Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves (25 page)

"You are absolutely right. You better get this cleaned up right away."

His head, which reminded me of a chomping turtle, snapped about to firmly place me in his reptilian glare.

"Whom do you think you are jesting with," the guardsman spoke softly in what I'm sure he believed to be in an even more intimidating tone of voice.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"I mean, what did you say? I cannot hear you when you are mumbling," I answered.

"I am not mumbling," he all but screamed.

"Good, I can now hear you,"

He paused, trying to regain his composure.

"You were asking if I knew to whom I was speaking," I tried prompting him.

"You said you could not hear me."

"I could not."

"And yet…." He then abruptly stopped, grasping the conversation was going nowhere. I was hoping that upon this realization, he would not resort to smacking me with the torch attached to his belt. They really hurt.

He switched tactics. "Let me see some identification."

By now I was feeling pretty good. My nerves were calming and I was coming to terms with my encounter with the piss dragon.

Yes, I had clumsily bumbled that brief encounter, but I was alive and the piss dragon was highway kill. Yes, piss dragons are not noted for their cleverness, but they are vicious. Since no one had witnessed the encounter, I was free to omit the panicked flight. It would look very nice to include it as a reference in the next "Who Is Who in Private Inquisiting" tome. How many other private inquisitors could boost of single handedly slaying a piss dragon?

After facing death in the form of a rabid piss dragon, a snotty highway guardsman was a mild irritation.

I pulled out my private inquisitor badge and flashed it in front of the guardsman's face. He rudely snatched it from my grasp. I was sorely mistaken if I believed the credentials would pacify the young scoundrel. He contemptuously flung it back to me.

"Ah, a ferret.'

"Private inquisitor."

"You know you could lose your license over this, ferret," he gloated.

"Private inquisitor." I paused, glancing down at the dead piss dragon and the overturned carriage further down the road. "For what, killing a piss dragon out of season?"

"No, littering," he replied with a pompous smirk.

"Littering, littering!" My calm had evaporated. I thought I was inured to most stupidities displayed by edict enforcement officials, but being threatened with littering was too much.

"Do you see what that is?" I asked as I cocked my head sideways and looked at him with my left eye in what I hoped resembled the bleak gaze of a wasteland dismal lizard. "That is a piss dragon. Though diminutive compared to the caravan dragons of the Neebrasca Deserts or transoceanic flyers of the Iowian Empire, they are a malicious lot, pound for pound. I should be recognized for the elimination of such a public danger to Duburoake rather than with a paltry threat of littering."

He was not impressed and drew a tablet from his tunic. "That be littering, interference with official acts, hunting within the city limits of Duburoake," he began saying as he wrote out citations with a blue quill the same color as his uniform.

He did not get any further. With the agitation produced by the recent occurrences, I had forgotten one key element of piss dragons. They always travel in pairs. I was knocked over by the sudden flurry of wings as the mate of the now deceased piss dragon pounced upon the guardsman. It was obviously annoyed with its companion's demise and screeching in rage, plucked the young guardsman into the air.

I was beyond astonishment and sat numbly on the road as I watched the pair grow smaller into the cloudless sky. Even the horse seemed too dazed to do anything but quiver in fright. Piss dragons are not noted for their intelligence and in its fury, it had decided to abscond with the first human it saw. Whoever sent the pair to assail a private inquisitor was going to find a very poor proxy.

I made a halfhearted attempt at feeling pity for the guardsman, but the sentiment just would not come. When the guardsman arrived at the piss dragon's destination, let's see him try writing up a Ghennison Viper Mage for practicing the black arts without a permit. Sometimes there is justice in this cruel world.

Before I could even gain my feet, the guardsman's mount finally decided it had had enough and bolted.

Once again I found myself thinking of how my private inquisitor classes had never prepared me for any of this. I walked back to the carriage and stared at the wreckage. A feeble groan brought me from my shock. The driver was sitting up and rubbing his head. At least I was not going to have to explain the loss of a servant to Morganna.

"What happened?" he gasped.

"Just a minor accident," I replied, waving back to the dead piss dragon. "It must be rutting time. You know how those things are always flying across the road when they are in heat."

He looked in confusion at the dead piss dragon. "I hit that?"

"Don't worry. It was not your fault. Flew so quickly into our path you didn't even have time to swerve. Just stay here with the carriage and make out an accident statement when another, ah, when a highway guardsman shows up. I have got to get going, don't have time to hang around."

I waved and turned before he had time to say anything more.

My impression of the witch is that even the excuse of being attacked by piss dragons would not pardon tardiness in retrieving the other half of the parchment. I set out on a brisk pace into town, now and then looking nervously to the sky. If I spotted another denizen of the air, I decided, I would head straight for the beach and into the water. Piss dragons hate water, though with my luck, a sea serpent would be waiting for me.

I stopped several times at the sound of horse hooves coming from behind and put out my thumb. I would often tramp for rides while a student. There is an art to thumbing and I liked to brag I was king of the trampers. Of course I had never tried my luck on the roads spattered with piss dragon blood and looking decidedly disheveled. Back then I was only hung over and looking decidedly disheveled.

