Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves (21 page)

"What?" asked Klis as he climbed a small ladder and began sorting through dozens of dusty scrolls.

"You are a very ill man."

"Nonsense. I have only a scholarly interest in deviant and abnormal occultism." He had pulled out a rolled-up vellum and was working at the knot of a string that bound it. "And besides, if I didn't, who would help you with these curious cases? Try going to your brother and his precious science or the municipal archives to find out about lascivious naiads."

I only grunted, not wanting him to begin reminiscing about that case. I was still being derided about it at the King's Wart Inn.

"Here we go then," he exclaimed in satisfaction as he unrolled the stiff parchment. "Elixirs and vexes that can make one unconscious are a pfenning a dozen. Half the tavern lechers in Duburoake know where to get a compound that will work for an evening. Most third-rate conjurers can cast an incantation to make a person senseless for a couple days. But to suspend a living creature for weeks with no apparent harm or change--that is no rudimentary art."

Klis clambered down the ladder and brushed clutter to one side of a massive desk. Using a lacquered dog skull to hold down the top of the scroll, he flattened the rest of the brittle sheet with one hand and pulled his head back to examine the text. The lettering was not unlike the script used in Glavendale, though of an archaic fashion and forming the words of a language I did not recognize.

"Yes, this be what I remembered. I viewed it several years ago while looking for a fetish against renal failure," he muttered to himself.

"Klis, for the gods' sake, tell me what you have found."

He looked up and blinked several times. "Oh yes, this is the only spell of which I know that could accomplish such an ennui."

"And..." I prompted him.

"This scroll was reportedly jetsam washed ashore from a foundered ship after the battle of Squall Islands. The wreckage was flying the colors of Ghennis. It will take a day for me to translate it for you."

"Ghennis!" This time it was my turn to yelp. "That means it must be..."

"Yes," Klis completed my thought, "the spell on the young maiden is most likely by a Ghennison Viper Mage. Nasty stuff, that."

"Turd, not only do I have Reverian Assassins after me, now I have to worry about Ghennison Viper Mages," I moaned.

"Reverian Assassins?" Klis said as he raised his eyebrows. "You have come up in the world. When I first met you, your cases dealt with unfaithful spouses and missing debtors. Now you are rubbing elbows with witches, Ghennison Viper Mages, and Reverian Assassins. Hm-m-m, you must be getting large fees."

"If you call a winter's worth of coal a large fee, I guess so," I replied, knowing Klis was beginning the dickering for his own fee.

"Oh yes, the coal dwarves," he remembered.

"Listen, Klis, I am in a rush. I do not need a translation. I am sure Morganna can read this. Just charge me what you think the information is worth and put it on my account," I said. I thought he would be so stunned at my own lack of haggling he would forget to contest the lack of a down payment.

Instead, he answered as he tore the parchment in half, "Here you go, I will give you the other half when I see the silver in my hands. Don't worry, I will safely conceal this until you get back. I can tell you hold it of great import."

From past experiences, I knew there was no use arguing with the book dealer. I would have to discover if the parchment was relevant, and if so, return later with the money.

I made my way to the street and pulled the rain cowl over my head. Down the creek came a small scow manned by several pygmies. I nervously smiled and nodded my head. Mounted at the front of the small reed craft was a crank powered arbalest. It was armed, even as small as it was, with a wicked looking harpoon. My stomach tensed as one of the crew threw an anchor overboard and the scow nudged the stone-edged creek bank.

The captain must have noticed my nervousness and he gave me an odd once over. "Good sir, can you tell me the way to the arms market?" he asked.

"Ah, just follow this creek to the Street of the Greasy Eel and follow it to Chicken Plucker Square."

"Thanks be to you, gentle sir. Did you happen to tour the exhibits? We be looking for a pygmy with a tent of armor and weapons."

Was this a trick query? I licked my lips and answered, "Ah, yes, he was on the west side of the square."

