Aubrey stared from the doorway. For a moment he thought that they’d stumbled into a meeting of a fraternity of extremely well-behaved bears.
Kiefer sniffed, then – quite obviously – regretted it, for it meant that he inhaled more than he needed to of the rich aroma that fought with the light for possession of the air.
Von Stralick took charge. He strode between the tables, looking straight ahead, and confronted the barman. Aubrey, feeling that in unity there was strength, hurried along behind, with Kiefer, who was still struggling for breath, and George – who was doing his best to look formidable.
The barman was short, but he was as broad as two men. He had shaggy, shoulder-length hair. His hands were spread on the bar in front of him, ready, as it were, for anything.
‘Are you gentlemen lost?’ the barman said, making a fair stab at civility. As long as he didn’t make a fair stab in any other way, Aubrey was satisfied with this.
‘I don’t think so,’ von Stralick said. ‘This is the Blue Dog?’
The barman turned this over, let it brown for a moment or two, then judged it was done. ‘Could be,’ he allowed.
‘Well, we’re looking for ghost hunters.’
‘A pity,’ the barman said, only missing a verse or two of beats, ‘there’s no ghost hunters around here.’
Aubrey sighed. He knew evasion when he saw it, being somewhat of an expert. Even without turning around, he had the sense of dozens of pairs of ears listening to every word. He had the distinct feeling that they were getting the preliminaries to a very long run-around. It was time to change the game, he decided, so he stepped forward. ‘A pity indeed,’ he announced in his clearest Holmlandish, ‘because I have a hundred marks for the best ghost hunter in Fisherberg.’
Aubrey hadn’t meant to start a brawl, but he was proud that having initiated one it became such a good brawl. Once von Stralick, Kiefer, George and he were safely on the same side of the bar as the barman, he watched in wide-eyed wonder as the furry men hurled themselves about the tavern in an attempt, presumably, to be the last standing and thus the only one able to claim the role as best ghost hunter in Fisherberg.
Seeming to defy the laws of physics, and most of the laws of Fisherberg, they howled, bit, kicked, wrestled, headbutted, punched and flung each other in all directions until the bar room was full of flying furry bodies filling all available space. Benches and tables were pressed into service, splintered, abandoned, cursed at and then forgotten as it got down to hand-to-hand assault. Aubrey saw ghost hunters hurled against the giant uprights with such force that – if correctly harnessed – it could power entire cities; he stared in amazement as the flungees simply staggered to their feet, shook themselves in furry outrage and waded back into the fray.
When he saw a ghost hunter thrown against one of the large windows and simply bounce off he shrugged, accepting that the glass had transmogrified over the years due to its exposure to the air of the room into something only remotely glasslike.
Gradually, it became apparent that little actual damage was being done in the fracas. The heavy furs that swaddled the ghost hunters acted not just as insulation and homes to entire species of insects, but as padding. Equally apparent was that this expenditure of energy in mayhem had a ritual aspect about it, as if it had been done many times before. Singly, then in twos and threes, the ghost hunters reached some sort of understanding of their place in the great pecking order of ghost hunters. After picking themselves up and dusting themselves off, the lesser ghost hunters sauntered off, leaving the tavern with the air of people who just remembered an appointment. Not an important appointment, just a mildly diverting one, like a chance to see a man about an interesting dog.
Once this part of the process had begun, things moved quite swiftly. Dozens became scores became tens became a handful. Then it was two ghost hunters facing off, snarling oaths that sounded blood-curdling but were incomprehensible to Aubrey’s ear. They circled each other, arms outstretched, like giant fuzzy crabs. Then, in a perfect pantomime that could have been seen by a shortsighted audience member in the rearmost of the back stalls, one of the two – they were quite indistinguishable – straightened, snapped his fingers, spun on his heel and limped toward the doorway.
The remaining ghost hunter rubbed his hands together for a moment then ambled to the bar. ‘You have a hundred marks?’
Fleetingly, Aubrey wondered what would happen if he said no. Pushing the impulse aside, he took out his wallet. ‘Are you a ghost hunter?’
The triumphant warrior beat his chest with the flat of a hand. ‘Bruno Fromm is the best in Fisherberg.’ Pause. ‘Best in Holmland.’
George took this carefully. ‘You’re certainly the only one still here, at any rate.’
‘Those others? Impostors. Cheats. Fools.’
‘You know them well?’ von Stralick said.
‘Fromm should. They are Fromm’s cousins.’
Bruno Fromm peered at them from the narrow gap between the brim of his furry hat and the start of his woolly beard. His eyes were dark and shiny, glinting through the steam of the coffee cup in front of him. ‘You want to find a ghost.’
Aubrey, George, Kiefer and von Stralick were on the other side of the righted table. At Fromm’s insistence, they’d been supplied with coffee as well. Aubrey had sniffed his, but not tasted it since he had an aversion to sipping anything that promised to dissolve his teeth. ‘A special ghost.’
‘Ah.’ Fromm stared at his coffee. The movements of his cap made Aubrey realise that he was wrinkling his brow underneath all that fur. ‘Fromm thought you were just sightseers.’
‘Sightseers?’ George said.
‘Rich folk. Want to see a ghost. Plenty of them about.’
‘Rich folk or ghosts?’ von Stralick asked.
‘Both, lately. Lots and lots of ghosts, lots of work for ghost hunters.’ Fromm grinned with a mouthful of startlingly good teeth. ‘But finding what you’re after, something special, that’s different.’
‘You can’t do it.’ Aubrey made motions to rise.
Fromm shook his head. ‘Fromm didn’t say that. Fromm just said it was different.’
‘How?’
‘Costs more.’
‘How much?’
‘How much is it worth?’
‘What if I offer you fifty? After which you’ll get all offended and demand two hundred, and I’ll get up to leave only to hear you suggest a hundred.’
Fromm looked nonplussed, then suspicious. ‘You’re making fun of Fromm?’
‘Not all. I don’t mind haggling. I just don’t like the time it takes, so I sped through it. For both our sakes.’
‘A hundred?’ Fromm brightened. ‘Must be important. Someone close? Relative? A friend?’
‘A friend of a friend,’ von Stralick said. George snorted.
Fromm drained his coffee and rose. For a moment, he stood there and examined his hands. ‘They’re not really ghosts, you know.’
Aubrey was alert. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Fromm can see you’re not stupid. Not just looking for cheap thrills, you. So Fromm doesn’t want to lead you astray.’
‘If they’re not ghosts,’ Aubrey said carefully, ‘what are they?’
The ghost hunter groped for words. ‘Ghosts are meant to be what some people leave behind when they die.’
‘That’s the story,’ Aubrey said. The room had become tense. George, Kiefer and von Stralick were silent. Kiefer had grasped the edge of the table and was leaning forward as if that would make him remember better.
‘Good story. Not good truth,’ Fromm said. ‘When we die, souls don’t linger here. They go somewhere else.’
Aubrey was very still. Could the crude magic of the ghost hunters shed some light on his condition? When his soul had been wrenched from his body, it had immediately been drawn to the portal that led to the true death. No chance of loitering, ghost-like, haunting anyone or anything.