The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  “The innkeeper…did she give you any names?” It was a pointless question as Prianhe expected that they would have used fake names.

  “Mistress Hisha said their names were Kresser, a brother and sister. She said the other woman was a servant.”

  “What about the fourth? Didn’t he stay at the inn with them?”

  “She said nothing about a fourth. He must have stayed somewhere else.”

  The serving girl returned with a plate piled high with roasted goat. Prianhe rubbed his hands with delight as she placed the plate in front of him.

  “If you’ve nothing left to report, Nelson, then wait outside while I finish my meal. Then I’d like you to accompany me to The White Coral. I have a few more questions for Mistress Hisha.”

  Nelson and the other two guardsmen nodded and quickly left the room. As they passed by Prianhe caught another faint hint of that sickness that he had smelled on the boy, Miles. It left the room with the three men, but it still caused Prianhe to pause for a moment. Sense of smell was one of a Reikkan’s greatest attributes and Prianhe’s nose was as keen as any of his kinsmen. But this sickness he had now smelled twice was troubling. He had never come across it before, and both the boy and the guardsmen seemed in perfect health. Yet it was there, unmistakably. There was just something unnatural about the smell. Prianhe couldn’t figure it out, and he found it disturbing. Years earlier, during his days in the infantry, he had been part of a command that had quarantined a town infected with a plague. Most of his fellow comrades had been disgusted by the smell of burning flesh coming from the bonfire of bodies in the town square. Prianhe’s stomach had been turned by the smell of the living sick. The bonfire had been a welcome relief. This new smell made him think of that moment from his past and a part of him worried that this was the beginning of a new plague. In a town like Carleton, a vacation destination where people came and went everyday, a new plague could be devastating on a global level. It was something he was going to have to pay attention to, as if he needed more to worry about.

  In little time Prianhe finished off the heaping plate of goat meat and sat back reveling in the feeling of a full stomach. Wiping the grease from his lips and hands with a square of linen, Prianhe stood and moved to leave the room. He noticed immediately that his strength was returning. His legs felt stronger, and he felt like he could confidently walk on his own again. It seemed that a good meal was all he was lacking.

  Feeling a new found vigor, he strode out into the next room and saw the three guardsmen as well as Miles and the serving girl.

  “Miles go fetch my things and be quick about it.” He smiled with satisfaction as Miles left the room at a sprint, driven by the fear of the horrible things Prianhe had promised to do to him. “Nelson, does this town have an Imperial call station?”

  “It does sir,” Nelson answered nervously.

  Prianhe nodded and waited for Miles to return. The strange odor continued to bother him, and studying the three guardsmen, he determined that it was Nelson who seemed to have the infection. Nelson shifted his feet uncomfortably as he noticed Prianhe studying him with a puzzled expression.

  “Are you well, Nelson?” Prianhe asked, causing Nelson to look at his two guardsmen with confusion.

  “Well sir?” Nelson replied.

  “I mean, are you feeling alright? Are you sick?”

  Nelson blinked and shook his head. “I feel just fine, my Lord.”

  Prianhe watched him looking around like a doddering fool. Something was wrong with him. Prianhe was never wrong when it came to his sense of smell. He continued to consider the man with a discerning expression when Miles came bursting back into the room carrying Prianhe’s sword belt and knives. He took his things from the boy and strapped on his sword belt. Miles stared nervously down at the floor as Prianhe sheathed his four knives. Between Nelson and Miles, the smell was quite strong, and Prianhe privately wondered why he was the only one that seemed to notice it.

  “Look at me, Miles,” Prianhe commanded the panicky teen. Miles did as he was told, though sweat appeared to bead out of his forehead as soon as his eyes locked onto Prianhe’s. “Are you sick, Miles?”

  The question seemed to confound Miles, just as it had Nelson. Miles shifted his feet and looked at the guardsmen as though one might provide him with an answer. Finally he shook his head no.

  “Are you sure?” Prianhe asked again. He watched Miles shake his head yes this time. For several moments he studied the boy pathetically trembling before him. Though he lived his life within the world of humans, Prianhe hated them. Humans, in his opinion, were weak and pathetic beings whose dominance of the world had been more a result of their majority then their actual strength. Miles was a symbol to him of all that was loathsome about men. The boy cowered like a servile dog, sweating and shaking with fear. If he had time before leaving Caramour, Prianhe decided he would do Miles a great favor and kill him. The world would be better off.

  Casting a final disgusted look at the wretched boy, Prianhe turned to Nelson and motioned for him to lead the way. When they left the building, Prianhe immediately felt the heat of the blistering midday Caramour sun. It had been warm in the infirmary, but walking along a shadeless street was something different entirely. The sun was unrelenting. After just a few steps down the rough cobblestone road descending slowly toward the docks, Prianhe could feel his shirt beginning to stick to his back.