A ship hand was already drawing in the anchor while another waited to push off from shore with a small stave. The captain continued examining me with curiosity then asked with suspicion, "Yah stopped at the pygmy tent, didn't yah?"

I returned what must have been a sickly grin. "Ah..."

"Ahoy, me mates, this one's met cousin Zim," the captain shouted to his crew then leaned back and roared in squeaky pygmy laughter. The rest of the crew joined in so that it sounded like a startled nest of mice. I nodded my goodbyes and stiffly walked away. Damned pygmies.

The jovial chirpings grew fainter. I mulled what I knew about the latest happenings. Were Frost Ivory and the assassination attempts connected? Why would anyone want to harm the maiden unless it was to get at me? It would be interesting to see if Morganna could bring to light any new clues. If the incidents are not connected, then there are two wealthy villains. Reverian assassins and Ghennison Viper Mages do not come cheaply.

Even if the only query in the Frost Ivory case was originally the maiden, I had placed myself in the way of the hunt. The actual outcome was the same--someone would be wanting to get rid of me.

I was deep in these reflections as I walked but still edgy and glancing about by habit, though not as alert as I should have been. The moneylender was a ways behind me as I side shuffled around one of the curves of the stream where the walkway drastically narrowed. Some professions might as well have uniforms. He was wearing short pants and silk leggings, with a gray wool vest and a dark green tunic. A black waistcoat with tails finished the attire. And he was very successful by the cut and quality of the fabric.

Still, there was something that bothered me about the lender. I tried picturing him as clearly as I could from my brief glimpse. He was much bigger than any of the moneychangers I have known. His hair was also a bit longer than normal. He lacked the potbelly that most moneychangers acquired by the time they could afford such apparel. But why would an assassin bother to wear such an expensive disguise when there is similar and cheaper attire available. His rolling gait, I thought as I pictured his walk, was of one used to many hours in the saddle. Moneylenders tend to ride in carriages. Yes, his shoes! No self-respecting moneychanger would wear such thick-soled shoes with office attire.

The footsteps were growing louder. For an assassin, his assault was crude. The attack should come silently and unseen. I crossed a small overpass that was barely more than a wooden plank laid across the stream--and stopped there to make my stand.

If I had been unsure, I was no longer. The fellow's gait had turned to a swagger as he tapped a silver-headed cane in the palm of his hand. A nasty grin and curled lip spoke of the man's arrogance. It was the sneer of someone with an unbeatable hand of cards or a dueler with sword at his opponent's throat. He obviously did not care if there were witnesses. He did not appear to care if I attempted to flee or fight.

Stopping at the crossover, he pulled on the cane's handle and slid out a long sliver of steel. I had my blade already in hand.

"Good, mate. Y'are going to fight. I hate it when they whimper and whine," he said in a rough accent, one that would have given him instantly away if he had been forced to speak.

"I am so happy I have not disappointed you--so far. I must say you appear very cocksure. I take it this must be just a trivial task for you," I said in as steady a voice as I could manage.

"Aye. Been paid good money to stick this in yah a couple times," the assassin replied as he waved the blade. "Y'are a tiny gent, so I figure I'll just have a few whacks, get out of this jester's suit, and collect me booty."

I was facing a low-grade simpleton. He was not the caliber of assassin I was becoming used to--though he still appeared more than capable of sticking that slender steel shaft in me a couple times. I was hoping I might have an edge since the slender blade was obviously not his normal weapon of choice.

"I do not suppose you would care to tell me who hired you for this, I mean since I am as good as dead," I said from across the stream.

"That y'are, little fellow. I could eat five your size and not break out a sweat. As far as who hired me, it was…arg-g-gh-h-h," the wretch suddenly gurgled. A small harpoon had magically appeared half buried in his neck.

"So yah claim little people ain't worth the fight, huh," yelled a pipsqueak voice. It was the pygmy captain. His scow had come silently upon us and he must have had an earlier conversation with the thug. Despite the earlier laughter about their fellow pygmy's temper, the captain obviously suffered from the same rage management troubles. "I'll show what little people can do, yah big blockhead."

