EASTHAVEN INDEX

THE RECOLLECTOR
--- An Easthaven Tale: year 5003 ---

Safe...

With a sigh of relief, Xaxnor Faversal settled into his fireside chair and watched as the flames licked hungrily at the manuscripts in the grate. Another few minutes - seconds, even - and all would be gone. The evidence of his last, failed business, of what he liked to think of as his creativity with his accounting and his debt repayments, would be cooling ashes ready to be scraped up, buried, and lost forever.

Losing things isn't always bad. He consoled himself with this thought. The last few months had been exhausting. He'd not made himself any wealthier, healthier or happier by what he'd done; but he knew that those who'd been on his back now had nothing on him. It had cost him time, money and, on one occasion, physical harm to obtain the papers now shrivelling and burning in the fireplace along with his own records, but it was worth it. No-one had any leverage, any advantage left.

And the fire was warm, and the fireside chair comfortable, and he was tired; so tired...

Suddenly he jumped almost out of his chair without knowing why. Shocked and shivering, his mouth dry and his tongue half-sticking to the roof of his mouth, he rocked back and struggled to come fully awake.

A second later, he realised what had roused him. A thunderous, second knocking on his front door sent another shudder through his body. He half-wondered who it might be at this hour, and half-dreaded that he knew the exact answer to that unspoken question.

"Coming... coming!" He had been so deeply asleep that his attempted shout came as little more than a croak - but it least it prevented a further assault on the door and his senses. He lurched over, loosened the chain across the jamb and undid the lock.

He hardly had time to swing the door open when he was almost bowled over by those who had crowded into his porch. "Hey-!" he started, but uselessly; he had no choice but to step back and allow the intruders in. As he shuffled out of their way, he counted five individuals. Three were anonymously dressed in dark coats and hats - though their smell was far from anonymous. Hired thugs, he guessed, no more than that, but more than enough threat for one man to manage.

He didn't recognise the fourth man, but knew what he was. A dark-red gown over a black suit marked him instantly as a courtier, a career bureaucrat whose only use here would be as a witness whose testimony would be accepted in a court of law.

And the fifth... Nonskevill. Of course. His principal creditor. Who else could he have expected, uninvited, at this time of night? Who else would be behind this? A thick-set face, as loathed as it was familiar, thrust itself forward towards him.

"Good evening, Ser Faversal." Nonskevill greeted him with a mock-politeness that bordered on insolence.

"Nonskevill." responded Xaxnor heavily. "A little late for you and your friends to be out, isn't it?"

"Not at all. We often do business in these latter hours." Nonskevill slowly moved his head round and about, looking at different parts of the room, pausing from time to time almost as if he were sniffing things out. "Are you content here?" he asked, almost irrelevantly. "This is very modest accommodation, really. Fairharbour offers much better elsewhere, you know."

"It suits." Xaxnor was in no mood for small-talk.

"Indeed, indeed." Nonskevill looked around once more, then suddenly swung back and faced Xaxnor directly. "To business, Faversal. I need those accounts and I need them now."

"I don't have them," Xaxnor replied as disarmingly and casually as he could, all too aware of the five pairs of eyes watching his every move.

"And I won't find them, of course. You've seen to that." Nonskevill cast a glance over at the fireplace.

"I don't have them. That's all I can say."

"Never mind," replied Nonskevill, almost distracted. "We'll get them from you - and soon. You see, I've got the means to do it, here and now."

"Hm. What've you brought, then?" Xaxnor snorted. "A dragon? An ice-giant?"

"No, no," replied Nonskevill with a gleam in his eye. "Nothing to frighten, nothing to intimidate. Just a chap who'll be able to get to the bottom of this for us."

"Without evidence, he's going to find that difficult." Xaxnor felt and heard the strain in his own voice. His bluff must be obvious to all in the room. But he still clung onto the knowledge that, in one way, he wasn't bluffing. The evidence really had gone.

"Yes. Well. We, ah, anticpated this... and we've obtained the services of someone who can, let's say, undo what you've done." A sudden chill indicated that the door had been opened again. The gaggle following Nonskevill parted for a moment to allow someone through, and a hooded, dark-robed figure sauntered easily into view and stopped just inside the doorway.

"This gentleman is a Recollector," stated Nonskevill simply. "He's going to clear up any - misunderstanding - about what's happened here this evening."

