“Incantation: first formalized, Aer-derived evocation technique. Once synonymous with evocation. Foremost technique within Kainomancy. To speak was to evoke; to call-forth change from within oneself. Likewise, invocation was termed so due to the practice of calling-upon spirits from without oneself. See also: Gramarye, Pneuma, Calling.” – Continental Arcopedia

  Early afternoon air suited them both, despite the currents of people flocking to the riverside. Adamari slowed first, hands on her hips as her breathing evened out. Lancarra matched her quickly, still springy and sharp. “Well, that’s my distance,” she said, wiping sweat from her neck. “You heading back this way? My car’s just around the corner.”

  “For a bit,” replied Adamari. “But I’d rather stroll to the station.”

  Lancarra shook her head haughtily. “You’re still mad about the other night?”

  “You’ve been known to do worse, Reza. I just need to wind down on my own.”

  The scoff was swift and spurning. “Fine,” she ceded dismissively, smoothing her tracksuit. “Enjoy your lonely walk.”

  “You too.”

  Lancarra made another sound just for herself and started toward a nearby street without looking back. Adamari waited until her footsteps joined into the city noise before continuing again, slower, alongside the Ayun’s stream.

  The river moved green and gliding. The walkway following its curve was paved with multiform and diverse flagstones. Like many facades in Eisenstadt, it symbolized pan-Continental unity. Sycamores and plane trees lined the flanks, with periodic beech copses. Their combined canopies filtered the sun into patterns of gold and gray. Aethyric delights in the center of mundanity. Benches and water spigots stood in spaced distances; each marked with a little plaque from some civic awareness effort. Kenotaphs and other War memorials were unavoidable.

  Tourists wandered idly by, snapping photographs and halting by kiosks to consider canned drinks or polished pebble pendants. Native Eiseners avoided this stretch of the walkway, calling it performative and over-mythologized. It was also quieter and dimmer than most of Central Eisenstadt.

  Adamari crossed a bridge over a minor canal when she heard the recognizable performance. With his back straight, his hands moved without hesitation over a harnessed contraption. The layered and unpredictable notes came from something handmade, a thing with too many valves, bells and chimes. And beneath it all, an old and orotund voice narrating a loresong forcefully and fluently. She stopped, observing well the white, hairy face surrounded by wolf pelt. Thomas Chandrin. I should say hello. He still called himself Howley, although she could recall only one of his titles: The Berserker Bard.

  More than a dozen tourists stood engaged, breaking the likeness of reverence with their snapshots. When the last tone faded and his voice settled into a final breath, the crowd responded with claps, compliments and coins. A few freshly converted banknotes also fell into his bag. Within moments, they had all dispersed, continuing their chase for the next Eisenstadt sight.

  Only then did Adamari step forward. “Mr. Howley, can I talk to you for a moment?” she asked, tone between formality and familiarity.

  “Talk? Did you tip?” he said, shaking his bag of offerings and smiling. “You sound official, but not officer-like. I know you?”

  “Fran Adamari. Bureau of Arcane Affairs. I’d show you my badge…”

  “But it’s pointless? Oh, I remember the surface well: some coarse bird, hiding itself with its wings. Where’s your friends?”

  “That’s the one. Mind if we step away somewhere less crowded. I’ll help you carry your things.”

  Howley stashed his bag behind his furs and left the instruments for her. “Lead the way,” he added, extending an open hand for her.

  *

  The little café she chose was tucked under the stairway leading up to a tram station. Adamari wheezed as she lowered his self-devised arsenal of instruments and accessories. The largest one seemed to be a carriable carillon. They sat outside on repurposed pews, separated from the walkway by a row of festooned beeches. Their coffee was strong and the atmosphere easeful. “Three new reports since I assumed the position,” she managed between gasps. “All separate and nearly identical. People think you’re evoking air around, Howley.”

  “Oh,” he said parting his mustache for the cup. “I’m a threat to public safety again? Or maybe sigh too clamorously…”

  “Bureau takes Elementalism and its derivations very seriously.”

  “Sorry to say this, but you work in a funny farm. Glad you took your leave of it for a while.” He chuckled and sipped, seemingly staring off into the sky.

  Adamari studied him anew. Severe cataracts concealed what little color was in his withered face. Hoary hair and braided beard engulfed his head and upper torso. Despite his stout Lomanaha build, Howley appeared unusually wispy, nearly sagacious. Not even the berserker garb of wolfskin and driftwood could obscure the typical signs of a body shaped by long Aeromantic cultivation. And it’s not enough. He's too careful… “The first one said you were levitating leaves. The second said your music made scarves flutter against the wind. The third claimed that you conjured up a complete choir. Any thoughts on that?”