My supposed killer ripped out the shaft and spurts of blood jetted from his neck. He clasped the wound with one hand and came staggering across the plank with his blade leading the way. I easily deflected it and plunged my own sword into his chest. He stumbled, straightened, grabbed the blade where it entered his body, and began tottering backwards.

"No, not on me ship," wailed the captain.

I stepped to the right and tugged on my sword with both hands. The blade was wedged between ribs. He was going down and I strained to veer his fall away from the pygmies. The mortally wounded assassin swayed back and forth while staggering backwards. The entire pygmy crew wailed each time he leaned in their direction. They were frantically paddling with the current. I had to let go when one of his feet finally stepped off the walkway. The assassin splashed into the stream behind the boat, sending a wave that lifted the scow and sent it racing before the wall of water.

I collapsed to my knees and waited for my heart to quit racing. The fight lasted only a minute, but the shock was still with me. I looked up and down the walkway. There was no one about. I watched the pygmy scow disappear from sight and weakly raised my hand when I saw the captain waving farewell.

I am a private inquisitor, not a hired blade. The sight of the assassin's body sprawled in the waterway and turning the stream red made me nauseous. I took two deep breaths and forced myself to my feet. I just wanted to make my way to my office and curl into a ball. Instead, I forced myself to again grip the hilt of my sword.

I was angry by the time I had worked the blade free. Curse who was ever behind this--sending others to die in their place. And curse them for making me the executioner. The cosmos may be a better place without the wretch sprawled at my feet, but I did not want to be the one to do the house sweeping. I was now taking this personally. It was no longer some puzzle, a venturesome riddle. I was pissed.

I cleaned the blade and slid it back into its scabbard. I resolutely strode away from the body and retraced my earlier steps. Back into the bustling part of Duburoake, the peddlers silently stepped back as I passed. It might have been the scowl or the tight grip I kept upon my hilt. I found myself gritting my teeth.

Chapter Thirteen

It was in this befouled mood that I arrived at my office to find news that could only make me more distraught. My half-siblings Jennair and Hald were waiting for me in the hall. It was not yet noon. Both greeted me brusquely. At first I believed it was because of my own bearing. They waited silently as I unlocked the door to my office and silently followed me in.

"Jak, we have bad news for you," Hald said. "Olmsted was attacked this morning. He be in serious condition. He probably would be dead if not for our friend, Lorenzo. It was a Reverian Assassin."

"What? Olmsted? Where is he?" I cried, grabbing Hald by his shoulder. "I have to see him."

No matter how I have teased Olmsted as we grew up and followed our own careers, I have always loved the big oaf. Nothing could set me off as a child as to see other children picking on my hunchback half-brother.

Jennair placed her hand on my arm. "Lorenzo left word he was taking him somewhere safe. He said you would know. He wanted to keep it a secret for Olmsted's safety."

"Left word? You have not spoken to him?"

"I was notified and was told some of the details because the constables on patrol know Olmsted is my brother," Hald said. "They arrived to find only the dead assassin and a few witnesses. By then, Lorenzo had already waved down a cabby and spirited Olmsted away. Where is this place Lorenzo said you would know of?"

"Where? Ah..." I mumbled. I was at lost for a moment until the obvious answer came to me--the dwarf bloodletters. "He would have taken him to the City Morgue."

"No, Jak, Olmsted be still alive," Jennair said gently, squeezing my arm.

"I know. But the morgue is run by dwarf bloodletters. They normally only treat AFs, but they would take Olmsted because he is a friend of Lorenzo's."

Both Jennair and Hald looked at me as if I were speaking gibberish. "AFs?" asked Jennair.

"Alternative Folk," I replied. "You know, being PC, politely cogent."

Hald, a bureaucrat at heart, said, "Whatever, Jak, he should have still not spirited Olmsted away…"

If it had been anyone else, I would have been less patient. "So, Lorenzo should have waited until your constables arrived before he sought succor for Olmsted?"

