Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves (32 page)

I finally decided to discover where the maidens were being taken and from a distance, followed the next band of priests and their charges. We traveled a number of passages until the group stopped in front of huge bronze doors covered with the customary images of hideous fiends and cruelly torn mortal men, women, and children. Lorenzo called it niche marketing. He, for some reason, also called it franchise branding, though I have yet to see the images of anyone being burned with a hot iron.

The lead priest pounded upon the door with a hammer that hung from a bright red cord. It slowly opened to reveal several servants straining against the great weight of the gates. Inside loomed a huge bronze statue of Dorga, much like the one in the Stagsford temple. It had the same blubberous belly, man breasts, ghastly fish head, and opened mouth displaying shark-like teeth. Beneath its crossed legs was the platform on which rested the sacrificial altar. There were no sacrifices currently going on as the giant pyre pit was not ablaze.

The door closed on the group before I could learn more. I could only guess they were holding a rehearsal. My enthusiasm at escaping the dungeon was dwindling and I was beginning to feel despondent. I decided to retreat to a less traveled passage where I could ponder my next course of action. It was not difficult. The temple was riddled with deserted warrens. I stepped into one such tunnel that was unlit and smelled of mold and rat droppings.

I worried about diretoads that inhabited such dank burrows. They crawl the cavern ceilings and drop down on unsuspecting rats. That is good, but occasionally they drop on people and try sucking blood. My grandfather, who suffered from elder dementia, would repeat this childhood poem to me at bedtime.

Beneath the webs of glutted spiders,

the heap of flies grow steep and wider,

while nervous rats grow old and bitter,

from missing mates and devoured litters.

And small black toads with pale blue eyes,

keen in the dark with mournful cries,

and dream of meals that once had been,

the times they dined on human skin.

I was contemplating my grandfather's idiosyncrasies when I felt cold steel at my throat and a deep whisper in my ear, "Make one sound and you be a dead man."

I froze at this latest unexpected event. I hate unexpected events.

"Why are you here?"

"Ah, I be just a humble priest of Dorga carrying out my duties."

"Bulldung. Tell me the truth or I shall leave your gulleted body bleeding in this forsaken hole."

My mind was blank. I wanted to come up with some glib pretext, but I was left speechless at the suddenness of my assailant's appearance.

"You be no priest," the voice at my ear prompted me. "I have been watching you for hours and only the dimwitted followers of Dorga could fail to see you are an imposter. And when they do realize an uninitiated is lurking about, such a hue and cry will go out that even I may be exposed."

I relaxed slightly. This was no Dorga minion, though he did sound just as dangerous.

"I am here to rescue a friend who is being held here--a maiden fated to be a sacrificed to Dorga."

"That is all I need," the voice dripped with scorn, "a lovesick buffoon blundering about to save some thick-ankled farm girl."

At least the pressure at my throat lessened, though he was obviously not the romantic type. "And who are you?" I asked in return. "What are you doing here?"

The knife was withdrawn and I was shoved against the wall. I turned and could just barely make out a figure cloaked by the darkness.

"I am here on an undertaking for a client. That is all you have to know. If I told you more, I would have to kill you."

I was regaining some courage. "Huh, I warn you. I am a master of the ancient art of Kimchee and can shove your nostrils through your brain with my thumbs before you could even sneeze."

The figure snorted. "Kimchee? Only some crazy old man at a private inquisitor school gives that girly-lad fighting any credence."

Now I was getting angry. I was about to make a cutting retort when I stopped cold. How did this mysterious stranger know about my instructor?

"Are you a--?"

"If you say 'ferret,' I will slash your throat," he cut me off with a growl.

"What year did you graduate?"

"What?"

"What year did you graduate from the Duburoake Academy of Private Inquisition?"

There was a moment of silence before he grudgingly answered, "The spring of six sixty-eight."

"Ah, nine years before me!"

This time the silence was longer. "Are you trying to tell me you are a private inquisitor?"

"Jak Barley, at your service. And I too am on assignment."

"For whom?" There was still doubt in his voice.

This was not the time to be completely forthcoming. I am not sure how he would react to "seven dwarves."

"I am sorry, but such information is confidential."

"Follow me," the supposed private inquisitor ordered and he walked to the mouth of the passage.

He turned in the light and I observed a lean, clean-shaven countenance that spoke of a non-nonsense manner. There were lines in his face, though none looked as if they could be credited to amused expressions. His hair was clipped to be almost shaved. He in turn regarded me and did not appear impressed.