  He gave a sharp snort, followed by a wheezing laugh. “Serious stuff. What do you call it? Incantation? Still, being loud don’t make me no arcanicist.”

  Now he’s just playing with me. “I know you’re not an arcanist, Howley. Hess always thought the reports were outlandish. Plenty in the new Bureau don’t.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do… But I also wonder why you aren’t one.”

  “I’m good as I am, uncultivated,” he responded passionately. “Don’t need Bureau licensing. Don’t want Guild oversight. The whole thing’s too abstruse and archaic for cur like me.”

  “Art or not, you do... interesting things. People see you and suspect things.”

  “They suspect easily and see less than I do. Breath has a right to dance.”

  “And you never studied the Arts? Not curious, at all?”

  “Not my vocation, dearie. I only imitate what breezes down the mountains. No Masters or Seniors – with their codices and casts. Just memory and rhapsody. Some people study. I listen, interpret and repeat.” He finished the coffee and began returning his beard to its natural disorderliness. “Although I do admit to plagiarizing a few incantations. Just the silly words. Isn’t there a quote about true artists thievin’ and stealin’?”

  “Sounds like Sorcery. Some have suspected you invoke sylphs.”

  “Oh, I invoke. My muses are many; I fear neither reverence, nor revelry. Spirit or soubrette, I listen when purred to.”

  “You shouldn’t talk so lightly about it,” blurted Adamari out of frustration. “Especially, not to someone from the Bureau.”

  “Well, I won’t kyoodle with just anyone. Speaking of which, I remember you as part of a trio. Where’s the baritone and sulky tenor? Forgive me, names are my least favorite sounds. I forget.”

  “Hess retired four years ago. Stravinsky also returned to the Bureau. He’s in my Division. We don’t work together much.”

  “I remember one of them mentioning you dabbled with the mandolin. That I don’t forget. You keep at it?”

  “No, unfortunately, too many things going on. I almost didn’t bring it with me when I came back.”

  “Ah, shame. Shame… Always sad to see a group split up and talent go to waste. Glad I don’t have to worry about that!”

  They talked more but not markedly; about the city and countryside, their blights and blessings. When enough was said and farewells exchanged, Adamari gathered her lighter and cigarettes to leave the café. Howley moved with surprising dexterity, folding and fastening his contraptions in a few unaided gestures. By the time she reached the stairs to the tram, his new notes found her. Not the heavy, jangling chorus of valves and bells, nor the urban loresongs he liked to rhapsodize. A lone flute; light and reedy, green in its clarity.

  For a moment she stood, foot floating between treads and right hand clutching the railing. Wordless air seemed to beckon her back down. Then the notes thinned, weaved back by the wind, and slipped back into crowd of the walkway. Howley had fluttered off. I should find and dust off that old thing. Adamari blinked, shook her head and lower her foot onto the metal. Hearing the screeching roar of the tram, she hurried up the remaining stairs to catch the line home.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  *

  Conference room A held all the AAD recruits, SI Kotko and DL Adamari. It was not a compulsory briefing, but the Juniors had arrived on time. Though not without some small hints of reluctance. Adamari explained the importance of such meetings and their simple structure.

  “So it’s like a lecture?” asked JI Sahkin.

  Adamari nodded with a guilty smirk on her face and let Kotko begin. The Senior Investigator was a tall, Vanahan woman with the mien of someone who had outgrown both vanity and insecurity. Her short hair was a soft peachy color and her hazel eyes signaled that she shared in Sahikin’s unenthusiasm. Adamari had always thought of her as an aloof ailurophile without the softness of the stereotype. Instead, she had a reputation for being exact, blunt and not wholly immune to flattery.

  “… and here’s the source of the problem: inefficiency,” she was saying. “Time-consuming, too structured and potentially incriminating for the person reporting in the infestation. Bureau officials tend to ask questions that regular people don’t know how to answer or would prefer not to. For many, the Bureau is more bothersome than the spirit. Hence the emergence of private exorcisms – colloquially known as spiriting away.

  “You already know how exorcisms work. Standardized, approved and controlled by the Bureau, realized by our own Necromancy Division. Our solemn colleagues in the basement take their time, log fieldwork, follow procedures and file reports. Just like us. The spirit is exorcised and extinguished – severed and silenced in popular parlance. The Elemental remnants are carefully preserved in our Archive. Clean, and, usually, without complications.

