Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves (26 page)

The right side of the store is separated from the next building by a narrow gap. I sighed. As a child, I could have braced myself between the buildings and easily shinnied up. Not so now.

I paused just below the second story window, my elbows feeling as if they had been attacked by a cheese grater-rubbed raw against the rough brick walls. The tunic sleeves were in tatters. So much for worrying about the blood stains.

What I hated most were the webs I pushed my way up through, not knowing if they were still inhabited by spitting ogre spiders that are known best for their projectile spewing of poisonous spittle.

I took a deep breath and edged my eyes just above the sill. I half expected the cruel visage of a wizard to abruptly appear inches from my nose on the opposite side of the glass. Cautiously sneaking a look through the bars and very dirty pane, I viewed a study much different from the one of my last visit. Furniture was overturned, papers trampled, books torn, and drawers rifled.

A muffled shout startled me enough that I lost my tenuous purchase and began sliding downwards. I dropped free to prevent further abrasions and landed with knees bent. Straightening up, I came face to face with Lorenzo.

"As I said, watch out for those spitting ogre spiders," Lorenzo repeated then looking at my tattered tunic sleeves, added, "Yikes, that must smart."

A tour of the alley side of the building revealed an impregnable looking iron door constructed with massive rivets, the thick coating of rust resembling half dried blood. The perpetual dampness of the murky alley had tiny ferns and vines growing from the gaps and cracks of the walls to the point that little of the brick could be seen. There was a jumbled of rubbish strewn along the alley sides. I recognized parts of a rotting wagon, old barrels, and what appeared once to have been a manufacturing mechanism.

Lorenzo began dragging the larger fragments of refuse and propping them against the backdoor of the bookshop. I quickly joined in. It was obvious we would not gain entry through the rear of the building, but the fortified door would offer an escape route for any villains lingering at the scene of the misdeed.

We retraced our steps to the front of the bookshop.

"Ghennison Viper Mages, Reverian Assassins, or common thugs?"

I paused to consider his half spoken question. "Not mages, they would never wear such boots. The soles look to be a cut above the footwear of common thugs. And besides, common thugs would have just broken down the door."

"So we either have uncommon thugs or assassins," Lorenzo concluded while displaying his maddening little smirk that too often prefaces a situation where painful dismemberment is a very real possibility.

"You sound so thrilled at the prospect, I will let you go first--and you get the bigger one."

"Ah, but you carry the lockpick kit."

"That I do, and I am always happy to open the door for an elder citizen," I replied as I withdrew my small leather pouch and began sorting through the various shaped slivers of iron. I chose one with irregular twists that ended in a hook.

The lock was more sophisticated than it appeared. That was not surprising considering some of the rare and valuable manuscripts Klis collected. The pin tumblers finally turned over with a satisfying click. I straightened myself up to the protests of bruised and aching muscles.

I lightly thumbed the door latch, pulled the door slowly open, and waved Lorenzo through. It seemed unnaturally quiet. A wall lamp to the left flickered as it ran out of oil. I could smell incense over the musty odor of crumbling wood pulp, moldy rag paper, and ancient leather parchment. We split up and followed the outer walls of the room to meet at the stairway.

I peered cautiously up the winding steps. It was dimly lit by a few lamps and even fewer windows. I cocked my head. A floorboard creaked above our heads and seconds later it was followed by another. A low voice murmured. Lorenzo and I locked eyes for a second before slowly drawing our blades.

My saber at first held back stubbornly. When it was finally pulled free, I could see I had forgotten to wipe it clean of piss dragon blood. Lorenzo silently tisk-tisked me when he observed the dried blood still on my blade. I would have liked to have smacked him with it.

As I had insisted, Lorenzo was the first up the spiraling stairs. He stopped and stretched his head above the ceiling then quickly ducked. He was signaling with his free hand that there were two intruders near the stairs when a black boot appeared unexpectedly on a step inches from Lorenzo's nose. My friend reached out and grasped the boot before I had even processed its startling appearance. With a vigorous yank, he wrenched the even more startled intruder off balance. I shoved myself against the stair railing as the flailing rogue tumbled head over heels past me.

"Take care of him," Lorenzo barked as he hurled himself upwards.

I did not have time to worry about the competency of my foe. Taking the steps two at a time, I leaped over the railing when I reached the bottom of the stairway. The wiry appearing man had clearly taken several stalwart taps to the head and was struggling to gain his feet.

My heart sank as he looked up. The bizarre, swirling tattoos of a Reverian Assassin covered half his face. The assassin's lethal reputation instills such fear in their victims that often the hunted will not even resist. Having escaped them once and knowing Lorenzo had single-handedly defeated three of the villains, I gripped my sword and placed the blade to his neck.

"Down on the ground," I ordered in what I hoped was a firm voice.

Even as dazed as the assassin was by his plunge, his sword abruptly flickered up to brush aside my saber. He stumbled as he snapped his sword back for a strike. I did not think. I swung my blade across his face. There was no thought of tactics, fancy sword moves, or fairness. I frantically attacked as someone wildly stomping on a poisonous spider.

