Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves (29 page)

I was met at the door by an apprentice torturer, a lank lad with a swarm of pimples about his face like red ants pouring from a disturbed nest.

"Bring him in and chain him over there," ordered the apprentice in a bored voice to the guards. "I be still heating the irons and have yet to clean and polish the tools from the master's last task."

"I must say one thing for you torturers," I told the boy after the guards had left and my hands were chained to an iron ring on the wall, "no cobwebs, rats, or rotting skeletons lying about here. Everything looks spotless. I am sure your mother must be very proud of you."

The apprentice was busy at a sink washing an assortment of knives, hooks, pliers, and clamps.

"Shut your mouth, dead man," he snapped in ill humor. He turned to face me and pointed to one of the many strange contrivances that furnished the chamber. "See that? It be a spinning jenny. Just got 'er in. She slices, dices, chops, and grates."

"Seems like a lot of machine just to make a salad."

He laughed, but it was not the kind of chuckling to bring joy to anyone's heart.

"That be right, dead man. And you be the carrot."

He went back to washing the tools of his trade. I prayed he would continue with his back to me. As quickly as possible when one has both hands chained, I propped a foot against the wall and fumbled for my pouch of metal slivers. It took but another second for me to pick the simple lock.

On the wall not far from where I had been chained was a rack of oddly shaped knives. I carefully removed a blade and silently made my way to the apprentice.

"Do not move, my young torturer, or it will be your own blood that must be scrubbed from the floor," I ordered as I placed the blade against his throat. "Do what I say and you will live to burn and batter another night."

I led the lad to the rather whimsical device of gears and springs that he called the spinning jenny. It also came with manacles.

"You will never escape from here," he said as I firmly secured him to the contrivance. "And when you are returned, I shall ask the master if I may personally work on you. First, I will insert slivers under your nails and drive needles into your eyeballs. I will--"

"Put a cork in it," I ordered as I waved the knife under his nose, taken aback by the youngster's villainous outburst. He was glaring at me like a taxman who had just had his nose hairs plucked.

"I will have you begging for death, though it will be meaningless mumbles after I have cut the lips from your face," he began again.

I sighed and leaned forward. "One should not make such promises when one is so tethered."

Something clicked. Looking down where I had been resting my hand, I saw that I had moved one of the several levers. I pulled away.

"No, you blockhead," screamed the apprentice.

"What did I tell you about such language?" I said and rapped him on the head the knife handle.

"Pull it back, pull it back," the lad was now begging.

I looked down. Which one had I pushed? It seemed to me it had been the third one to the right. I pulled it and suddenly there was a whirring noise. The contraption began a slow bending at odd angles.

"No, the other one, the other one," he was screaming again.

Now I was becoming nervous. I yanked on another lever and suddenly from the sides of the engine of torture emerged a whirling fan of blades. Pushing the lever in reverse failed to stop anything. I was now desperately shoving and pulling the levers. It was hard to think with him screaming so.

The apparatus was a clever device. Who would have guessed there were all those spinning screws and twirling blades tucked out of sight? I had to jump back when the blood began flying. It was a sight too horrible to contemplate. He was lucky in that I had activated so many of the machine's accessories at one time so it was a quick death by slicing and dicing--a better fate than he had planned for me.

We retired for the night to our different rooms. I forlornly contemplated how close I would be to Morgana through the night--and yet so far--and under a very watchful witch's eyes. I half wanted to brave the witch's wrath and sneak down the hall to gently knock on Morgana's door. It would have been more tempting if recent events had not wearied me to the bone. I fell quickly asleep while contemplating how I would lie awake all night thinking of her.

My sleep was broken only once when I woke in the middle of the night shaking and with cold sweats. I dreamed I was alone in a dimly lit room and guarding the coffer containing Dorga's fish head. It would sporadically bounce about the room, sending me in wild pursuit. I would sit solidly on the chest until another spastic attack had the small casket again hopping about the room. My vigil was complicated by the arrival another black iron coffer hurling in through the window. Its length suggested it stored an arm or leg. I had no sooner firmly placed a knee on each box when in flew a third container, this one of the bulk needed to hold Dorga's flabby torso. Its erratic animation sent it hurling toward me and I was forced to throw myself to the side.

My pursuit turned to flight with the arrival of three more caskets. Their frenzied launchings and ricochetings chased me about the room. The random tumblings ended when the caskets flew together to form the rough outline of Dorga. The boxy, nightmarish form towered above me.

"My eyes, my eyes. Give me back my eyes," gulped a muffled voice from the top most casket. "I will pluck your own wretched eyes, mortal, if you do not give me back my eyes."

Breakfast had been perfunctory, as it appeared every servant was busily pursuing some important task. With mended parchment in hand, Morganna led the procession outside and to a waiting coach. It was very similar to one Morgana and I had been attacked in the day before, though this coach showed no signs of damage.

No doubt the witch had armed herself with a variety of wards, curses, and spells in preparation for a confrontation with the mages. I attempted to examine the witch without her notice. There was no aura about the woman that suggested an arsenal of invisible forces waiting to be unleashed by a flick of her fingers or mouthing of some arcane phrase. In fact, the tranquil appearing Morganna seemed less the witch than just a beautiful, mature woman out for a drive with her family. She occasionally leaned against Lorenzo to point to objects of interest out the window.

