Perspicacious

“Mr. Höbin, to w-what do I owe t-this p-pleasure?” His thin, gnarled finger trembles ever-so-slightly as it pushes the small bifocals up his long, hawk-like nose.

This is the second award-winning work of Höbin Luckyfeller, and the second book in his Field Guide series. The script is hot and fresh and we also have a new cover for the book!

Enjoy.

When Höbin is contracted to research the popular game of chance, he quickly learns the truth surrounding its history is anything but. Circumstances unfold faster than he can anticipate, pulling Höbin from his assignment and thrusting him into the shadows of intrigue, magic…and murder.

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Chapter 4 - Perspicacious

Making a quick stop at my room, I pack a small bag with a notebook, pens, and a small drawing kit. Tools I need to collect facts and spin my tale. It’s going to be a long night…but at least I get to spend it in my favorite shop.

Perspicacious is a small, but unique bookstore. On the northeast side of the Market, past the center hub of the community, it’s run by a little old hermit named Dathern Istul.

My friendship and admiration for Dathern has grown over the years. Not just because he owns what I deem to be the greatest bookstore in existence, but because of his open fascination with the subjects he studies. Archaeology, phraseology, history, literature, linguistics, philosophy, religion, anthropology, economics, geography, physics and the list goes on. That doesn’t even include his personal interests, such as mathematics, statistics, agriculture, architecture, engineering, law and a large array of military sciences, which he constantly dabbles in.

His deepest passion, however, is the collection and translation of knowledge itself. It is for this I admire him the most.

Dathern is, in my opinion, the brightest of that annoying, peculiar race of humans.

Perspicacious, which literally means having a ready insight into an understanding of things, is where Dathern exists. I would say that he ‘lives’ in his bookstore, but that really wouldn’t be accurate. There is very little in this life that catches his attention, other than the pursuit of knowledge. That being said, I would note that I have never seen Dathern Istul leave the walls of his store. Ever.

Maybe I should add that he is the most peculiar of the peculiar?

At first glance, one might think his bookstore is little more than a storage shed. Thousands upon thousands of books fill rows of shelves to overflowing and stacked gingerly along aisles. Books are the centerpiece of focus from any angle of view. However, upon inspection, one will quickly realize there is not a speck of dust or a single cobweb within the walls of Perspicacious. 

Ziltch.

There’s also something peculiar about the bookstore, aside from its perplexing owner.

Unlike other merchants of the written word, none of Dathern’s books are actually for sale. You can’t buy anything you find per se. The services offered in Perspicacious are few and specific. For a price, for example, one may hire Dathern to get a rare book. You may find one on his shelf and desire one just like it—he will get one for you. Perhaps you seek something rare and out of the ordinary? Using his secret network, he can secure virtually any item from the date and country of origin you request…for the right price. If you seek a particular knowledge, you can, again for a price, employ Dathern himself to collect said knowledge and he will compile it into your own private volume, bound in soft leather, guaranteed to last generations. Last, for those rare souls who are fortunate enough to gain Dathern’s respect and trust, you may sit within this universe of extraordinary and arcane knowledge to perform research of your own.

I round the corner in the street just in time to see a hunched shadow approaching the door. The small hand-inked sign that says ‘Open’ lifts from the door, then hesitates. A glint of light reflects off Dathern’s glasses as he smiles. The knob turns slowly and the heavy door opens with a lingering creek.

“Mr. Höbin, to w-what do I owe t-this p-pleasure?” His thin, gnarled finger trembles ever-so-slightly as it pushes the small bifocals up his long, hawk-like nose.

I step inside the store, and he closes the door behind me. Flipping the sign around, securing our privacy, he pulls a handkerchief from his vest pocket and intently wipes along the window frame.

“I’m wondering if I may rent a chair and purchase a few candles for the night?”

The handkerchief vanishes from view as Dathern turns and shuffles away, taking tiny steps to keep his balance. “We can p-provide that, my friend. I was a-about to retire and have a nice c-cup of tea. W-w-would you like one? I h-have a special herb to sharpen t-the mind.”

“No, thank you Dathern. I’m quite eager to get started.” But that’s not altogether true. I’m tired and my bag feels extraordinarily heavy. The strap pulls at my shoulder and I realize I have little energy. My bones feel soft. I wince, biting my lip in reaction to the sudden pain. It’s my gut again. “Unless you have some silverbark tea?” I add quickly, “Then I’d love some.”

Dathern chuckles, though it sounds more like wheezing. “T-trouble with bad m-meats?”

“You could say that,” I reply, pinching my side. Feels like knives twisting in my stomach, pushing their way back towards my spine. “I have a habit of nibbling on a cold-ground lizard tail late at night. I’m probably not eating it with enough salt and picked up something I shouldn’t have.”

Dathern stops shuffling and steadies himself on a nearby stack of books. He turns his thick, bushy eyebrows towards me. They rise and sink as he studies my countenance. “I’m-might have s-something to take the edge off t-that p-pain, but n-no s-silverbark.” The hint of a smile form on his face. “Now, w-what do you intend to r-research? S-something intriguing? Something N-NEW p-perhaps?”

His face looks so young when he gets animated. Whenever he talks about books and learning, his eyes become vibrant and clear.

“Only if you consider Bloodsticks to be new or intriguing,” I shrug, “and I personally wouldn’t consider it either.”

Dathern seems to consider the subject, then lets it fall from his attention. Not that I blame him. He turns slowly and shuffles off again. “I r-recall you having some d-difficulty with that g-game,” he adds, “D-do you think it w-wise—to revisit such a ch-chapter in y-your life?”

I have so many doubts running through my mind, I almost miss the significance of the comment. Dathern didn’t know me when I was struggling with my gambling addiction. I only recall mentioning my past during a moment of weakness,…after Sylvia died.

I’ll be damned…he remembered. I take a second to pull my thoughts together.

“I’m not comfortable with the prospect, but it’s the only job available. Fact is, I need the money. Guy’s gotta eat, right?”

Dathern nods to himself. “Quite r-right.”

We weave our way around the aisles and groups of books to the center of his shop. The dim light of the irregularly placed candles cast long, tired shadows across the floor. Sitting in the middle of Perspicacious is a beautiful, elaborately carved table, spanning three lengths of my own arms. The smooth granite top rests upon the shoulders of four slender dragons, tails curling around their legs and down to the floor—wings fanning out and blending into the skirt of the table. A large leather chair sits alone and empty behind it.