The Arcana Asylum
The bells of the clock tower peeled six times through the darkness, signalling that curfew was over and the town was now open for business. Ibor shuffled along the narrow alley a little less furtively now that it was legal to do so, wheezing more audibly and allowing his left leg to drag more lazily behind him. His coat bulged grotesquely in places where it shouldn't, but being a hunchback with a predisposition towards strange cysts and tumours meant he was unlikely to be challenged or searched. Indeed, on the very rare occasion that he crossed paths with the nightwatchmen the twisted hunchback was afforded quite a wide berth.
Another twist through the half-timbered streets and he arrived at his little shop. The store front was narrow, with only a small window three panes wide and two high (four still glazed, although Ibor noticed grimly that yet another was now cracked). A low door with rusty hinges that squeaked ominously helped to deter shoplifters and Scandinavians, and a faded sign completed the façade: The Arcana Asylum. Ibor stood a little straighter as he filled with pride at having at last become the proprietor of his own enterprise.
Some quiet jingling of keys to his right indicated the arrival of Mrs. Threadmare at her seamstress shop next door. Ibor waved at her cheerily, although she squeaked quickly through the front door like a scared mouse at the sight of his claw-like fingernails scratching in her direction. Oblivious to the social nuance of her flight, Ibor forced his own key through the rusty lock of his shop door, the sound of the rusty mechanisms reminding him of the dungeon he had worked in for so many years, scrimping and saving and dreaming of rising in life.
He entered the shop, carefully turning the window sign from “Bugger off, we're closed!†to “Bugger in, we're open!†He hit the lights, literally smacking them to get the glow bugs to flicker on, before removing his latest inventory finds from his coat. The first was a run-of-the-mill skull, 6 for a groat at any suburban outlet by the cemetery. But Ibor had spent a lot of time digging for one of just the right proportions to complete his skull bowl set. He set it on his workbench behind a curtain at the back to carve up if there was a quiet moment later in the day.
His next new item was a parchment of some kind, which he had found clutched to a corpse during his skull digs. It was in no language that he could understand (indeed, it may well have just been a stylized map), but he knew his business well enough to know cat skin when he found it. A bit of oil and a bit of gentle work and it would make a great polishing rag or jar-opener. He plopped it down on the workbench next to the skull.
The last item he had found at the end of his supply chain, dangling from a gibbet on the town walls. It was a small vial, sealed with wax, concealed in the foot rags of the poor wretch who was hung there. Of course the foot rags were too comfortable to sell-on, but this...! Ibor carefully inspected the pink fluid within before placing the vial on his shelf of mystery potions.
And so the day began. He carefully dusted his knuckle-knickknacks and restocked his bat-wing hand-fan display, harvested the cob webs to make little cotton-candy treats in case there were any children in tow of customers and marked down the goat scrotum teabags that just weren't moving. He redid the front display window, cleverly spelling out the words “flash sale†in blinking newt eyes, and then restacked his jarred-organs to bring the more interestingly shaped hearts and brains to the fore. Then of course there was the pet golem to feed and the rattling demon-box to sooth. By mid-morning there were still no customers, so Ibor retired to his workbench. He filed down a few more dog claws to make a smart-looking back-scratcher, and then carefully set the last of the mouse teeth into an organic bone-saw of his own invention. He spent quite a bit of time adjusting the wind-up knob on the back of a live cockroach from the impulse-buy display. Ibor had just settled in to rubbing whale sebum into the cat-skin parchment when there was a familiar clanking of the front door.
“Good day to you, valued customer!†he said as he shuffled out from behind his workbench curtain before bowing obsequiously. “Might I interest you in a free sample of squirrel-spleen surprise as it is nearing the luncheon hour?â€
“Nah, sod that Guv'nah!†the figure said in a cheerfully disgusted voice. “And none of yer toe-jam pies, neither!â€
“Oh, Draxton, it's just you,†Ibor harrumphed, pulling himself onto a stooling stool so that he could be level with the gaze of the tall urchin. “Has your mother still got that fantastic skin disease?â€
“Right she does, Guv'nah! But she ain't selling samples for less than 10 bob. Anything less is highway robbery!â€
“Bah! How do you think I built the rest of my collection?!?†Ibor bragged. Still, he wanted that specimen. Maybe he could trick the stubborn woman into a freak potato peeler accident....
