Moe Lane

Academia!

Gallagher peered over the proffered sheet. “Ah. Yes. Mid-twentieth century ballad, at least by the Old American definition of ‘ballad.’ Note how the text features a spoken-word introduction, followed by verses meant to be sung. That suggests a transitional work between the old and new lyric traditions that arose in the last two centuries of the First Republic…”

“Freeman,” I interrupted, and he grinned at me.

“Sorry, Sun. Academic itches must be scratched. Anyway, yes, it looks like it’s a folk song — no idea of the tune, mind you — of some poor unfortunate, trapped forever on the… oh, of course. It’s a song about the Antiquity! That must be why our Mr. Shane had collected it. A very old song, too. It must have been made at least a century before the dawn of the First Age of Magic.” He handed me the paper. “I don’t suppose you can glean more, with psychometry or suchlike?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I absently responded, really reading the text now. All scholars in the Second Republic may learn Old American from books, but actually encountering the language as it was spoken can sometimes be a challenge. “Would this Charlie in the song really have been forced to ride on their trains for an eternity?” I asked Gallagher. “Surely somebody else would have given him a nickel to get off.”

Getting to the big reveal!

“Direct or not, there was some link between the two.” Gallagher frowned. “I cannot imagine that either the ghost or the spirit are enjoying their inadvertent bond.”

“My sympathies would be stronger,” I retorted, “if I thought either entity fully deserved them. Our Mister David C. Shane was a thoroughly unpleasant man in life, and the spirit that has him stuck in its gullet seems little better. It took pleasure in killing the man, even if it cannot consume the soul. I would almost be willing to let the two have the joy of each other, except that their shared indigestion is troubling the rest of the city.”

“And there is the upcoming conference,” Curwin noted.

“And there is the upcoming conference. I have received word from Superintendent Marsh: his superiors would like assurances that we will not have our deliberations with our new allies interrupted by foul necromantic events. They are disquieted enough by our ethical ones.” I sighed. “That need for reassurance comes from the very top, gentlemen. Sprague House will be very concerned if things go poorly.”

“But not enough to give us actual support,” Gallagher muttered, probably out of politeness for Curwin’s and my practical inability to do the same. “The Marshes were always purse-pinchers.”