  “Many in Eisenstadt think that the whole thing is terribly uneconomical and a waste of resources.” A few chuckles in the crowd. “Why silence something you can utilize? Not an original thought, and many people have figured out how to process spirits instead of destroying them. There are plenty of private spiritists who will pull a daimon right out of your grandmother or plumbing for a fraction of the cost, no forms required, no Bureau oversight, and most importantly: they get to keep whatever they exorcise. Win-win.

  “The practice is illegal, but a decent business. Quick, efficient, and, for a budget price, discreet. Hauntings and possessions don’t wait weeks or for approval. Those who linger rarely loiter. People want them gone, now, and they don’t like wasting time answering Bureau questions.

  “Then there's the question of what happens to all those exorcised but un-extinguished spirits. As you should know, the trade is vast and varied. Now… This is where the entrepreneurial imagination of Eisenstadt really shows itself. I’m of course talking about eudaimonia. Paid possessions, and apparently, uniquely enjoyable.

  “The processed daimon is usually ingested in capsule form. A person, fully willing, lets themselves be possessed by a daimonic spirit that’s been enriched with Aer and Agn elements. These subdue the daimon and contribute to the audio-visual hallucinations. The effect is temporary, thirty minutes maximum, but powerful. It’s still a novel product with experimental variations, but a lot safer than things like Void and extracts of the Fool’s Rose. If you ask me, it’s safer than smoking.” She tapped her nails once against the table and gauged the reactions.

  Adamari’s attention drifted briefly as the room settled. Most of the recruits were snickering at the conclusion or nervous to move on. One did neither. Etrasca Etarro sat closest to her supervisor, posture relaxed and unimpressed, as if she had already heard plenty more from Kotko. The Bureau attire fit her willowy frame without friction but failed to hide the tattoos tracing up her neck and along her wrists. The lines were ornamental and inoffensive, but still strange for a Reshanaha. Overall, she was beige, brown and blonde. Juniors know how to pick their Representative. While Adamari was staring, Etarro raised her hand.

  Kotko paused her address to hear her out. “Thank you, Senior Investigator,” she said, voice mellifluous and meditative. “You indicated the illegal status of private exorcisms, but what about the novel practice of eudaimonia? How is it being treated by the authorities?”

  Not all looks either. Adamari looked away to listen.

  “It’s mostly older legislation. Prevention of due extinguishing, intentional possession, preservation of daimonic spirits, probably some Sorcery in it as well… But enforcement is another matter entirely. Mundane authorities don’t care. They don’t understand it and it hasn’t killed anyone yet. If you think about it, the whole operation runs on easing pain and granting pleasure. There’s no panic in the streets. No bodies piling up, just an underground market that keeps growing because the working people want both.

  “Lastly, the people behind it. To be honest with you, we have poor intel on who’s exactly running these schemes. Even less about the places where they’re working from. There must be lab, somewhere, for the spiritual processing. What we do know is that none of the traditional crime organizations seem to be involved. This isn’t the work of the Manus, Vratya or Tetsu-gumi – all of which are basically decaying institutions at this point. The newer generations are loosely, if at all, organized around individual leaders in the South-East districts. This gives them an advantage in the exorcism business, as they aren’t associated with any history of violence.

  “Collectively, the leaders call themselves ‘street princes.’ What they lack in structure, they make up in memorable nicknames: Imp, Horn Fairy, Yuck and White Cat. These are personas, not identities. The people following their rise suspect it was the latter one who introduced the practice and gained the allegiance of the others by sharing his idea. Don’t let the name fool you, he is the most cunning among them. That area, the South-East, has actually dropped in violent crime as previous feuds were settled through their lucrative cooperation. Another unexpected consequence is the prevalence of copycats – pardon the pun – in the surrounding districts, especially by the older players. Will be interesting to see how long it all lasts… Anyway, that’s all from me. Division Leader?”

  “Thank you, SI Kotko. That was very informative,” said Adamari, gesturing for Kotko to stay put. “An increasing number of the cases that come our way involve arcogenic narcotics. I hope our Juniors were paying attention. Some of them even have questions.”

  Dressler was the first to speak, snapping from his sleepy state. “About the enrichment process, how are the Aer and Agn introduced without diminishing the daimon’s Erd–Wed nature? Wouldn’t a full infusion change its nature entirely?”

  “We’re not sure,” she admitted. “The best guess from Bureau’s basement is that it’s only partial enrichment. Enough to influence the daimon’s temperament and sensory output, not enough to change its underlying Elemental ratio. Which means the drug has a due date.” Kotko fidgeted with the folder in front of her, examining Adamari’s expression to see if it was enough. “In short,” she sighed. “The enrichment is not permanent. After a while, the spirit’s original nature reasserts itself. It is likely the White Cat shared his method of exorcism, but not spiritual processing. Once the others run out of stable stock, they have to jump back into his lap. Another pun, forgive me.”