“Well, enough banter then,†said the urchin. “Time is money, and I've got fifteen other deliveries to make. Sign here!â€
“Oh, is it my Twitch-That-Itch severed spider-leg massage chair?†Ibor perked up.
“Not by the smell of it, Guv-nah! If I had to guess it's 3 month-old dog intestines, but then I'm not any kind of expert in your line of business. Shall I leave it here on your counter, or just toss it into the moat with all the other offal?â€
“On the counter will do just fine,†Ibor said through gritted teeth.
“Cheery-bye then, Guv'nah!â€
The urchin departed and Ibor rubbed his hands together with glee: his platypus cheese had finally arrived! He quickly unboxed it and sliced a dramatic wedge for the display case by the counter, placing it artfully between the rare rabbit cheese and the even rarer porcupine cheese. As he did so he couldn't resist sampling a tiny bit himself, allowing the muddy flavours to dance tantalizingly over his tongue. Oh, the customers were going to love this!
And at last the customers began to trickle in. First was an old witch from the forest beyond town, with a nose as warty as the toad-skin throw-pillow Ibor tried to sell her. She sniffed and poked about his bone wares and ear-wax candles, but what she was really after were fresh children's fingers for a special baking project. Ibor tried to interest her in his pickled children's fingers, but apparently only fresh ones would do. Reluctantly he shared that he had a supplier in the spinning mill just outside of town, but that fresh fingers were usually only in season at the beginning of the month when new orphans were hired on. So instead of buying anything the old witch merely helped herself to free samples of sloth cheese and gerbil nuts before moving on.
Next there was a tourist with a Daventrian accent. He seemed vaguely bemused by the vintage land-squid pens and the millipede skateboards, but what really caught his eye was the hand-held anteater vacuum. Apparently he was puzzling over how to retrieve a lost item visible just below a sealed sewer grate. Unfortunately he had no local currency with which to complete the transaction, and Ibor was dubious as to the market exchange rate for the copper buttons the man tried to barter with in lieu. Alas, he ended up directing the man to explore beneath the town docks at low tide to find a broken fishing line with a hook still attached.
It was late in the afternoon when his third customer arrived. He was a tall man sporting the fancy pantaloons and waxed moustaches of the nobility, and he pawed through the merchandise disdainfully with immaculate white gloves. After a cursory circuit of the tiny shop, he came to stand by the haunted talisman counter and cleared his throat loudly.
“Yes master,†Ibor crooned sycophantically. “How can I be of service?â€
“Are you the proprietor of this ...emporium?†the man asked, eyeing the diminutive hunchback leerily.
“Aye, master,†Ibor confirmed. “Of course we are unused to catering to men of your, uh... stature,†he said, noticing at this moment a red mark on the gentleman's forehead in the distinct shape of the shop's door mantle.
The man frowned and dusted his white gloves against each other, subconsciously trying to remove some filth beyond Ibor's line of sight. “I am John Forthright, Steward to the House of Featherby. You are acquainted with the House of Featherby, I assume?â€
“Uh...†Ibor thought, vaguely recognizing the name from various cemetery monuments beneath which he had raided. “No, master,†he said, thinking it more prudent to play dumb.
“Interesting,†the steward said, stroking his moustaches pensively, “given that Lord Featherby is in fact the owner of this town plot and the structure built hereon. It is normally my job to collect rents from the occupants of such premises, but I'm afraid I have no record of any lease agreement with your esteemed personage....â€
“Leasy whatnow?†Ibor asked, squinting skeptically at the finely dressed gentleman.
“Besides the fine for squatting, which is considerable, I regret to inform you that Lord Featherby is also owed back rent. And of course there are extra fees to be lumped in, including utilities, a window tax, an even steeper broken window tax, merchant guild dues, church tithes, and my personal favourite: eviction fees. Thus, you are presently owing to his lordship 168 crowns and sixpence. If I might trouble you to settle your account now before I have your, mmm, inventory tossed into the street, that would be lovely.â€
“Guild dues?†Ibor blinked. “You mean guild don'ts, right Master? I've never even heard of guild dues....â€
“Quite,†the steward sneered. “Might I assume that an immediate payment will not be forthcoming? How unfortunate. Still, the law does allow me to seize your chattels in lieu of debts owed, which at least provides a measure of amusement.†The tall man stretched out his arms, carelessly knocking a blue bottle off the mystery potion shelf onto the floor. “Oh my!†he exclaimed sarcastically. “How clumsy of me!â€
“Uh, master?†Ibor asked, noting that the tendrils of a blue fog seeping from the broken bottle were now wrapping themselves around the steward's leg.