I was very glad I held back a more caustic reply. For a brief moment, Hald's official visage cracked. His glistening eyes showed that he too was distraught about his half-brother's well being.

"I am sorry," I continued and reached out to grasp his arm as Jennair had clasped mine. I did not have to say anything else. For that instant, we were just three siblings worried about our brother.

A hesitant cough captured my attention. It is not often that I have seen Lorenzo look uncomfortable. He actually stood in the doorway without making one flippant remark.

"So, how is Olmsted?" I simply asked.

"He will be fine," Lorenzo answered in a gentle voice.

A silence gripped the room and I tried nonchalantly to brush my watering eyes with a cuff before taking a deep breath and asking, "Who is behind this? What happened?"

"I was asking what Olmsted knew of curses such as the one that is laid upon Frost Ivory," Lorenzo replied. "We were at his laboratory and he was sorting though his old issues of
The Modern Journal of Metaphysical Science
when we heard a crash in his back room. Before I could stop Olmsted, he'd jumped up and was pulling open the door. I managed to shove him to side, but the Reverian Assassin was still able to thrust a poisoned dagger into his side.

"The trolls say they were able to see him in time. He'll be pretty down for a few days, but he should pull of it just fine. Won't even have much of a scar."

All of Olmsted's siblings let out a collective sigh.

"I have got to see him," I said. "Let's go right now."

"Can't," Lorenzo answered and placed a tarrying hand on my shoulder. "The trolls say Olmsted needs a good day's rest before he is up to visitors. Besides, we've got a date with a witch."

"How am I going to concentrate with Olmsted so wounded?" I replied, still wanting to go to the City Morgue, even if it meant sleeping in whatever burrow they used as a waiting room.

"You'll do him more good by finding who is behind all of this--and that means following up on your investigations," Lorenzo advised. "I'm sure that's what he'd want you to do."

Even though I wanted to deny it, my friend made sense. And I did want to see punishment for whoever did this. I could tell Hald wanted to go along, but always the good constable, he did not want to step on the toes on the constables of another district.

I gave my farewell, and Lorenzo and I descended the stairs to the street. This time my friend's mode of transportation was more common--almost too common. Waiting for us was a simple dogcart, so named not because it was drawn by a dog, but because of an enclosed space beneath the two seats for dogs.

"Wait here for a second," Lorenzo said as I climbed onto the small carriage. "I have a dog I have to deliver." I watched him sprint down the street with the animal under one arm.

Glancing about the street, I noticed the pot mender Lorenzo had foretold as being on guard. We exchanged nods when our eyes met briefly. By now I took most things for granted about Lorenzo. Still, I could not help but wonder how he had so many contacts with such a wide variety of people and groups. His source of money was another puzzle since he seemed to have no profession other than that of the eternal tourist. I had asked him these questions in the past, but his answers always left me more perplexed.

Lorenzo exited the bakery followed by a little girl who firmly clutched the pup to her chest. The father came next and stood on a step as he watched the child give my friend a farewell hug. How long had I had my office here and still had not met the baker's family? They were also Frajan, a normally snobbish tribe when it came to outsiders.

"A touching scene," I remarked as he climbed to his seat and picked up the reins. "You seem very comfortable with children. Don't you ever weary of traveling and long for a family--to find a good woman and settle down?"

"What makes you think I haven't?" he rejoined with an impenetrable smile.

The reply took me aback. The conversation was meant as a private jest since I would be introducing him to Morganna. I had never considered Lorenzo as a father or husband, but it would not be that strange. He could be estranged from his wife or even a widower; his children grown and on their own. Yet he had never spoken of such. Thinking back, I realized how little he had revealed of his past or the other world he claimed of which he was native.

"Do you?" I called him on his flippant reply.

"No."

I waited for more, but that appeared to be his entire reply.

It wasn't that Lorenzo was appearing to avoid the topic, but to make him elaborate on his single-word answers smacked of coercion. Seeing he was not going to willingly volunteer further information, I dropped the matter and examined the cart and the small horse that was pulling it.

