Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves (2 page)

The loathsome devotees of Dorga covet girls of great beauty or of high birth; tastes that tend not to endear them with the powers that be. I have noticed that the more unassuming cults with simpler tastes in victims, though no less vile, attract less official attention.

"This Morganna has wasted no time in taking up residency at the temple," I noted.

"She is whispered to be a devotee of Dorga," Snot answered.

Wonderful, I thought again. This witch could not help but know of my participation in the recent demise of the main Dorga temple in Stagsford, capital of the kingdom of Glavendale. I was only still alive by the King's decree that stated if anyone involved with that incident were to meet suspicious deaths, the sect would be scoured clean from the country.

Sometimes I believe they carry freedom of religion too far. I've always been in favor of partition of cult and state. At least the King was keeping sacrifices out of the school, though you would have thought he was banning incantations the way some of those numskull parents reacted.

The dwarves grudgingly paid my retainer and I retraced my way to my mount. The cottage was set back in a colorful yard teeming with bird baths, flowering trees, cobblestone paths, fountains, rose bushes, and statues resembling the inhabitants of the house.

I stopped to examine one of the small stone figures that resembled Cranky. I had to admit the tiny bearded figure with its little red stocking hat and potbelly was kind of cute. Maybe I could market them in Duburoake as lawn embellishments? No, I finally decided, there would probably be as little craving for them as those long-legged pink birds the dwarves also had scattered about the yard.

Hazel was glad to see me. The giant old war steed swung her head and gently nuzzled me as I took her reins. She was not the usual steed for simple transportation, getting very poor mileage per pound of feed compared to those little compact ponies. But I had saved her from the cooking pot and in return, she has rescued me from a number of dire straits. There was now a bond between us and I valued her brave heart.

I was glad the dwarves had not escorted me out. I had to struggle to climb onto the lofty saddle. I knew I did it with little grace.

The swollen sun was low and turning the sky into a mural of rosy clouds and silhouettes of gnarled oaks and tall poplars. The vegetation had taken on that dark, rich green of evening. I paused briefly to enjoy the sight before turning Hazel's head back to town.

Chapter Two

It is never a formidable task to find the hack scribe. I begin with the beer joints closest to his journal office and worked my way out.

It was a pleasant evening and I took my time walking the myriad cobblestone alleys that snake up and down the rugged section of Duburoake bordering the sea. From different spots one can gaze out over the stone structures covering the slope and see the sparkling water. The distant warehouses next to the wharves were dark, but the homes and shops up the hill were softly lit by the yellow gleams of oil lamps and candles.

As part of the town assembly's economic development endeavors, gas lamps have been installed throughout the shopping and inn areas in an attempt to attract more commerce from the outlying quarters. Swooping about the lamps were small nighthawks that normally hunt only at dawn and dusk, but the new gas lamps drew in bright blue breadmoths as big as one's hands. With this all-night luncheon available, the small birds of prey now seem to hunt throughout the night.

As this little-noticed life and death game flittered above my head, I sauntered past the shops and gazed into their windows. Here was a pawnshop obviously patronized by sailors. On display were ship trunks, whaling boots, tusks of ivory carved into mythical monsters, oilskin coats, and dangerous-looking blades of every shape and size.

A millinery shop featured the latest in female garb. It appeared stuffed animals were the rage for hat embellishments. One large hat featured a metallic-green skink sprawled around the rim. A straw beret resembled a nest upon which perched a quail.

A litter of diretoads with their tiny dagger fangs hopped about in the window of a pet shop. I have to admit they are cute when they're little.

It took only three tavern stops to find my friend in the Inn of the Six Toed Cat. Sergey Varvervane was loudly reminiscing about one of his many close calls with either outraged provincial officials, alley brigands, or accidents resulting from ill-advised actions commonly invoked by lengthy bouts of lurid inebriations or elixir-induced dementia.

"Isn't that chronicle number ninety-seven, or maybe one hundred twelve?" I shouted over the din of the itinerant band playing that night.

I often joked that after having retold his many tales so often, Sergey should just number them and save the trouble of relating the entire epic.