“Oops!†the steward continued, knocking a cask of zombie scorpions from the thrift bin with his other hand. Once freed they began a mechanical march towards his other leg, but in the full sweep of his arrogant performance the steward was oblivious to their approach.
“Uh, master!†Ibor said again, pointing down. “You should probably-â€
“Oh, so tiresome,†the steward yawned, stretching his arms upwards to knock a pouch of heirloom wart-seeds off of its rafter hook, whereupon it fell and burst at his feet, to be picked up by the leg hairs of the zombie scorpions now beginning to climb up his pantaloons. The tendrils of blue fog were now seeping up his other pant leg, and Ibor shuddered to think what would soon happen when the two met somewhere in the vicinity of the steward's ornamental codpiece.
Thinking quickly, Ibor grabbed a tin from the display counter and waved it at the steward. “Before we continue this transaction, Master, can I interest you in some of Madame Hex's Sooth-All Ointment? It is guaranteed to relieve all pains and rashes, no matter how magically induced. It's on sale,†he added. “Only.... 169 crowns!â€
The steward scoffed, then frowned. Then danced a little despite himself. And then there were rainbow fireworks in his breeches, and he began bouncing in comical agony. Then he started whooping, then wincing, and then there was the sound of popcorn popping ominously before his codpiece was blown clear off, leaving a charred hole in his pantaloons and another broken window pane in front of Ibor's shop. Finally the steward doubled over, grasped tenderly at his still smoking crotch, and scuffled gingerly towards the door, jumping slightly with each step at some residual zombie scorpion stings. He waddled about half the distance to the door before groaning inwardly and turning back towards the counter.
“Prithee, good shopkeeper...†he rasped, wincing and twitching at yet more unseen stings as he reached for his purse. “I'll take two.â€
The bells of the clock tower peeled six times through the darkness, signalling that curfew was over and the town was now open for business. Ibor shuffled along the narrow alley a little less furtively now that it was legal to do so, wheezing more audibly and allowing his left leg to drag more lazily behind him. His coat bulged grotesquely in places where it shouldn't, but being a hunchback with a predisposition towards strange cysts and tumours meant he was unlikely to be challenged or searched. Indeed, on the very rare occasion that he crossed paths with the nightwatchmen the twisted hunchback was afforded quite a wide berth.
Another twist through the half-timbered streets and he arrived at his little shop. The store front was narrow, with only a small window three panes wide and two high (four still glazed, although Ibor noticed grimly that yet another was now cracked). A low door with rusty hinges that squeaked ominously helped to deter shoplifters and Scandinavians, and a faded sign completed the façade: The Arcana Asylum. Ibor stood a little straighter as he filled with pride at having at last become the proprietor of his own enterprise.
Some quiet jingling of keys to his right indicated the arrival of Mrs. Threadmare at her seamstress shop next door. Ibor waved at her cheerily, although she squeaked quickly through the front door like a scared mouse at the sight of his claw-like fingernails scratching in her direction. Oblivious to the social nuance of her flight, Ibor forced his own key through the rusty lock of his shop door, the sound of the rusty mechanisms reminding him of the dungeon he had worked in for so many years, scrimping and saving and dreaming of rising in life.
He entered the shop, carefully turning the window sign from “Bugger off, we're closed!†to “Bugger in, we're open!†He hit the lights, literally smacking them to get the glow bugs to flicker on, before removing his latest inventory finds from his coat. The first was a run-of-the-mill skull, 6 for a groat at any suburban outlet by the cemetery. But Ibor had spent a lot of time digging for one of just the right proportions to complete his skull bowl set. He set it on his workbench behind a curtain at the back to carve up if there was a quiet moment later in the day.
His next new item was a parchment of some kind, which he had found clutched to a corpse during his skull digs. It was in no language that he could understand (indeed, it may well have just been a stylized map), but he knew his business well enough to know cat skin when he found it. A bit of oil and a bit of gentle work and it would make a great polishing rag or jar-opener. He plopped it down on the workbench next to the skull.