"It appears the hearse was busy today," I noted. "It probably is only free in the evenings."

"Nope, sold it."

"Sold it! You mean you owned that carriage?" I asked in surprise.

Lorenzo smiled as he flicked the reins to speed up the dawdling nag. "You don't think a bar, hot tub, and all that chrome are standard for a hearse, do you? I know a gnome with his own body shop and I had him customize the chassis and interior. He even had to modify the springs to carry the weight of the hot tub."

"And you sold it?" I asked in wonder. "I cannot imagine anyone who could afford it also having the ill taste to actually use it."

"I sold it on contract. Even had to throw in some seed money so they could pay for their work uniforms. Seems they have a rather novel ideal of how to outfit themselves."

I turned in my seat and scrutinized Lorenzo. "You do not mean..."

"Yup, 'fraid so. Your four buddies are now owners of the Duburoake Limo Service to the Rich and Famous."

"Lorenzo, who is going to want to charter a hearse for social engagements?" I asked.

"It appears quite a few since it was the transportation of choice for the most talked about couple attending the gala event of the season. I think it was the hot tub that did it."

I stared at Lorenzo in silence for at least a minute, but he refused to capitulate. He maintained his typically outrageous look of innocence and even batted his eyelids before I finally conceded.

"You did not plan all this, did you? I mean, I have often wondered what you do for a livelihood. You are not some kind of crass purveyor who plants vogues then harvests gains like a quack healer during a plague?"

Lorenzo maintained his guileless pose and answered, "One has to make a living."

"Just so," I snorted. "Did you even break even?"

Lorenzo laughed and slapped me on the back. "I would have if I hadn't had to throw in a horse. But I look at it this way--I know where I can always catch a cab."

He flicked the reins to quicken the horse. The small carriage did not have much in the way of springs and the cobblestone kept my teeth rattling. I almost bit off my tongue when we a hit a gap in the cobblestones. We were now making good time with Lorenzo weaving wildly in and out among the bulkier and slower carriages and freight wagons.

"You are going to feel bad when we run over some poor child," I noted while firmly clutching my seat as the buggy pitched around a corner.

"We won't have anyone following us at this pace. Sit back and enjoy the breeze through your hair," Lorenzo advised and if anything, sped up the cart even more.

"You know the wind in my hair is a good way to get a lot of split ends," I tried a different tact, not wanting to show my true feeling--wanting to cover my eyes and scream for him to slow down. "And this cannot be beneficial for the horse."

As I said that, I surveyed the black horse for the first time. It was an odd nag, with a rough coat and lank of frame. There were several irregular scars about its flanks. Some appeared to be the marks of quarrels with other stallions.

"Just what kind of horse is this? A rather seedy beast. I hope you did not pay too much for it."

"Don't worry about Fury," said Lorenzo. "He may look scruffy, but he can knock about any of your more well-bred horses. He is a mustang, a wild horse from my home world."

"That is what I look for in a steed. I am sure the owners of other horses appreciate that quality," I replied while again tightly clutching my seat as we took a corner on one wheel.

"It does make it easier to find a parking place," Lorenzo answered.

"Are we almost there yet? I have to go to the water closet," I yelled above the clatter of the wheels.

"You should have gone before we left," admonished Lorenzo.

We were nearing the edge of Duburoake and coming to the waterfront. We would be seeing less traffic and I hoped I would soon be able to breathe a bit easier. Lorenzo slowed and turned into a wagon train stop. Rows of heavy freight wagons were pulled off to one side as their drivers were either eating or watering their teams. Saddle horses and smaller carriages and wagons were parked closer to the shops.

"It will only take a second," I said as I thankfully stepped onto solid ground.

The sound of iron striking iron and the smell of charcoal wafted from the blacksmith's shed. Several wagons had corners propped on tree stumps as their wheels were waiting repairs by the cartwrights. Past the smithy was a row of sheds and larger structures that harbored sellers of feed, a horse healer, an inn, tavern, and a canteen.