"You could just cry out, 'Chronicle one thirty-two,'" I would say, "and we would roll on the floor laughing about the time you were caught eavesdropping on the ambassador from the Amnesian Isles while masquerading as a boot glazer."

Sergey paused as if considering the chore of repeating the tale now underway, cocked his head, smiled at me, and dove once more into his yarn. I pulled a stool from a nearby table and dragged it to his side.

He finished his narrative and waved the serving wench to bring another round for the table.

With him were my hunchback half brother--a metaphysician/alchemist named Olmsted Aunderthorn--and his wife. She is the once infamous Selladora, who began her childhood as an orphaned singer with a traveling troupe of musicians. After becoming a famous siren of the music halls, she went on to marry a troll named Tgnatys, the richest guildmeister in Duburoake. Tongues had wagged at such an alliance, and the fact that Selladora was a beautiful woman and Tgnatys the ugliest of trolls made the gossip even tastier.

It was while I was investigating her husband's death she met Olmsted and fell in love--to prove that here was a woman who esteemed the inner person over outer comeliness. Not that I do not love Olmsted dearly, but he can cut an oafish figure despite his genius. Of course, he says the same thing about me--but that is what brothers are about, even half ones.

Also at the table was Jennair, a slim Frajan girl who just also happened to be a half sister. There is a tint of blush to her cheeks missing from the pale full-blooded Frajan maids, a heritage from our father. It was not the first time I had cursed the fate that made the beautiful Jennair my half-sister. It was because of our kinship the Frajan community let me keep my loft and office.

Most native Duburoakians gradually moved from the neighborhood to other parts of the city as the parochial Frajan immigrants moved in. Their cliquishness commonly translated into downright rudeness to those not Frajan. I like Frajans, but they act as if they have icicles up their arses. They remain behind an imperturbable facade, an aloof nature that sets them apart from the rest of the more demonstrative Duburoakians such as myself. That my father had been able to seduce a Frajan maid spoke more of his prowess than any other conquest.

At the shadowed end of the table was Examiner Hald, one of the Baron's constables--and you portended it, another half-brother. Of all my half-siblings, he is the most orthodox with his well-groomed countenance of neatly trimmed hair and tidy apparel. Hald sat, quietly savoring the noise about him. As an agent of the Baron of Duburoake, he is not welcomed at many tables. Though we run very different quarters, I cannot help but look at his neatly trimmed brown hair and square chin and feel affection. I know the feeling is returned.

Father might not have been a very good parental figure for his numerous offspring--a downright miserable one since he did not remain to see even one of his many offspring actually birthed--but he did leave behind an expansive network of kinship for his whelps that transcends the usual social and economic barriers of a provincial capital like Duburoake.

Father was impartial when it came to pretty women, be they scullery maid or duke's daughter. His whereabouts and state of health remained a mystery all through my youth since many good fathers and husbands of the berg nourished ill feelings. Many believed he fled to a far realm to ply his talent among a less suspecting populace.

It was only during my last adventure in Stagsford, capital of the kingdom of Glavendale, that I discovered who our real father was, the Baron Garsten Stee Hragen, now the King of Glavendale. In other principalities such birthings as any at this table might be of some import, but given to the formidable proclivity of our father's youthful indulgences, it mattered little. So we all kept silent on the riddle of our siring.

I like to believe that my fleeting time with Garsten through a rather perilous ordeal did endear me to him. But it was a card I preferred not to play unless faced with the direst of dangers.

And last but not least of the table troupe was Osyani, my secretary. She smiled prettily at me as I pulled my chair between her and Sergey. No doubt he had been flattering her through the evening. Osyani's appearance is of a lissom maid of eighteen or nineteen with skin the color of honey. I was suddenly aware she resembled in some part the sleeping Frost Ivory. Yet Osyani radiated a sweetness that even the sleeping beauty could not rival.

One would never guess this maiden sitting next to me was hatched a harpy who bonded to me soon after fighting through her shell. It is a long story that is entangled with the arduous trek through the Megaoulas Mountains to the capital city of Stagsford. Through the anti-magic properties of a foreigner named Lorenzo Spasm, she became fully human.

