West St James St

It was a rainy day. Crackles of thunder rolled periodically through the streets, as though the sky itself were unhappy with the torrents of rain. Droplets dashing onto grey tile roofs produced a halo of mist around the upper storeys of buildings; though only three storeys high, their roof peaks were lost in grey fog. Runoff cascaded from the eves in sheaves and braids into the growing river of mud that passed for West St James St. I stepped from the questionable shelter of the leaky bamboo-roofed sidewalk fronting the St James Mercantile into the clamor of the great arterial thoroughfare, yesterday's Chronicle held overhead in a feeble attempt to ward off the late April downpour. The street was clogged with steaming horses whose chestnut coats had turned grey for lack of light, and men of all races and descriptions vying for the right of way. The cursing and swearing of the teamsters moving their goods to market mixed with cabbies yelling for the right of way and vendors hawking their wares to produce a great deluge of sound only moderately tempered by the weather. The beating heart of the city itself!

I received a round cussing from a stout porter wearing a bowler and ferrying a handcart of sodden red cabbages. I skirted the fellow only to end in a near collision with a reckless black hansom. Stepping from the ankle-deep mire onto the opposite sidewalk, I heaved a sigh of relief. The city smelled like an open sewer---which it was---though this was not remarkable then because it usually smelled like an open sewer in those days. But highlights of clean spring air were still detectable, and overall, the great city seemed to be alive and thrumming with energy and wakening from the long winter's night.

Inside the Highland Cross Exchange the air thrummed with a more subdued noise, but equally intense activity. Persons of great importance and little importance hurried by on errands. I discarded the Chronicle, which held little water and was therefore a bad choice for a hat. I was joined by an angry dwarf who shouldered his way bodily through the throng. He dripped menacingly on the floor and stood glaring into the crowd.

"Raugh!" He exclaimed aggressively in no particular direction, for no discernible reason.

I did not know what to make of this. Recovering my manners, I ignored him and focussed on drying myself off with the towels placed there for this purpose. He did not seem to notice my indifference. Turning to me, he tried another tactic.

"You're Dr. Watson." He said, with utmost assurance; his accent was thick and western.

A name is a powerful thing to know; a thing which molds perceptions and is therefore a point of contact between a realm of thought and the realm of physical reality. I looked him over more carefully. His large amber eyes shone dimly in the half-light of the first floor of the Exchange. His rain-drunk red locks dripped onto his forest green tabbard and dust-stained traveling cloak. This last article was torn considerably at the hem.

"That's a matter of opinion," I told him carefully, refolding my towel and handing it back to the Exchange attendant behind the towel counter. The slender fellow accepted the dirty towel with a nod and disappeared. "Have a towel," I offered.

The dwarf glanced briefly at the proffered towel before returning his gaze to me. "Adran," said he. Bowing slightly, he inclined his eyes toward the floor.

"Alexis," said I. Though rough around the edges, he was no fool; Adran was certainly not his name, but a way of establishing his role in the conversation. Adran means only "from afar". Likewise, Alexis means only "defender." By so calling myself, I offered my help to one who identifies himself as an outsider.

"I'm looking for Holmes," said he.

I was somewhat taken aback that this outsider should know both our names and at the very least determined to take him to Holmes' office on the third floor of the Exchange to sort things out. Perhaps Holmes would know the dwarf. If nothing else, perhaps Holmes and I could teach him not to mention our names in public hearing. One never knows who might be listening.

A dull roar of thunder accompanied us as we embarked down the hewn stone corridors. The farther from the door we drew, the more quiet and still the Exchange became and the smaller and more obscure the signs on the doors. We mounted a spiral stair and came up to the third storey. It was an ill-used passage, caked with dust even in the rainy season; but well-lit with wide windows looking out through the fog. The street was barely visible in the mist. The dwarf peered around curiously, standing taller to see out the windows. Soon we arrived at a door marked "J. Cluebar and Co; Wizards."

I knocked twice and sent in my card, and moments later we were invited into Holmes' study.