Xaxnor suddenly went very, very cold. For the first time in his life, he knew what it meant to have the blood drain from your face; he could feel it by the second. He couldn't believe what he had just been told.

"How did you -- " he choked on his words.

"-- afford him?" Nonskevill smiled casually at the newcomer. "Yes, they do come at a cost, don't they? And they don't normally stoop this low, of course... they look at murders, assassinations, large-scale robberies and the like - as you know. Just to see what really happened."

He turned back to Xaxnor, and his face lost its smile. "You've caused me a lot of grief these last few months, my friend. It's about connections. I've got them in high places. Because of you, one or two think it's me who's let them down, not you who's done me. But one's given me the benefit of the doubt. He's paid for our guest here to do some work for me - so's he can be reassured that I'm telling the truth."

The Recollector pulled his hood back, walked into the middle of the room and looked briefly around it. In the dwindling firelight, Xaxnor could see him much more clearly than he'd been able to in the doorway. He was a strange sight; he had a young, boyish face, with red hair and a ruddy, freckled complexion, but he was undoubtedly much older. His face was lined, quite deeply so around the eyes and mouth. Xaxnor put him in his early forties. What was disturbing, though, was his expression. From eyes which were ice-blue, cold and lifeless, from the set of the mouth and jaw which betrayed a total lack of interest in those around him, he radiated a sense of unease; not in himself, for he seemed totally composed and confident, but in others. He was setting those around him on edge, and he knew it, and he didn't care.

Xaxnor had held himself stock-still while the Recollector had made his inspection, and only moved - only breathed out, in fact - when the latter turned back towards him. To his surprise, he heard a rustling of clothing and a number of sighs around him at the same time, and he realised that his opponents had been affected in the same way.

For the first time, the Recollector spoke. He turned away from Xaxnor's gaze where he had held it, and looked towards Nonskevill and his cronies. "No problem. We're in good time."

What he said wasn't a surprise, but the way he said it was shocking. He spoke in an unreformed gutter accent, twisting his lips in a way that Xaxnor wouldn't have expected in any company that considered itself even remotely civilised. No-one grew up like this, ever. Even the most uncouth street-child would moderate a little what they said and how they said it as they got older, just to gain some advantage in life. The lowlife rawness of what Xaxnor had heard in that half-sentence was truly astonishing.

The courtier stepped forward, obviously trying to gain some authority over the situation, but looking (Xaxnor thought) as discomfited as the rest. He produced a pen and a writing-stand, and seated himself at Xaxnor's desk. "Then if you're ready... I declare myself prepared to be a formal witness to your recollection."

"Bet you do," sneered the redheaded man. He turned back to Xaxnor and held his gaze once more.

Xaxnor couldn't look away. The Recollector twisted the fingers of his right hand and produced between thumb and index finger, as casually as if he were a conjourer displaying a coin to an audience of children, a silver, marble-sized sphere. But the smile that went with the display would have sent those same children running in fear. Xaxnor knew a profound dread far within himself. He, too, could happily have run at that moment.

"Here we go." In a deceptively casual move, the Recollector turned and flicked the tiny sphere into the fireplace. It landed at the back of the grate amongst the glowing embers and ashes. A moment later, the room was flooded with a painfully bright blue-white incandescence. The sphere was burning without warmth, but brighter than daylight. It lost its solidity and expanded until it filled the volume of Xaxnor's quarters from floorboards to rafters. The glow became more tolerable, but only barely so - just enough for those within it to be able to look around with their hands shielding their eyes.

The Recollector was standing, concentrating but relaxed, with his hands extended palms-down towards the fireplace. Something stirred within the grate; bands of light and shadow seemed to chase each other across the blackened iron surface, and a snow-like cascade ascended towards the Recollector's hands. He turned his palms up, seemingly to catch it, and studied what he saw within his grasp. Finally he nodded and turned back towards Nonskevill.

"Gentlemen," he rasped, "I have it. I will present to you a recollection of the events which transpired in this room some three and a half hours ago. I give you that recollection... now!" The grandiose phrasing of the words was completely at odds with the sheer coarseness of the way they were spoken.

