Solo Grip and Griddle

[Caspian]

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15 Winter 521

To the housekeeper’s credit – a thing Caspian never thought he would concede – she doesn’t harangue him about finding her long lost daughter, who she’d given up for adoption nearly three decades ago. She doesn’t even follow up, which, though he has no fondness for her, with her being his client he wouldn’t begrudge. They pass through the rest of summer and the entirety of autumn without so much as another word on the subject. After a while Caspian starts to wonder if he didn’t just imagine the whole thing, the dozens of offputtingly effusive ceramic figurines crammed in her room, all the doilies and lace and the constant cloud of talc floating in the air. Her sudden expectoration of feelings for him other than disdain. There’s no obvious change in her behavior to indicate she’d bared any meaningful part of herself to him at all. Day to day, if he’s hanging about Mindy’s massive townhouse, laying in the boudoir, the housekeeper bustles in hip first, as she’s wont to do, and goes about her business without so much as batting him an eye. But the evidence that none of this had been a dream lies in his pocket, on a crumpled piece of parchment bearing the name Hesthers.

The Hesthers were the family who had adopted the housekeeper’s daughter so many years past. Adam Hesther, the head of the family, was one of the flock of professors in employ at the city’s university. In the summer Caspian had tracked down a directory, but Hesther was nowhere to be found.

Of course it couldn’t be that easy; and, he supposes, it would have been surprising and commendable if the man continued teaching three decades later. The insouciant underpaid student who’d relinquished the directory was no help; he was a good ten years younger than Caspian and had no recollection of the name.

And from there it had fizzled, and Caspian had found his amusements elsewhere, and without constant and direct pressure from the housekeeper, he’d let the whole thing fall slack. Not absolutely abandoned, though, as he’d mentioned all of it to Taalviel to see if she might dig up something he couldn’t. But Hesther effectively had vanished, and the housekeeper, very unfortunately, had never taken note of the subject the man had taught. Subsequently Caspian had no current faculty in the relevant department to pursue for leads.

For reasons he can’t discern – well, he’ll blame Rohka, she has this way of making him feel, dare he say responsible – it occurs to him at the onset of Winter to take up the task again. Listlessly he wanders the University halls, floating from one building to the next. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, only that he’ll know it if he sees it. For the most part no one questions his comings and goings. When one walks in a straight vector with one’s head reasonably high, one gives off the air, he’s learned, that one belongs. Accordingly, as if aware of the need to be a touch less conspicuous, his magical suit pares itself down to neutral tones. Navy and gray, sometimes a dash of red in the stripes on his ties. In one hall there’s a glass cabinet, filled with framed certificates and medals, and a trophy given over to oxidization. Bored, he leans against it, admiring his own reflection in the glass, gaze flicking over the names on each award.



WC: 571

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[Caspian]

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Druvas. D’artan. Damasco.

Alliteration always did hit the spot. The rest of the names in the glass case all start with that very same letter, he notices, and he hums them over in his head, to a sing-songy chant he’d overheard some kids skipping rope to on the way here. Music in Zeltiva is considerably different from Ravok; isn’t so far, though, from the hops and jigs of Sunberth. Something to do with being on the water, he thinks, and specifically salt water and portside, and with its traffic not being so militantly marked. There’s levity in many of Zeltiva’s songs, a bit of bawdiness in others, and always a good deal of churly swagger. Briefly it occurs to him, as he muses this over, that – yes. Finding this commonality between this city, still in so many ways foreign to him, and the Sunberth he knows very well is perhaps equivalent to finding something to, well…

Find affection for, he supposes.

He didn’t sleep much last night, and that’s to blame for some of his absentmindedness. In this same down tempo, complacent fog he drifts to the next glass cabinet a few yards down the hall. Like the first, it’s filled with handsomely lettered certificates pasted with gold foil and wax seals, marking academic achievements that Caspian never in his lifetime will ever come close to embodying. Frankly, he doesn’t have much interest in the whole thing; isn’t entirely sure what they do here at the university, to be honest, with all these rooms for all these people and books stacked from ceiling to floor. Not to give the barbarically pragmatic ways of his stepfather any lenience, but there’s something to be said, Caspian thinks, for sticking to what matters – being able to read what’s printed in a ledger or on a crate of goods, and knowing one’s basic arithmetic so as not to be swindled in the street.