The blood from the gash flowed down into the assassin's eyes. The brief pause it took for him to wipe a hand across his face allowed me to hack again, but this time his blade stopped a second slash to the head. I plunged the sword like a spear to the assassin's chest. Even dazed by the fall, he adroitly brushed my blade aside. Another sweep of his sword sent my own flying across the room.

The assassin's aloof smile made my chest tighten. There was no doubt he was savoring his next actions.

Weaponless, I fell into the stance of a Kimchee master of the ancient art of thumb fighting, the only martial arts course I had taken during my private inquisitor student days. I had taken Kimchee because of my lack of prowess with a blade and more importantly, because I needed six credits in personal combat to graduate. My instructor said I was an apt student, but lacked the patience to reach the higher level of consciousness needed to truly excel in the art. It is said with the right state of mind, a Kimchee master can thrust his thumbs through a leather jerkin into an opponent's heart.

"Hah. Kimchee, a girly-lad way to fight. Let me show you what cold iron will do to your thumbs. Consider yourself lucky you will not be alive to face the return of Dorga," the assassin mocked me then swung his sword as if to lop off my right hand.

Suddenly I was deaf. There was no sound and my eyes saw the Reverian Assassin as if he were at the bottom of a dark well. There were no bookcases, gas lamps, or walls. The blade slowed as if the air had become thick molasses. My thumbs took on an animation of their own and my body followed.

My right hand was no longer there to greet the blade, but flashed away then as equally swift, grasped the assassin's sword wrist--with my thumb pinching a pressure point that caused the Reverian Assassin to yelp in surprise. His now numbed hand dropped the sword.

"Girly-lad, huh? We will see about that," I returned his earlier mocking.

I feinted with my left hand and he predictably tried blocking with his own. But instead, it was my right hand that struck. I leaned forward, my thumb clouting him right below his shoulder socket to numb his entire arm. Before he could blink, my left thumb duplicated the Dorvian nerve block and now both arms dangled uselessly at his sides.

The assassin was by no means finished. He began crouching for a spring that would bring a foot crashing into my face, possibly snapping my neck. My thumbs were quicker, slamming into both sides of his head to ram through his eardrums and pierce his brain. The assassin's eyes rolled upward, he dropped to his knees, and fell forward onto his face.

I stared dumb struck at the body, too much into the Kimchee consciousness to do more than pull in deep breaths of air.

"Please, not cleaning your sword after a fight with a piss dragon is one thing, but not wiping assassin brain off your thumbs is something entirely different. I am not going out with you looking like that."

I exhaled and turned to face Lorenzo. His expression softened and he gripped an arm to lead me to the nearest stool.

"Take it easy. This isn't the first time you've been forced to kill someone," he spoke softly.

"Yes, but it is the first time I did it by plunging my thumbs into their brain," I finally was able to speak. I held my hands up and grimaced at the gore.

Lorenzo led me to Klis' water closet and filled a washbasin with tepid water from a nearby pitcher. "Here, you'll feel much better after you've cleaned off that ichor. While you're at it, you might want to get that piss dragon blood out of your hair."

Washing up gave me something to do while not having to think. I meticulously scrubbed my hands in the basin then turned to my mustache and beard. I had quit shaking by the time I came out from the water closet.

I took in another deep breath. "I take it you had no trouble with the other assassin?"

"Nah. These Reverian Assassins are pathetic excuses for hired killers. It's as if all you have to do is put some tattoos on your face and immediately you're evil incarnate. They just must have some good PR people."

As usual I didn't understand half of what Lorenzo said. "What took you so long getting back down here if your assassin was so easy?"

Lorenzo smiled in that understanding way that always makes me want to smack him. "I was only up there a minute."

I rubbed my hand across my eyes and realized no matter how long my fight with the assassin might have seemed, it was actually over in just a few heartbeats.

"It didn't matter how long I took; it appears you had everything under control," Lorenzo said as he clapped me on the back. "And to think I thought of Kimchee as a girly-lad way to fight."

"That's just what the Reverian Assassin said," I laughed then winced because of my aching ribs.

"He must have been feeling cocky to have said something. They're never to speak to their victims."

"He was exceptionally irate after falling down the stairs, and he was planning to chop me to pieces."

"Extraordinary. Having a conversation with a Reverian Assassin and living to tell about it," Lorenzo responded. "You are becoming quite the private inquisitor."

"He kept bad company; that is certain."

My friend lifted a questioning eyebrow.

"He said I was lucky I would not be around to face the return of Dorga."

Only a few times have I seen Lorenzo taken aback. This was one of them. Even though his face registered surprise but for a fleeting moment, it was a telling look.

"He said what?" Lorenzo asked in a half interested voice as he pulled his belt around so his sword hung correctly over his left hip.

I laughed in spite of my sore ribs. Lorenzo's attempt at indifference was obvious. My amusement was abruptly terminated at the realization that whatever could startle Lorenzo was not likely to be of trivial import.

The assassin's words came back to me weirdly as if they were lines from a playhouse performance. "He said, 'Kimchee, a girly-lad way to fight. Let me show you what cold iron will do to your thumbs. Consider yourself lucky you will not be alive to face the return of Dorga.'"