The last item he had found at the end of his supply chain, dangling from a gibbet on the town walls. It was a small vial, sealed with wax, concealed in the foot rags of the poor wretch who was hung there. Of course the foot rags were too comfortable to sell-on, but this...! Ibor carefully inspected the pink fluid within before placing the vial on his shelf of mystery potions.
And so the day began. He carefully dusted his knuckle-knickknacks and restocked his bat-wing hand-fan display, harvested the cob webs to make little cotton-candy treats in case there were any children in tow of customers and marked down the goat scrotum teabags that just weren't moving. He redid the front display window, cleverly spelling out the words “flash sale†in blinking newt eyes, and then restacked his jarred-organs to bring the more interestingly shaped hearts and brains to the fore. Then of course there was the pet golem to feed and the rattling demon-box to sooth. By mid-morning there were still no customers, so Ibor retired to his workbench. He filed down a few more dog claws to make a smart-looking back-scratcher, and then carefully set the last of the mouse teeth into an organic bone-saw of his own invention. He spent quite a bit of time adjusting the wind-up knob on the back of a live cockroach from the impulse-buy display. Ibor had just settled in to rubbing whale sebum into the cat-skin parchment when there was a familiar clanking of the front door.
“Good day to you, valued customer!†he said as he shuffled out from behind his workbench curtain before bowing obsequiously. “Might I interest you in a free sample of squirrel-spleen surprise as it is nearing the luncheon hour?â€
“Nah, sod that Guv'nah!†the figure said in a cheerfully disgusted voice. “And none of yer toe-jam pies, neither!â€
“Oh, Draxton, it's just you,†Ibor harrumphed, pulling himself onto a stooling stool so that he could be level with the gaze of the tall urchin. “Has your mother still got that fantastic skin disease?â€
“Right she does, Guv'nah! But she ain't selling samples for less than 10 bob. Anything less is highway robbery!â€
“Bah! How do you think I built the rest of my collection?!?†Ibor bragged. Still, he wanted that specimen. Maybe he could trick the stubborn woman into a freak potato peeler accident....
“Well, enough banter then,†said the urchin. “Time is money, and I've got fifteen other deliveries to make. Sign here!â€
“Oh, is it my Twitch-That-Itch severed spider-leg massage chair?†Ibor perked up.
“Not by the smell of it, Guv-nah! If I had to guess it's 3 month-old dog intestines, but then I'm not any kind of expert in your line of business. Shall I leave it here on your counter, or just toss it into the moat with all the other offal?â€
“On the counter will do just fine,†Ibor said through gritted teeth.
“Cheery-bye then, Guv'nah!â€
The urchin departed and Ibor rubbed his hands together with glee: his platypus cheese had finally arrived! He quickly unboxed it and sliced a dramatic wedge for the display case by the counter, placing it artfully between the rare rabbit cheese and the even rarer porcupine cheese. As he did so he couldn't resist sampling a tiny bit himself, allowing the muddy flavours to dance tantalizingly over his tongue. Oh, the customers were going to love this!
And at last the customers began to trickle in. First was an old witch from the forest beyond town, with a nose as warty as the toad-skin throw-pillow Ibor tried to sell her. She sniffed and poked about his bone wares and ear-wax candles, but what she was really after were fresh children's fingers for a special baking project. Ibor tried to interest her in his pickled children's fingers, but apparently only fresh ones would do. Reluctantly he shared that he had a supplier in the spinning mill just outside of town, but that fresh fingers were usually only in season at the beginning of the month when new orphans were hired on. So instead of buying anything the old witch merely helped herself to free samples of sloth cheese and gerbil nuts before moving on.
Next there was a tourist with a Daventrian accent. He seemed vaguely bemused by the vintage land-squid pens and the millipede skateboards, but what really caught his eye was the hand-held anteater vacuum. Apparently he was puzzling over how to retrieve a lost item visible just below a sealed sewer grate. Unfortunately he had no local currency with which to complete the transaction, and Ibor was dubious as to the market exchange rate for the copper buttons the man tried to barter with in lieu. Alas, he ended up directing the man to explore beneath the town docks at low tide to find a broken fishing line with a hook still attached.