The subjects of each award don’t really register to him. What he does track, however, is that each surname in this case begins with E.

Edith. Ebrington. Evards –

Following a hunch, Caspian flits down to the next case, and –

Yes. All beginning with F.

Fitzkey. Fradras. Furly –

“Sorry!” Caspian says as he nearly barrels right into a woman clicking by in a tight pencil skirt and heels, a heavy stack of volumes in her arms. This is exactly the sort of thing that gets him out of bed, if it isn’t Taalviel shoving him out of his lazy drowsing. When things start clicking, he’s a hound with a scent, a trout gleefully latching onto bait and willing to take the hook.

The next case – yes, it is all surnames that start with G. This collection he merely glances over, just to confirm, before he’s scampering down the hall towards the next one. This case throws him for a moment, because it’s all G’s again, but he notices a silver medal in the bottom right, nearly forgotten, but there’s the beginning of the H’s.

WC: 504

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[Caspian]

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It’s not a sure thing; he doesn’t know for certain whether all of these awards belong to professors. It’s doubtful, given the quantity spanning the years. Likely the lion’s share belongs to standout pupils. But it’s better than nothing, definitely a lot more exciting than that dusty dog-eared grease-stained directory that real twerp of a kid had given him grief over. But there’s a bit of a hurdle to the proceedings, when he realizes he’s hit the end of the hall, and there are no more glass cases in sight. On top of that, it’s a dead end, with two nondescript doors on either side.

Just as he sighs in exasperation, the door to his right opens, and a girl with book bag slung over her shoulder clicks her way out.

“Excuse me,” he says, following after her, and he has to say it again for her to turn around.

“Yes?” she says impatiently, though she’s still walking, and if her actions weren’t such an impediment to what he wants, he’d admire her drive.

“You don’t know where I might happen to find more of those, do you?”

“More of what?”

Pointing at any of the cases, evidently, isn’t working. Given the amount of dust collection on and within each one, he’s pretty sure he’s the only person who’s paid this much attention to them in years. “The cabinets. Those, with all the shiny things and parchment. Is there another hall where I can see more?”

“How am I supposed to know?” the girl replies, and though Caspian can’t say he’s a fan of her attitude, he doesn’t blame her, and in her place would probably do the same.

He lets her go; he tells himself he does, when in reality she’s just walking that quickly and imperiously away. No matter; she isn’t his only lifeline. He turns around and notices a young man heading his direction. Another student, this one a lot more downtrodden and proceeding at a much slower pace.

A bit unfortunate to look at, from his pockmarked skin and sideways posture that’s probably only going to get worse over time, but this is good, this is possibly going to be more helpful than the girl who had just snubbed him.

“Excuse me,” Caspian says, approaching the young man, and privately thankful that his suit’s dressed him more sensibly today. That bright fuchsia ensemble it sometimes transforms into wouldn’t have been conducive to his present situation, which is coming off as approachable. “Are you a student here?”

Caspian is already pretty certain of the answer, but the brusqueness of the girl he’d asked has him switching gears, reassessing his tactics. He doesn’t know anyone who sticks around after being harangued by a stranger. No, it might be best to tread more softly, mince a bit instead of pouncing. Mindy’s housekeeper had let the matter slide for the rest of the summer and then all of autumn, after all, so one can’t say Caspian’s really on the clock to get this done.


WC: 504

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[Caspian]

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The young man appears incredibly startled that Caspian’s speaking to him. Caspian knows he can be a lot, even without an inflammatory getup. He chalks it up to this kid possibly not being very social adept in general, more the wallflower and not the butterfly. Perhaps he hadn’t expected to be noticed at all.

“Ah, yes,” the young man stammers. Looks at Caspian, the gold kohl lining his eyes, then furtively looks away. (The magical suit has no claims over what makeup Caspian decides to plaster his face with that day; Taalviel tries, but short of mopping down his face with a wet rag, there’s only so much anyone can do.) “Yes, I am.”

The stuttering and upswing in tone makes him sound not very sure about the fact, but Caspian decides it’s best not to tease him.

