The Cultist's Retreat (The Erik Midgard Case Files Volume 4)

Chapter 1

The Cultist's Retreat

(The Erik Midgard Case Files Volume 04)

Copyright © 2022 by Kit Downes

All right reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Published in Great Britain 2022.

Cover art by R.L. Sather.

Also in this series:

Volume 01: The Time Traveller's Ball

Volume 02: The Lost libraries Archive

Volume 03: The Prince's Wedding

The Physicist's Party (Short story)

Chapter 1

With enough practise, it was surprisingly easy to talk without moving your lips.

"Alpha two," I murmured, using only my tongue and throat muscles. "Possible spotted."

"Received. Can you follow?"

"AG."

I was not in much danger of being overheard as the noise of the celebrations was deafening. Both sides of the street were packed with locals, jammed against the mud brick buildings and each other. Everyone was cheering, singing, clapping, dancing on the spot or blowing, plucking or banging real or improvised musical instruments. The cattle, camels, sheep and oxen which were always on the streets were still there, mixed in with the crowds. Only the middle of the street was clear, to make way for the procession.

The city's largest statue of Sin, the god of the moon and wisdom and the city's patron deity, his polished lapis-lazuli beard gleaming in the sun, was leading the way, by being carried on the shoulders of a crowd of worshippers. Other statues, including his wife Ningal and their children - the sun and the planet Venus - followed, along with other gods and goddesses, several giant lamp stands, and the winged bull that Sin usually travelled on according the myths. Above the streets and roof edges, the sky was a blinding white-gold and the air was dry, boiling and dusty. It was noon in the ancient Middle East. We were in Harran, a city on a tributary of the Tigris in the north of the Fertile Crescent, in 537AD. In the local calendar, it was 4 Nisannu, and Sin was leading the Akitu, the barley cutting festival, celebrating the beginning of spring.

Even with the noise, it would not have looked normal or inconspicuous to walk past the celebrations ignoring them and talking to myself. I made sure to look at the procession and smile and clap every few steps as I moved along the street.

The man I was watching was weaving through the jostle ahead, trying not to drop the two large baskets he was carrying. He was having to concentrate on this and did not look back once as I followed, fifteen metres behind him and from an angle. He did get further ahead for a moment when he passed in front of a pair of oxen, who snorted and shook their heads, dislodging the flowers their horns were decorated with, and tried to step back. The man did not notice, but when I passed them and their handler - who was swearing as he tried to calm them down and repair their floral arrangements - the contactcoms I was wearing in both eyes detected the trace particles hanging in the air. I understood. The oxen had never smelt modern soap, deodorant and hair gel before.

My suspect continued along the street through the crush. The crowds included probably every local Harranite who could be there, as well as nearly all the visitors in the city. There were musicians, priests, snake charmers, fortune tellers, gamblers and pickpockets, who were making hay while the sun shone. I had to push four of the last group away from me as I followed him, until he finally turned off the main streets and into a quieter part of the city.