#thornquist

[smugglers-bible]

Thornquist

The phlogiston lamps get dimmer as Ossian Thornquist descends. Weak flames glimmer behind frosted globes caked with soot that nobody has bothered to clean. He slides between doorways and alley-mouths, following the chittering group of men—and their prize.

The girl is unconscious, not dead. He’s sure of it this time. They’ll save her for the ceremony at the crumbling factory they call a temple. But that will take time. Precious time which they have squandered already.

Thornquist will lead with the pistol like a gentleman, but after that—oh! his mouth almost waters in anticipation of the close work.

this is a story about ossian thornquist.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,101 | Thornquist

Thornquist steps carefully, gliding like silk, preferring vantages submerged in darkness. He is alert, always, to his footing. Ankles have been turned on sillier things than an a cracked sherry flask.

The beast is ahead, and not far, hunting and itself hunted, just out of sight. A further complication: Thornquist has become aware of a third dancer in the waltz, clumsier than his partners, tripping along in the rear. Perhaps, he dares hope, the beast's master.

So they go, tense as the strangler's wire, eyes straining for the faintest glimmer of advantage. One shallow spark. A diamond on black velvet.

a story concerning Ossian Thornquist.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,090 | Thornquist

The beast hunting in the crumbling under-quarter has been absent once in three weeks, the night after some workers tipped a barrel of burning refuse across its back. Or so they planned. Only one of them survived until morning, and in no condition to precisely elaborate.

Thornquist packs six vials with phlogiston congealed into a mixture of gunpowder and magnesium. Assuming an antipathy toward flame caused the reprieve, there's enough fire here to encourage a much longer retirement. If, instead, it was the rubbish that mattered, more of that can be had. He just won't carry it in his pocket.

a story concerning Ossian Thornquist.

[smugglers-bible]

№ 1,079 | Thornquist

Ossian Thornquist winds the spring of the little pocket watch and places it carefully on the table in the corner. The spot, he judges, least likely for a body to land. One of the men in the hall scuffs his boot and another hisses for quiet. There is a period of silence while they freeze, wondering if Thornquist has heard them.

He would have rushed in. Well, no, he wouldn't have tripped on the rug. But once you've made that kind of mistake, hesitation will only compound the error.

Thornquist draws his sword. Some lessons you just learn too late.

a story concerning Ossian Thornquist.

[smugglers-bible]

Thornquist

Thornquist watches until the warehouse is entirely demolished. His clothes are filthy with ashes and one of the firemen mistakes him for a comrade. The man offers him a shovel to help scrape the embers for valuables. Any little trinket will do, and it is amazing the sorts of things which can survive the inferno.

Cremuel is waiting for him in the alley. He stands from a squat, tucks something carefully into his shirt.

“Scoundrel,” Thornquist says. “You allowed yourself to be bribed.”

“Of course I did. These great men consider it a terrible insult if you refuse their money.”

[smugglers-bible]

Cremuel

The grain burns like sawdust. A tongue of flame erupts from the mouth of an enormous cannon, followed by a warm breeze and rolling thunder that rattles the windows.

“Perhaps I didn’t know about the poison.”

“Come now.”

“Yes, well, only later, you see,” the Burgrave says, closing the shutters. “The poor have to eat, after all.”

“And you will continue to see that they do.”

“What if I make another mistake?”

“You will be much more careful. Or you won’t. You could buy cheap grain again.”

“I would save a great deal of money.”

“Sir, you would die rich.”

[smugglers-bible]

Cremuel

He moves through the corridors, the hem of his cloak gliding above the floor at about the height of an inch-bug. There is no breathing, no footsteps. There is no Cremuel. His shadow, perhaps, wavers slightly in the dull yellow light that drips from the wall sconces and pools on the carpets.

He has seen two men to bed, but the Burgrave is still pacing about. Cremuel can hear him shouting. A back staircase, a pass-key newly acquired—he barges into the room.

“No time, sir, no time,” Cremuel says. “I’m sorry to tell you, but this is an ultimatum.”

[smugglers-bible]

Thornquist

The glow creeps through the warehouse, red and orange billowing like a flag in the currents of hot air. Thornquist pulls the men out onto the dock. They are innocent. Three of them have taken ill themselves after stealing from the store they were guarding.

He sits on a wooden post and watches the harbor. It reminds him of sunrise the way the color grows in the dark, dark waters. Soon, one of the men begins to stir.

“The fire brigade is coming,” Thornquist says. “They won’t save the building, but if you help them try, I’ll break your ribs.”