"How did you get in here? This temple is sealed tight. I do not even know if I can get out."

"Ah, I was flown in."

"Flown in?"

"By piss dragon."

"Piss dragon?"

"Piss dragon."

He appeared to grow weary of repeating me. "I need to know who your client is. It is important I know who else is involved in this muddle."

"You first."

"What?"

"You first--and who are you? I also have need of such information."

He obviously had not had much sleep recently. He rubbed his eyes and answered, "My name is Berrick Phenstalker. I work for the King of Glavendale."

"Garsten?" I asked in surprise.

Berrick frowned. "You are an impertinent whelp to speak of the King by first name."

"Ah, I knew him when he was just a baron." I did not want to relate the story of the King being my father.

He maintained his disapproving look, but said, "Now, tell me who has you as a hireling."

I did not approve of his disparaging tone, but reluctantly replied, "Seven dwarves."

My response did not seem to satisfy the private inquisitor.

"Who?"

"Ah, seven dwarves."

"Are you trying to jest me," he growled and again raised his blade.

I put up my thumbs. "You asked. I answered. Take it as you will."

He stared at me with the look of someone inspecting a village idiot. "Seven dwarves," he repeated wearily.

"It be a long story, but the essential information has to do with a maiden called Frost Ivory who was placed under a curse. I was hired to find the culprit."

Berrick appeared readying his blade.

"And it turned out to be Dorga."

"Dorga?"

"Yes."

"There is no Dorga. Or if so, he was banished eons ago."

"Well, it is really his hand."

"His hand?"

"It can write out orders for the priests. Though my friend has Dorga's head and I had his eyes in a drawer at home."

If possible, his eyes narrowed even more.

As long as the story was, I decided I better start at the beginning. "It began when I arrived at the seven dwarves' cottage last week…"

"…and that is why I am here and Morgana is being held as a sacrifice," I finished the tale.

"So you are telling me all this religious commotion is occurring because Dorga's priests are planning to gum him back together and they need all these maidens for a welcoming home celebration?"

'I might word it a bit differently, but that is it in a maggot husk."

"And your friends should be here soon? Including a witch?"

"Lorenzo said he had figured out where this temple is located. I am sure they left for here at once."

Berrick was staring down at his feet as if searching for answers on the toes of his boots. "And when was this?"

"About mid-morning."

He sounded exasperated when he asked, "What day during mid-morning?"

"Why, today."

"Wonderful. Do you know how long it will take them to get here by horse?" Berrick asked then not waiting for me to answer, continued, "At least two days--and that is if the ferryman is working tomorrow."

"Two days? I bet my friend and the witch figure out how to get here sooner. Even so, I can keep out of sight for two days if you pilfer some food and drink for me. After all, they are not going to begin the sacrifices without Dorga's head."

"Jak, how familiar are you with Dorga temple practices?"

"Well, I did attend a couple rituals in disguise, but I never really studied Dorgaism. A bit too ill-mannered for my taste."

"That is saying a lot if you frequent the King's Wart Inn." Berrick noted then grasped my arm. "The ritual you speak of will be a truly unspeakably heinous sacrament. Yes, that will not occur until the head of Dorga, or maybe even those eyes, are secured. But this is the Dorga holiday period of Zgahnisma, devoted to the god's martyred sister, Paylyn."

"So?" I asked after he paused as if expecting a response.

"So? Paylyn was revered for being a god of the common rabble. But like a beast that can rise from a mob, her devotees were prone to the loathing of strangers, scholars, dwarves, elves, trolls, goblins, and Kimchee."

"Well, there are some in those groups that I do not exactly… Hey, wait a minute, did you say Kimchee?"

"There are some who think of that as a girly-lad sport."

I puffed up my chest. "I am secure enough in my masculinity that I do not have to respond to such hackneyed ideas, but if you--"

"As I was saying," Berrick again cut in, "Paylyn eventually rousted the masses to such a fever pitch they turned on her one dark, riotous night. Myth relates that as she was being devoured by the mob, she continued to goad them onto further havoc."

"Nice. I will save that bedside tale for when I have children. I will even get the priest with the split tongue and filed teeth to recite it to them. But just what does that have to do with anything?

"During the Days of Zgahnisma, it is customary to sacrifice one virgin a day to Dorga."

"How customary?"

"Pretty standard."