In the Life of Death

Death the Detective.

Three days had passed since the incident at the pub, and Aeron avoided tea like the plague. The bath tub wasn't safe either. Or anything that held liquid, for that matter. More than once he had woken in a cold sweat from dreams of being snatched flailing into a toilet bowl and penetrated by sludged ice, and before long, he was eyeballing every old man who passed him by on the street with personal mistrust.

"You don't look so good," his friend, Lazarus, helpfully stated across from him. They were reading in a secluded corner of the Seventh Circle library, far away from any eavesdroppers... or so it seemed. "Was your first job that bad?"

"I will not talk about it."

"Okay."

That was why he liked Lazarus: she didn't pry more than was necessary, but she didn't beat around the bush either, as expected of any Junior Arbiter. It reassured him that he could seek honest counsel despite the fact that he may very well be facing deportation to the academy before he could even reap his first soul. But she didn't need to know that.

He tossed an empty tea cup on the little round table between them. Lazarus was used to Aeron fishing strange things out of his many secret pockets so she didn't blink twice. He circled the rim and thought aloud:

"Can you stitch a mini-port this small?"

She didn't say anything for a moment. He thought maybe she was ignoring him - it wouldn't be the first time, especially times like this where her nose was buried deep in a new book - but today, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Theoretically, yes. Better to leave the delicate work to a Labourer though." It was the answer he expected; all academy students were trained in the basics of porttery. It was simply a gateway from A to B, requiring elements of either place to be woven into its fabric for it to work. All the ports he had made back in his academy days were of course of the highest quality... except they were always single-use items.

"Can you travel through the same port and back again?"

"Obviously not. You already know that. Heavens, Aeron, can you stop annoying me with your stupidity?"

"I'm not stupid." He returned the snark without hesitation and pulled a face at her. "Tell me one last thing. Do you know anyone called Jorjen?"

A Harvestman shouldn't expect anything. The so-called first lesson that the old man had imparted - Aeron refused to acknowledge him as his mentor - haunted him like an unswattable pest. The kind that served no real purpose in life other than to buzz in your ear until you go insane. It was a 'lesson' he elected to ignore; if he'd learned anything from the academy, it was know your enemy. And right now he knew nothing. Despite the promise of a continuation of their chat, the past few days had passed by without event, and he couldn't find any mention of a Jorjen in the official records. He needed to gather intel the old fashioned way, and Lazarus was his best bet.

Lazarus, who was now looking at him as though he had grown a second head.

"Jorjen, Senior Harvestman, second band--"

"--third class. Yes, I know. Everyone knows Jorjen," she scoffed.

Everyone except for me. Not that he'd admit that. "Whatever, I was just testing you. Have you heard anything recently?"

"Hmm," she flicked her bespectacled gaze at him, considering. Aeron feigned nonchalance. Ultimately the widespread tome on her lap wrested back her attention. "Who's asking?" she murmured absently.

"A friend."

It was a lie. He didn't have any other friends besides her, and judging by the slight frown on her face, she knew it too. He hastened to add, "you won't know them. They're an initiate, third band."