He flicked his fingers one more time, and it was as if the world turned pale and grey. The sphere's light was slowly waning; it was dying down to an eerie, deathly glow that seemed to sap the very colour from the world. Xaxnor had heard enough about recollections to know a little of what was happening; within the dome of pallid light cast by the sphere, the Recollector was about to bring the past forward to the here and now. He had seen a tiny preview in the glow of the fireplace, and had plucked out exactly the right moment for scrutiny - or the wrong one, thought Xaxnor bitterly, depending on your point of view.

Amazingly, he and those around him themselves seemed to be fading - or, rather, becoming transparent. He felt as real as ever, but somehow the present was being subsumed by the past of the earlier evening. He and the others had been relegated to the role of spectators, unable to influence what was going on in front of them.

Any moment now...

A mouse scuttled across the fireplace; the unlit fireplace. Gods, I'm not even here yet, thought Xaxnor. Then - startlingly sudden - keys rattled in the lock of the front door. Breathing heavily and beating his arms against the cold, a figure whom Xaxnor recognised as his three-hours-younger self hurried into the room, carrying a sheaf of bound and wrapped papers. Turned shadowy and blue-grey by some trick of the recollection process, he put the papers down on a small table near the door and lit the fire. The paper and kindling in the grate took instantly, and soon the logs were beginning to catch and crackle. That was quick, Xaxnor thought with some irony. Not bad preparation, really.

Within minutes, the paper and kindling had gone, and the logs were glowing brightly. The younger Faversal had sat down waiting for this moment, and now stood to pick up the papers, ready to feed them to the fire. The first sheet was in his hand, and he was crouching over the fireplace. The present Faversal could almost feel himself repeating the action in unison, but was painfully aware that his other self would never reach the point he had; that in the reality being paraded in front of him, at any second...

"Enough!" Even though it was expected, the Recollector's cry cut through him like a knife. The blue-grey Xaxnor froze, no movement, no breathing, no sign of awareness or existence. The Recollector stepped forward and plucked the sheet away, placing it on the pile with the others. "Gentlemen!" He had their full attention once more. "You know what happens now. You know that this is ghost-matter. You'll have it in your possession for no more than an hour, then it goes whence it came. I'd make the most of it if I were you; there's a lot to get through."

Not even bothering to look at Xaxnor, Nonskevill and the courtier pounced on the papers, one rapidly reading and summarising the figures and the other scribbling away in response. Xaxnor had slumped back into his chair, overwhelmed and defeated. Incredibly, he dozed; an uncomfortable half-sleep from which he was jerked back into consciousness from time to time by an exclamation, or an argument, or someone brushing past where he sat.

He realised at some stage that the Recollector and two of the three thugs had gone; and eventually he shook himself fully awake, just as Nonskevill and the courtier were putting the final, hurried touches to their report.

An hour, the Recollector had said; and sure enough, the scene before him was now fading silently away. He'd seen earlier one of the thugs experimenting by trying to grab hold of his spectral self, but had only succeeded in grasping thin air. How, then, the Recollector had made the documents into solid, albeit temporary form, Xaxnor had not the faintest idea. These papers, though, were now fading, crumbling, starting to look, in fact, exactly like the blackened scraps which they had earlier become when burnt.

Soon even these had vanished. Nonskevill and the courtier made a few last notes and had a brief, whispered consultation. Both men then rose and prepared to leave. "Well, Ser Faversal," grinned Nonskevill as he looked over towards the fireside chair. "At least you and I can both say in truth that we've seen a ghost!" His manner was almost jovial; it was disturbing.

"No," replied Xaxnor, "I'd have to be dead before you saw my ghost."

"Exactly." Nonskevill lost his smile once more. "That day will come, and soon. But until then, you're more use to me alive. I'll see you in court." With that, he walked - swaggered, in fact - towards the door, swirling his cloak and trailing the courtier and the remaining thug behind him.

Something had stirred at the back of Xaxnor's mind in his drowsy state, and he decided on impulse to bring it into the open. He had nothing to lose, after all. "Hey!" he shouted. "Nonskevill!"

"What?" The other was clearly now bored with the whole affair.

"Why did your contact pay for all this tonight?"

"I told you; to give me the chance to clear myself. What of it?"

"I've just thought of something. I'm real small-fry, right?"

"Right." Nonskevill was clearly wondering where all this was going.