I can honestly say I love Osyani. But sadly the affection is on a level of what I feel for my half-sister Jennair. Because of my initial role as a parental figure to the once harpy hatchling, I can only feel a nurturing warmth when I look at her sweet face. I am lucky Osyani has recently shown an interest in a young baker down the lane from my office.

There normally need be no reason for me to patronize the Inn of the Six Toed Cat other than that of refreshment and agreeable company. But tonight I was here to query Sergey about Morganna, the evil witch. As a printer and scribe, he was privy to many shadowy occurrences and aware of things the more mundane citizens of Duburoake were of ignorant bliss.

Sergey and I are of the same age, racing into our thirties. And yet for all his intemperate lifestyle, he still appears to be but twenty-two or twenty-four--except mornings. After a night of roustabouting, he often looks twenty years older. Of middle height and slim build, and with brown hair to his shoulders, Sergey cut an unassuming figure.

"What?" Sergey finally asked me. "You are as nervous as a whore in a temple. What brings you to me?"

"Why, I am here only for your scintillating wit and conversation," I replied in mock injury.

"Well then, you shall pay for it by getting the next round."

I laughed and answered, "I did not say your wit was that precious."

"You are on a case seeped in great danger and you have come to me for help," Sergey spoke in a grave voice in what I knew was his attempt at mimicking a private inquisitor. "It involves a beautiful woman in frightful danger."

"And how do you know this?"

"You but jest. Am not I an investigative scribe, known for my prowess of uncovering misdeeds and injustices to satisfy the inquisitive minds of my readership?"

I looked at him with little feigned skepticism. "Sergey, are we speaking of your scoop involving the youth raised by savage chickens in the sewers of Duburoake? Or maybe the swine mutilations perpetrated by denizens of our moon? No, I believe it was the report that the deceased minstrel Elfin Pulley was really alive and flipping muskrat paddies in a mineral springs spa.

"It was frying apple rat fritters at a wagon train stop," Sergey corrected me. "No, I guessed it because all your cases involve damsels in distress. That is why you are always bordering impoverishment. Distressed damsels never have any money."

"You did get a retainer and some fare in advance?" asked Osyani with more than a bit of concern since she was the one handling the office bills.

"But of course," I huffed, not liking to speak of finances in front of friends. "I demanded ten marks as a retainer and ten marks in fare."

"And just what be you charging as a standard fee?" asked Sergey.

"Ah, I work on a sliding scale stipend," I was purposely vague.

Osyani caught my hesitancy and gave me a questioning look.

"I made quite the bargain. No matter how frigid this winter, we will stay warm. I am being paid in coal."

"Coal?" hooted Sergey, slapping the table so hard that the mugs of ale skipped about the table. "Is the bonus a load of path-gravel?

"There be a hundred court jesters out of work and yet everyone at this table wants to be one," I sighed.

'You be working on the slumbering maiden case?" Hald interjected.

"Slumbering maid?" Sergey asked with his eyes lighting up at the hint of a sensational tale for his rag.

I looked at my friend with a stern eye. "Sergey, we have an agreement. You do not record my cases until they are concluded."

He held his hands up in an innocent gesture. I turned to Hald.

"What do you know of this, Hald? It is not in your precinct."

"I listened to hearsay of it down at headquarters. Some say it is an illness this Frost Ivory be afflicted with, others hint of something darker. But the fact that this lass lives with seven dwarves tends to discredit the case in some eyes."

"That be outrageous," Selladora snapped, her beautiful eyes blazing. No doubt her own sufferings of public disdain from once being married to a troll made her sensitive to such aspersions.

"I only repeat what I hear," Hald flinched under her stare, holding his hands up in much the manner Sergey had done only moments before.

"Wait but a moment," Sergey interrupted. "Did someone speak of seven dwarves as well as a slumbering maiden named Frost Ivory?"

"Does Hald stutter?" I asked, prepared for Sergey's derisive wit.

"This be fabulous! It will be one of my best pieces. I cannot wait until this case be solved," my scribe friend reacted instead. "I will aid you. We must unravel this knot within the month before the next journal survey is executed. This time I will thrash that cursed Weekly Planet and take the Sweeps."

"So, aid me," I said and looked at both Hald and Sergey. "Tell me what you know of Morganna, the witch."