Serpents and Stairways

Chapter VII - Part 2

They were greeted at the porch by a resting elderly albion man with a burnmark across his noble face, flipping through a scrawny book left there in all likeness by the previous tenants. This was professor Ronald Aristocratic-middle-name Silverhand, the head of the respected royal society of dragonologists, whose influence spanned from the Commonwealth of Steel to Sunlit Theocracy. In his younger years, Professor was renowned as an ardent explorer; and these days, at the dawn of his twenty-second decade, he had changed the course of his, still eager, pursuits towards theoretical studies. Michel had overheard Herr d'Este, in conversation with his wife, calling professor Silverhand the "lord of rings," since it was he who maintained the archive of all banded dragons on at least five continents.

"Welcome back, your h—" the professor started and stopped, in a feign fit of coughing smoke. It was mistakes like this that made their detective game dull. A Wagner crackled over quiet radio.

"Welcome back, sir!" he corrected himself with an impenetrable look, as if he never intended anything else, then nodded to Michel as well, "Mr Gatteri! How did you find your walk? The day is wonderful, is it not?"

"Yes, yes, indeed. It seems, we have to rule out the biological origin of the dragon after all," Herr d'Este stepped out from the car, and bowed his head, greeting professor Silverhand—both showing respect and demonstrating his (as-if) comparable social standing, "as you had rightly suspected from the very beginning."

"Well... naturally."

Michel, who was locking Scout's black water-proof case, smiled quietly: this time the lack of reverence in Professor's tone was much more convincing.

They briefly discussed their findings, and Silverhand, squinting his reddened eyes (ice cream scoops in bowls of pinkish glass) had concluded, in the manner of a teacher wrapping up a drawn-out students' discussion:

"What's left is to exclude either the folklore-naturalist or the divine origin," he summarized what seemed unnecessary to even summarize at that point.

Herr d'Este nodded.

"Speaking of which—is sister Rose here?" he asked.

"Yes, in the yellow parlor. Had engaged your venerable spouse in a theological dispute."

"Arguing, are they?"

"Trully."

"Aha. I would not be placing my bets on holy mother church then," Herr d'Este smiled and was about to proceed towards the door.

"One more thing, sir. While you were away, a bird came from Herr Laplace. He let us know he's coming at noon—as soon as he's done with pressing matters."

Interesting.

It was as if the head of the Secret Mystic Chancellery could feel (of course he couldn't—intuition was nothing more than unprocessed experience) they'd want to talk to him. Decided to seize the initiative?

It took Michel two quarters of an hour to catch his breath, change clothes, and run through the collected evidence. It didn't require any more time either—the identification number of the model, stamped on the inside of the lens rim, started with a one; and the initial line-up of mechanical coachmen in its entirety had been secured for governmental use, which had sponsored the construction of Silen's factory—common knowledge at this point. There remained practically no doubt about a connection of the latest victim to chief secretary—hardly anyone outside the Secret Mystic Chancellery could afford both the automaton and staying off the record.

When Michel entered the yellow parlor, the dispute that Silverhand had mentioned was still going on—its afterglow sparks burst ablaze the slumberous, cotton-ball midday heat that usurped the corridors.