“Thank heavens,” Caspian replies. “You see, I’m not, and I really could use some help finding my way around.”

The young man shuffles nervously from one foot to the other, one hand compulsively flying up to straighten his glasses. Smudged and held together by a roll of tape around the bridge, Caspian notices. “S-sure. I mean. I can try. I’m only a second year, and last year I wasn’t in class very much on account of my having – well. Never mind.”

Caspian resists the very ungentlemanly urge to step back from whatever plague the young man is suggesting he carried.

“Good, good,” Caspian goes on instead. “I’m sorry to be any bother, but I’m trying to track down an old friend.” He remembers how old Hesthers must be, if he’s presumably retired. “Of my father.” The thought of Taaldros holding close company with a man of letters is worth a laugh; maybe he’ll tell Taalviel about it later. “He was a professor here, by the name of Hesthers. You wouldn’t happen to be familiar with him, would you?”

“N-no-“

That’s alright; Caspian knew it was a long shot.

“Just had to ask! Well. The directories here haven’t been very helpful. It’s a bit like chasing a ghost. But I did notice – those glass cabinets, with all those names. They’re all grouped alphabetically, I think, but I came to the start of the H’s at the end of that hall.” He nods towards the dead end. “And now I can’t for the life of me sort out where the rest of them are.”

“I, ah – “ This kid fidgets a lot, a little like a rat frantically combing over its whiskers and paws. “I’m not really, ah, sure? I’ve never really looked at them before.” And the kid, astoundingly, looks a touch guilty for letting Caspian down.

“Who has, right?” Caspian muses out loud. “Are you sure you haven’t seen any others?”

“I guess you could try the basement in this building?” the young man offers. “There’s a lot more down there.”

Why these awards had been top shelf over the surplus in the basement, Caspian doesn’t know. But he flashes the young man a genial smile before turning on his heel and heading off in search of the stairs.


WC: 517

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[Caspian]

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Technically, he’s nowhere closer to solving this than when he’d first set out this morning. It’s the binary of things – either he’s found the housekeeper’s daughter, or he hasn’t, and the present state of things is decidedly the latter. But if feels good, being on the other end of a line that he can almost swear is pulling taut.

It takes longer than he likes to find the basement, or he’s just getting impatient. The stairwells for the upper floors are located at pretty much the same positions, floor to floor; but to get down to the basement?

It’s almost as if, to the architects of this building, gaining access to the basement was an afterthought. He can imagine the hastily scribbled marks on the blueprints, the messy arrows and the dimensions jotted down in the margins. But the stairwell, in actuality, isn’t where it ought to be, on the northern and southern ends of the building. He paces from one end of the building to the other. And it’s many dozen paces, the tiles done up in black and white, and as he crosses he feels like a chess piece. Was it the knight that could slide so? No, something else. Not a pawn either; one could rule the little stubs out. Kings weren’t much more useful either.

The name of the piece is on the tip of his tongue and refusing to come out. He takes one errant turn down the halls, then another, then another. Is he going in a circle? And what is that petching piece called? Mindy has a chess set, all in blown glass with lavender swirls, but it’s not really her thing, and it goes unused day after day.

Lost in his thoughts, he finds himself at another dead end. Sighing heavily, he crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. There’s nothing interesting in this hallway, not even one of those message boards pinned with flyers for students looking for roommates or offloading old textbooks. A shabby door waits to his left, and though it isn’t much to look at, he glances over it anyway. It’s of a different type of wood than the rest of the doors in this building, the paint faded and chipped, once green instead of plain mahogany like the others. He learned rather early on not to just open doors in the University Quarter, simply because they’re there. More often than not, three dozen pairs of eyes along with the instructing professor’s would snap to him, the eminent intruder, and in that situation there’s not much one can say except that one was curious to know what was going on on the other side.

But this door feels –

Different.

Ensnared by his salient, pilfering need to know, he turns the handle.

And finds himself at the top of a tight spiral of stairs.

“Thank every briny god and goddess from here to the sea floor,” Caspian mutters to himself. With one last look over his shoulder – though, if the door is open, doesn’t that mean one is allowed? – he steps down into the dark.



WC: 518
Total WC: 2,614

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