I was becoming disheartened when a wagon hauling sheep to market pulled over.

"Need a ride?" asked the farmer, a middle-aged herdsman. His straw hat displayed a dragon clutching a shock of barley and written beneath was, "Wyvern Seed Company."

I was climbing up to the wagon bench when he held up his hand. "Sorry, me hauling permit will not let me have passengers, but if you hide among the sheep we should be all right."

I was too weary to argue and clambered in among the sheep and sat wearily on the straw bedding. Besides, if the piss dragon were sent back to look for its real prey, I would be safely hidden by the sheep.

"That was quite the sight back there," the farmer spoke once the wagon was back on the road.

"Huh?" I answered as an ewe began playfully butting me.

"A dead piss dragon. Laying right there in the road. That be something you do not see every day."

"Good thing," I replied. "The Duburoake Rotating Club patrols this stretch of highway cleaning up the rubbish. They would have a Hades of a time if dead piss dragons were the norm."

The farmer laughed. "Queer, though. The carriage driver said he hit it."

"Well, you know, it is piss dragon mating season. They get pretty careless when they are in heat."

"That be just what he said," the farmer observed. "Still, the carriage was a bit of a distance from the dragon. And you'd think it would be kinda of hard to run over a piss dragon."

"The scoundrel was probably drunk. It is a shame how these inebriated drivers are allowed on the road, running over hapless children and amorous piss dragons. Where are the constables when you need them."

The farmer laughed again. "That be what I was just thinking. I spotted a patrol horse galloping off by itself, not a guardsman in sight."

"That is the trouble with these young constables, no respect for government property. It probably got tired of waiting for him outside a pie shop."

"Yah got that right," he laughed again.

The rest of the ride into the city proper was without incident. No sign of the piss dragon, though the ewe continued butting me as if it wanted to play. The animal would only quit when I scratched behind its ears.

I also kept a watchful eye out for Morgana, but as frightened as the team of horses were, I doubted they would stop until they'd galloped themselves wearily all the way home to her manor. Once away from the ambush and any sorcerer's spell, her mother had to become aware of her plight.

I was let off at the main market square and caught myself from waving when the friendly ewe shoved its way to the side of the wagon to stare at me as if losing a friend. It did bother me that it was probably headed to the slaughterhouse, but having a warhorse is one thing and a sheep is another. I could imagine what my drinking cohorts at the King's Wart Inn would say if I came in with a pet ewe.

I set off in a direct route to Flying Pan Book Bazaar, hoping Klis Klesster was in. I didn't fancy loitering around the shop while an assortment of cutthroats, assassins, and beasts seemed bent on my demise. I could feel the stares of passerbyers. The first thing to do upon arriving at the manuscript shop would be to wash the dragon blood out of my hair and off my clothes. I rubbed my tunic between fingers and thumb, wondering how difficult it would be to get the stains out. Damn, except for the spots left by a spilled bowl of ox tail soup, it was my best garment.

My return walk to Klesster's was uneventful. I did follow through with my vow to be more alert and kept a close watch about me. That included spotting three pickpockets, a pair of enchanted mushroom smugglers, and four cross-dressers.

I arrived at the manuscript shop by early afternoon with a feeling of relief. Taking hold of the door grip, I found the entrance to be locked. I almost flunked my earlier resolve of being more alert. I was lifting my fist to begin rapping on the glass when I noticed several books scattered across the floor toward the back of his main sales area. The room was filled with numerous bookcases arranged at odd angles, making it impossible to view much of the room from any angle.

Faint, damp footprints led down the aisle to the spiral staircase. They did not return.

A locked door did not mean anything. Klesster was irregular when it came to securing the shop. After scanning the visible area of the room, I kneeled to scrutinize the lock. There were small, fresh scratches about the keyhole.

I turned and examined the brick walkway. The footprints began from a puddle that ran the length of the curb for a half-dozen yards.

Two men had exited a carriage and were not worried enough about their footwear to jump the puddle. I kneeled again. The print and heel shapes spoke of riding boots with little wear, which is common compared to boots crafted for hiking. The length of the strides spoke of one of the boot owners to be almost six feet in height, the other a head shorter. I could have guessed their weight if the prints had crossed wet soil.

The cuts of the soles were not ones I had familiarized myself with of the two-dozen cobblers in Duburoake. There was corner wear on the left heal of the shorter man that spoke of a limp.

There was a time that I yearned for adventure--easily jaded with the mundane cases of missing debtors and unfaithful spouses. I sighed. These exciting times were about to kill me.

I stepped back to observe the shop. Two-stories and narrow, the building's roof is wickedly steep, an impediment against burglary. To the left is an almost duplicate of the bookshop, though it harbors one of the more frowned upon wares; intimate mature toys. A sign above the door identified the enterprise as "Whips Are Us." Klis' shop is not in the best section of town.