  Barre waited for Dressler to process the answer before speaking up, in her usual, toneless voice. “If I may,” she began, “Has there been any consideration that the origin of this practice might be shamanic? In some Kalzanaha rites, spirits are enriched to direct them toward a specific epiphanic role during possession. The purpose is religious, but not unlike eudaimonia. What you described, then, is not an innovation, but a perversion.”

  Kotko shut her eyes and inclined her head. “It’s a possibility. We’ve seen traditional practices reimagined for criminal ends before. But we don’t have hard evidence linking this to any one tradition or cultural setting.” She opened her eyes again and smiled at Barre. “If you can find a connection, Necromancy Division would be interested.”

  Good ones. Practical and genealogical. No one else volunteered to comment on the matter or question Kotko. “That concludes our briefing,” said Adamari, glancing at the clock. “Thank you, SI Kotko, for your time and insights.”

  Chairs scraped softly against the floor as the crowd rose and dispersed. The usual groupings formed and murmured words on their way out. Dressler and Barre waited for her before being dismissed. The air in the room shifted back toward its usual, peopleless hum. Adamari stayed seated a moment longer, collecting her thoughts and notes into neat wholes. Through the translucent glass of the wall, a tall blur caught her eye. It waved at her and pointed toward her office. She exited into the main work area and followed him.

  “Division Leader,” said Lugo, holding the door open. “Adjusting well? Or are your underlings giving you headaches already?”

  “No complaints yet,” she answered and took her seat. “We’re mostly reviewing dormant cases and going back through the logs. I’m keeping the Juniors busy with shorter assignments. Enough variety to keep them from second-guessing the job. I did expect I would have time for my own investigations.”

  “That’s how it goes. The chair looks spacious enough, but once you sit in it, you’ll feel every file, every requisition slip, pressing on you. Try steering your own work through that load and it’s like a carrack through a canal.”

  The phrase amused her less than she let on. Before she could find the right reply, he leaned forward, eyes brightening and passing over the room before settling back on her. “Actually, I might just have the right thing for you…”

  Better not be another Archive tryst. “Go on.”

  “Something I don’t quite understand myself… But it might be right up your alley. It’s a friend of a friend situation. Favor for favor. Has to do with the Guild of Eidomancer – or whatever their full name is nowadays. It’s not the usual petty rivalries or contract disputes. They’ve got an internal issue. Or what they think might be one.” He gave a short, dry laugh that washed the glint from his eyes. “Well, you’d know better than me if it’s worth the Bureau’s time. Interested?”

  Adamari blinked at the abrupt change, aware of the subtle diminutions and additions of distance he always seemed to orchestrate between them. “Mattias, be sincere with me. You know more than you’re letting on.” She didn’t press harder than that. When he shrugged and said nothing, she sighed, adding, “I don’t mind looking into it, as long as it’s not somebody else’s leavings.”

  “It’s not, I came directly to you. Nothing necessarily scandalous. Or dangerous.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Good. I won’t bore you with the details now. Inquiry request will make its way to your desk before the week’s out. Speaking of which; any plans for the weekend?”

  “No,” she responded concerningly.

  “There’s a new opera at the Glasshaus. A retelling of a Mudranaha classic. Can’t remember the name. Sepolta? Something like that.”

  “Yeah. Sounds good.”

  “Knew I could count on you.” He stood and moved toward the door. “You’ll like the rendition. And if not, you’ll still have a chance to look good in public.”

  They met at the threshold. He paused, leaned in, briefly but purposefully. She let the kiss land, then stepped back as if it was another formality. Smoothing her shirtsleeve as she said, “We’ll see if your favor is worth the paperwork.”

  Lugo smiled, waved and went away as Dressler and Barre were just coming up the hallway. He greeted them both, but focused on Dressler, patting him once on the shoulder as he passed. Dressler’s mouth tightened into the kindest of frowns, his eyes following Lugo until he disappeared around the corner.

  Barre was suddenly in front of her. “The briefing was useful. Can we begin with today’s review?” She gazed into Adamari’s face cluelessly and guiltlessly. After a while she said, “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Not at all. Dressler, get in here. I need your help with something.” Both the Juniors sat down, and she closed the door. Joining them promptly, she whispered: “What do you two know about the opera?”

  loresongs and informal oral history. To tourists, he is an attraction; to locals, a familiar nuisance; to the Bureau, a recurring but unresolved anomaly. He is inspired by Moondog.

  Comments appreciated, questions welcome.