dropping a pair of Bonsai privet hedges from an upturned soup tureen.
“I’ll call the desk and get them to send a constable around. That should sort them out,” Umros answers as she punches numbers into her phone.
“Desk, Constable Biter speaking. What can I do for you?” says a deep rumbling voice.
“Ah Biter, just the man, err thing. Can you get yourself around to the frogs and stop them making such a racket?” Umros says. Before she can close the clamshell, the sound of clomping footsteps echo through the corridor, followed by a door splintering, a few croaking screams, and blessed silence.
“That seems to have done it,” Umros smiles sheepishly at her senior officer.
“Excellent. Nothing like a bit of police violence to start the day.” Ironbell sips his tea and his face lightens.
“I’ll order a clean-up crew,” Umros says tapping a message into her desktop disputer[1].
“Before you do that, what’s the gorecast for today?” Ironbell asks leaning forward until his beard brushes the green leather surface of his desk.
“I haven’t done it yet. One mo’, sir,” Umros reaches into her satchel and pulls out a small chamois bag. Opening the bag, she casts the contents; pebbles inscribed with grunes[2], onto her desk.
“Well, what does it say?” Ironbell snaps.
“Pretty much normal for this time of year, sir. Two vampires coming in from the east, an outbreak of goblins on the south coast, and, oh hello, what’s this?” Umros points at a blank space between two grunes.
Ironbell rises from his chair and walks around to look at the grunes. “That’s just the sponsorship message. It says, ‘Jack’s Funeral Planning: we bury your concerns’.”
“No, not that, THIS,” Umros stabs a finger at the blank space.
“It’s between the dark cosmos and the light kingdom. That can only mean…” Ironbell pauses, astonishment creeping across his face.
“The FAE,” they say together.
“What on Earth can have happened to the Fae?” Umros squeaks. Everyone knows the Fae are timeless and eternal. Surely one of them can’t have died, she thinks. That’s impossible, they aren’t even alive. They just ARE!
“I think, Sergeant, we are about to find out,” Ironbell says as the door opens to reveal a regal figure hovering in the frame.
“Jehosophat,” exclaims Umros, leaping to her feet and spraying the grunes across the floor. Umros wasn’t often lost for words, but she stood there sputtering like an overfull kettle.
“Please, officers, sit down. This isn’t a state visit. I’m here in a private capacity.” Queen Flaxmain Orchestra of the Monothusal Fae says in a tone full of vocal fry, but more like a pleasant natural resource than the teen affectation adopted by Fairwucks baristas.
Umros Lightweasel immediately, and without reservation, fell utterly in love, her eyes shining like the headlamps on a midnight carriage returning from a society ball.
Queen Flaxmain stands no more than a metre and a half tall, but to Lightweasel’s eyes, every centimetre is as perfect as a Sunday afternoon at her Nan’s when she has a cream tea on the table and a box of mint chocolates on the sideboard.
“Here, take this,” Queen Flaxmain offers a dried leaf, which smells of aniseed and custard, to Lightweasel. “It’ll help with the hotmones.”
“Do you mean hormones?” Lightweasel stammers, as she takes the leaf from Flaxmain’s silky smooth, long fingered, and immaculately manicured hand; and swallows it.
“I know what I mean, young lady,” the Queen responds, and takes a hovering step towards Ironbell. “Inspector, I’ve come to see you about the murder.”
“Which murder would that be, your highness?” Ironbell says, his eyes an object lesson in focus.
“The foulest murder, Inspector, of a fae,” Queen Flaxmain replies flatly.
“But that’s impossible. Fae aren’t alive,” stammers Umros, who is rapidly returning to her chilled self.
“You don’t need to tell me that, sergeant,” Queen Flaxmain says. She settles on the floor, pulls out a sheet of vellum from her cape pocket and hands it to Ironbell.
Ironbell scans the sheet, his eyes widening as he reads. “It says here Gingerbell Bordoreen of the Approximate Direction Fae is trapped in a timeless void near Borough Market’s back entrance.”
“Yes, that kind of magic hasn’t raised its head since the goblin wars. It can only mean one thing, inspector,” Queen Flaxmain says.
“A human wizard, adept in the arts of sock magic, is abroad,” Ironbell says his lips drawn tight.
“Indeed. Can I leave it with you and the sergeant?” Queen Flaxmain says floating towards the door.
“You can indeed, ma’am. We won’t let you down,” Ironbell says, his head bowing slightly.
“Thank you,” she says, and with that she disappears in a puff of perfectly scented pink smoke.
“What, what, what, was that all about? And what’s sock magic? And how can a Fae be frozen in time, and…” the words stream from Umros like bees escaping from a burning hive.
“One at a time, sergeant,” Ironbell says, his voice like steel.
“Yes, sir,” Umros says, visibly calming herself.
“Sock magic is the kind practised by the old human wizards of Earth. It has as its precept that socks are magic, and you only have to wear the right colour and pattern to gain great power over the fortitudes of the universe. A remnant exists today when someone says they’re putting on their lucky socks to ensure their kneeball team wins a cup match. Of course, it doesn’t work because sock magic was banished in the settlement with the goblins after the war,” Ironbell sits down and pours another cup of bracken-tea. He ponders this. If sock magic comes back, then the goblins will kick off, unless, of course, they are behind it… or some greater power is. He shudders at this thought. The gods had all buggered off to Andromeda, wherever that was, and were last seen making the lives of some three-legged alien race of theosophical pigeons an utter misery.
“What about the frozen Fae?” Umros says, interrupting his reverie.
“Hmm yes. I have an idea about that,” Ironbell says without expanding on his thesis.
“Yes, aaaand…” prompts Umros.
“It all has to do with Directional Field Theory. Every being, even fae, has a direction of travel. It’s what turns acorns into shoots, and shoots into trees. They’re just following their field of growth. If you take away a fae’s direction, they remain in the same Space-Time place, and that, sergeant, is for all eternity. They are to all intents and purposes, dead, fallen into the void,” Ironbell says, his voice quietly patient as if he were schooling a particularly irascible child.
“A bit like a wave then, sir?” Umros offers. She’s keen on science, especially human science, which is hilariously mechanistic and completely at odds with the reality of the universe.
“Not exactly, sergeant. There are three kinds of waves. Waves in water, waves in air, and the waves I made saying goodbye to my social life when I decided to become a police officer,” Ironbell says as he walks over to the hatstand and dons his deer-stalker.
“Are we going somewhere?” Umros says getting to her feet.
“We are, sergeant. We’re heading to Wales. The only creatures who might know something about sock magic are the holders of the Keys of Forbidden Knowledge; the Tylwyth Teg.”
“I’ll get Constable Biter to saddle up some horses, then,” Umros says, picking up her shell-phone.
“Not horses this time, sergeant. We must travel with all speed. Call a taxi-punt to take us to Paddington. We’re getting the train.”
“Golly,” says Umros. She is a city girl-gnome, and trains are something of a myth to her. Still, she can see science in action, she thinks. She’s not sure if she likes this.
[1] Disputers are the aptly named devices used to argue with strangers on the Worldwide Wibble.
[2] Grunes: gnomic runes. Grunes are similar in nature to Nordic runes, only without the added inaccuracies bedevilling the Skandy version. Lightweasel is fond of saying, “The Vikings should stick to making brod, and leave divination to those who know things about time.”
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