"Suppose this was just a dry-run? Suppose there were other people they wanted to check, higher up the chain? What d'you think might happen if they put a Recollector on you?"

Xaxnor immediately knew that he had scored a point and made an even more hostile enemy than before. Something had hit home, and Nonskevill froze with a glare of hatred and fear. But he merely repeated "I'll see you in court," and flew out through the door, trailing the others behind him.

Xaxnor walked slowly across to the fireplace where everything had started. At the base of the grate was a small, blackened pebble. He recognised it as the remains of the sphere which the Recollector had cast earlier. Suddenly, in temper, he picked it up and threw it, smashing it with all his force against the back of the fireplace. He had expected it to bounce back hard at him, increasing his frustration even more, but instead it crushed easily against the stone surface and spattered it like coal-dust. He turned his back on the scene and walked away.

"Leaving already?"

Xaxnor whirled in total shock. It was the Recollector's voice, unquestionably, but from where? He looked in panic around the room, realising at the same time the stupidity of what he was doing. Where could anyone hide in a one-room house, for the Gods' sake?

"Behind you!" As it said, so the voice was. Xaxnor turned again to the fireplace, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck at what he saw. The sooty remains of the sphere had fallen from the fireplace wall, and floated and coalesced into a cartoon of the Recollector's face. It was merely a sketch, with the bare details present, but it was recognisable; and the eyes, though black instead of blue, showed more detail than anything else and seemed as keen and sharp as their originals.

"Surprised?" The face formed a grin. Xaxnor couldn't reply for a moment; he had seen more than enough to test him and try him this evening. Eventually, he managed a sullen "What do you think?"

"I'll tell you what I think." The voice was different. It was thin and reedy as though coming from a distance, but there was more than that. It was still sharp and rough, but it had lost the grinding, gutter edge which it had possessed two hours previously. "I think you've been stupid." Xaxnor was about to utter an angry retort, but the voice interrupted him. "But you know it; and you've ten times the intelligence Nonskevill has - otherwise you wouldn't have fooled him for so long. What was stupid was not knowing when to stop. Am I right so far?" Xaxnor nodded dumbly.

"Here's another thing. You were right just now; you're bait to catch much larger fish. But Nonskevill's the same. This is over your head, and his, even over mine. It's just that each of us knows a bit more than the other. I've no clue who the big fish is, but I've got an idea how high all this goes - right to the heart of Easthaven. Things are going to shake up good and proper, I reckon."

"Why are you telling me this?" Xaxnor asked. "Aren't the small-fry supposed to be kept in ignorance?"

"There's someone who thinks you could be useful. No idea who, but they've been keeping an eye on you for a while. And they're going to hide you while some surprising evidence is unearthed which is going to clear you in court."

"What's the catch?" Xaxnor was talking to a disembodied head made of soot which was claiming that the impossible would happen and his name would be cleared. He expected any moment to wake up.

"You'll be working for these people. They won't be easy taskmasters - you'll earn every minute of your freedom, I'd imagine."

There wasn't any choice, nor was there any question, save one. "What do I need to do?"

"I'll give you a name and a place. You've got tonight; they can't arrest you before daybreak. Sort yourself out and get ready. The name is Colistur; the place is Hook Rise. Go there, and use that name. That's all I can tell you - " As it spoke these last words, Xaxnor could see that the face was breaking up, falling away, with only the eyes remaining. "Colistur... Hook Rise..." The eyes finally imploded and their soot fell back to the floor.

So the Recollector had left this trace of himself to help, warn and advise. Xaxnor still didn't know why, but he did know that he had a second chance. He'd never been one to pass up an opportunity, and he'd do his level best to look after himself, no matter what it took or what it cost. It was what he was good at.

It didn't take long to gather things together. What he possessed and what he needed to take were almost one and the same, and soon he was ready. A strange pang of conscience struck him as he realised how pleased he was that the rent was up to date; the elderly landlady had treated him well, and he took a minute to leave her a hasty note of explanation. Then he was done. He left the house, closed the door behind him, and as a final thought pushed the keys back through the letter-box.

Safe? No longer, it seemed; but even as he faced an uncertain future, he was glad that now he at least had one. He straightened his collar, pulled it close around his neck as a gesture against the chill of the pre-dawn, and walked away.

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EASTHAVEN INDEX