I narrowed my eyes as I began examining the witch in a new light then switched to Lorenzo. I did not like where my deductive process was headed. What was he up to while I was suffering a self-imposed lonely night? I glanced over at Morgana and she too was closely watching the two with the hint of a slight frown upon her face.

"Mother, you seem so calm this morning," Morgana commented in an innocent voice.

"Its must be the calm before the storm," her mother answered, also in a decisively unassuming tone.

The daughter took on a smile barely more animated than one painted onto a child's figurine. "Or after the storm."

"Why dear, what can you mean by that?" Morganna responded with a studied composure as she again gazed upon the landscape rolling by her window.

As soon as I was sure the witch's look was safely away, I gave Morgana a smart kick in the ankle. She took in a small gasp of breath and darted me a dirty look. I did not want to be in such a small enclosure with a displeased witch--one who most likely loaded with enough spells to blast Duburoake into the sea. Lorenzo looked over with an equally innocent gaze and both the witch's daughter and I scowled in return. Morgana, appearing frustrated and none too happy with my censure, took in Lorenzo's studied poise and kicked him in the shin.

Morgana's action took me completely by surprise. The unexpected silliness of it and the startled look on Lorenzo's face made me snort an unflattering horsy noise through my nose. I fought to stifle further guffaws. I looked at the witch's daughter and she refused to turn her head, though I knew she was aware of my attention. A corner of her stern mouth finally quivered and a fleeting smile crossed her lips like some short-lived butterfly flitting across a garden.

I snapped my attention to the window and shrugged like a dog climbing from a river. I knew I was turning the clown when I began thinking of both a girl's lips and butterflies in the same sentence.

I felt pretty secure with both the witch and Lorenzo as companions, but was that the case? We were nearing the stretch of beachfront road where the piss dragon had waylaid Morgana and me. I wanted to stick my head and shoulders out the window for a good view of the skies, but knew I would look like some nervous chicken clucking about hawks. What was I worried about anyway? Had not I just the last day defeated both an angry dragon and deadly assassin in fair fights? I was straightening my shoulders when the carriage was rocked from a muffled blow.

I fumbled for my sword hilt. A large shape flashed past my window--another piss dragon--this one bouncing and tumbling head over tail down the highway.

"Nice," observed Lorenzo to Morganna. "Is it an Aberian repulsion ward?"

"No, a coat of charmed Xzzzatx Qztjvuyx wax," the witch replied, the air of the coach dropping by ten or twenty-five degrees as her human lips painfully pronounced the dead language of the even deader lizard kings of the West Isles.

There were a lot of ancient races that lived on only through the persistence of their evil runes and tongues preserved in unholy books--most often bound in the stretched skin of virgin maidens. It seems you cannot spit without hitting some primordial, malevolent lore in the form of worm-holed tomes or soiled parchments reeking of nation-razing plagues no longer remembered. When this is over, I am not going to go near another mage, enchanted client, or witch again.

Morgana squeezed my hand. Had I been moaning out loud? I turned and smiled at her charming face--a reminder that there would be no way to get away from a certain witch if I was to court her daughter.

I poked my head out the window and spied the dragon picking itself off the highway and shaking its puny head. After a quick check of its wings, the piss dragon began running after us on its oversized feet until its pace picked up to where it could launch itself into the air.

"The Xzzzatx Qztjvuyx wax protects only the skin of the carriage," Morganna's voice came to me from inside the coach, "meaning that any protuberances such as a ferret's head extended out the window can be snapped off."

I ignored the ferret gibe and observed the piss dragon gaining altitude while it quickly closed the distance between itself and the carriage. It soon hovered almost directly above us like a child's kite. I drew back into the carriage and braced myself for its next assault. The others took my cue and shifted into more secure positions. The carriage again shuddered, though the piss dragon's impact sounded as if muted by layers of wool blankets. The dragon tumbled down the highway like a keg fallen from a beer wagon.

"Not too bright," the witch pithily noted as she too watched out her window.

The piss dragon lurched to its feet and again began clumsily running after the carriage.

"Though there is something to be said about obstinacy," Lorenzo observed.

"Only that it can be tiring," Morganna replied and with an indifferent flick of her fingers at the stumbling piss dragon, sent it somersaulting backwards. This time the dragon landed on its back and remained motionless, feet aloft like a dead cockroach.

The rest of the ride was without consequence. We arrived to find the dwarves in an uproar.

"Ferret, it be about time you appeared," Snot barked as I stepped out of the coach. "We just captured a rogue trying to make off with Frost Ivory. We got the rascal confined in a garden shed. And another, who says he be your half brother, has been wandering around the yard since yesterday. He carries about peculiar utensils for someone who claims not to be a wizard. We did not chuck him into the shed only because he knows some of our cousins."

As if on cue Olmsted Aunderthorn came out the front door of the cottage.

"What are you doing here?" I asked in surprise at seeing my brother. I gripped his arm, happy to see that he appeared well enough, if not a bit thinner and paler from the attack.