It was late in the afternoon when his third customer arrived. He was a tall man sporting the fancy pantaloons and waxed moustaches of the nobility, and he pawed through the merchandise disdainfully with immaculate white gloves. After a cursory circuit of the tiny shop, he came to stand by the haunted talisman counter and cleared his throat loudly.
“Yes master,†Ibor crooned sycophantically. “How can I be of service?â€
“Are you the proprietor of this ...emporium?†the man asked, eyeing the diminutive hunchback leerily.
“Aye, master,†Ibor confirmed. “Of course we are unused to catering to men of your, uh... stature,†he said, noticing at this moment a red mark on the gentleman's forehead in the distinct shape of the shop's door mantle.
The man frowned and dusted his white gloves against each other, subconsciously trying to remove some filth beyond Ibor's line of sight. “I am John Forthright, Steward to the House of Featherby. You are acquainted with the House of Featherby, I assume?â€
“Uh...†Ibor thought, vaguely recognizing the name from various cemetery monuments beneath which he had raided. “No, master,†he said, thinking it more prudent to play dumb.
“Interesting,†the steward said, stroking his moustaches pensively, “given that Lord Featherby is in fact the owner of this town plot and the structure built hereon. It is normally my job to collect rents from the occupants of such premises, but I'm afraid I have no record of any lease agreement with your esteemed personage....â€
“Leasy whatnow?†Ibor asked, squinting skeptically at the finely dressed gentleman.
“Besides the fine for squatting, which is considerable, I regret to inform you that Lord Featherby is also owed back rent. And of course there are extra fees to be lumped in, including utilities, a window tax, an even steeper broken window tax, merchant guild dues, church tithes, and my personal favourite: eviction fees. Thus, you are presently owing to his lordship 168 crowns and sixpence. If I might trouble you to settle your account now before I have your, mmm, inventory tossed into the street, that would be lovely.â€
“Guild dues?†Ibor blinked. “You mean guild don'ts, right Master? I've never even heard of guild dues....â€
“Quite,†the steward sneered. “Might I assume that an immediate payment will not be forthcoming? How unfortunate. Still, the law does allow me to seize your chattels in lieu of debts owed, which at least provides a measure of amusement.†The tall man stretched out his arms, carelessly knocking a blue bottle off the mystery potion shelf onto the floor. “Oh my!†he exclaimed sarcastically. “How clumsy of me!â€
“Uh, master?†Ibor asked, noting that the tendrils of a blue fog seeping from the broken bottle were now wrapping themselves around the steward's leg.
“Oops!†the steward continued, knocking a cask of zombie scorpions from the thrift bin with his other hand. Once freed they began a mechanical march towards his other leg, but in the full sweep of his arrogant performance the steward was oblivious to their approach.
“Uh, master!†Ibor said again, pointing down. “You should probably-â€
“Oh, so tiresome,†the steward yawned, stretching his arms upwards to knock a pouch of heirloom wart-seeds off of its rafter hook, whereupon it fell and burst at his feet, to be picked up by the leg hairs of the zombie scorpions now beginning to climb up his pantaloons. The tendrils of blue fog were now seeping up his other pant leg, and Ibor shuddered to think what would soon happen when the two met somewhere in the vicinity of the steward's ornamental codpiece.
Thinking quickly, Ibor grabbed a tin from the display counter and waved it at the steward. “Before we continue this transaction, Master, can I interest you in some of Madame Hex's Sooth-All Ointment? It is guaranteed to relieve all pains and rashes, no matter how magically induced. It's on sale,†he added. “Only.... 169 crowns!â€
The steward scoffed, then frowned. Then danced a little despite himself. And then there were rainbow fireworks in his breeches, and he began bouncing in comical agony. Then he started whooping, then wincing, and then there was the sound of popcorn popping ominously before his codpiece was blown clear off, leaving a charred hole in his pantaloons and another broken window pane in front of Ibor's shop. Finally the steward doubled over, grasped tenderly at his still smoking crotch, and scuffled gingerly towards the door, jumping slightly with each step at some residual zombie scorpion stings. He waddled about half the distance to the door before groaning inwardly and turning back towards the counter.
“Prithee, good shopkeeper...†he rasped, wincing and twitching at yet more unseen stings as he reached for his purse. “I'll take two.â€
I hope this doesn't bode ill for the next exciting instalment of the Fortnightly Writing Competition, which EjectedStar must now conjure out of the ether. 