  He hoped the walk would be short, but apparently the infirmary was on the northwest side of Carleton not far from the trevloc resting station that had provided the backdrop for his clash with Farrushaw and the trival. That day he had run at a dead sprint from the docks to the resting station, and it had taken him nearly an hour. He could only imagine how long it would take walking at such a slow pace, but moving any faster would have been wasteful. His strength had yet to fully return, and he didn’t need to arrive at the inn needing a long rest before he could begin torturing the innkeeper.

  Through the city they walked, Nelson and two guards out front, followed by Prianhe. Most of the buildings they passed had the look of housing units, three floor white plaster structures, with linens hanging from nearly every window. The streets in this part of the city were empty and quiet, save for the occasional stray cat or dog sniffing around the shaded enclosures of the thin alleys spacing every rectangular building. Prianhe guessed that the working class of Carleton inhabited these streets and were away at their jobs.

  As they continued their descent toward the docks, the condition of the buildings began to improve. More and more often, they would pass by store fronts, like a butcher with dead fowl hanging in his window, or a dressmaker with her best cuts of fabric displayed on racks by the door. With each street they turned down, pedestrian traffic increased, as most of the touring vacationers stayed closer to the shore. Though he didn’t notice the odd smell on every passing tourist, Prianhe noticed it enough times to decide that it wasn’t his imagination. There was something going on in Carleton, and he wasn’t sure he would have time to launch an investigation. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Finding Farrushaw and the trival was all that he needed to concern himself with. He would mention his concerns of a possible plague to the local infantry captain, and hope that it would be enough.

  When they finally turned down the main street that ran along the harbour, Prianhe was sure that his body had no water left to sweat. His shirt was saturated, and his eyes stung from the steady drip coming from his forehead. If not for his intense desire to stand over the lifeless bodies of Bale Farrushaw and his companions, Prianhe might have been willing to rest another day. Nearly all of his strength had been used up on the walk from the infirmary. He felt weak. Navan Prianhe hated the feeling of weakness. It only stoked his anger.

  The White Coral was just another inn. There was nothing different or unusual about it. Prianhe walked through the front door behind the three guardsmen and immediately felt his stomach rumble. The common room was ripe with the scent of roasting goose, and spi
rits. At a table next to the large bay window overlooking the street, a couple, plainly dressed, enjoyed a glass of red wine over their lunch. They seemed to be the only people in the common room. Mistress Hisha, learily watched Prianhe approach from behind the bar. Her eyes followed him as he came and took a seat on the stool directly in front of her. The guardsmen took a seat at a table away from the bar, waiting for Prianhe to conduct his interrogation.

  “How can I help you, my Lord?” Hisha asked, in a soft, timid voice. She was afraid of him. That would make things easier.

  “I would like something to eat.” Prianhe turned to the couple at the table. “A plate of that goose.”

  “And for you gentlemen?” Hisha asked the three guardsmen.

  “Nothing for us, my Lady,” Nelson replied, in a weak voice.

  Hisha nodded and walked through a door behind the bar into the kitchen. Prianhe looked over at the guardsmen.

  “Captain, I’d like you and your men to sweep the inn. If there are patrons, confine them to their rooms. She must have help running this inn. Find them and gather them into one of the empty rooms. One of you will need to guard the front. No-one else is to enter this inn until we leave.” He pointed to the diners. “Send them on their way. If I need you, I‘ll call you.” Without hesitating, the captain and the two younger men leapt up eager to follow his orders. The couple must have realized that their peaceful lunch was over, because they stood, and despite half eaten plates, hastily left the building. Prianhe smiled as they left. Though he was looking forward to hurting the innkeeper, information was often more easily obtained simply by creating an atmosphere of fear.

  Prianhe got the reaction he was looking for when Mistress Hisha came back into the room carrying a large plate of steaming meat and vegetables. As she walked through the door, she stopped, her eyes scanning the room, realizing with mounting apprehension, that she was alone with him. A bead of sweat cropped up on her temples betraying the brave face she attempted to wear.

  “Roast goose and steamed carrots, my Lord,” she said in a wavering voice as she deposited the plate in front of him. From beneath the bar, she grabbed a fork and knife rolled up in a sleeve of linen and handed him the cutlery. “Would you like a pint of ale, or perhaps a glass of wine?”

  Prianhe leaned over the plate, gratefully inhaling the mouthwatering scent of a well-seasoned goose, secretly looking for the underlying odor of a foreign substance. If she truly was aware of the danger of her situation, she may have added a poison, but Prianhe found nothing to give him cause for alarm. He picked up his cutlery and smiled at her. Her mouth crooked into an uncertain half smile. Deep within the pit of his stomach, Prianhe could feel a mounting sense of excitement, a feeling that would soon grow to become something euphoric. It was the same thrill he felt every time he played with a human that he was soon to kill. It was also the same thrill that had caused his exile from the realm of the Reikkan many years before. Some of his kinsmen called it the “Tor’ does’ cuela”, the mark of darkness. If any dared to say that to his face now, he thought darkly, he could kill them on the spot for speaking a language other than Fandrian, the only tongue King Desirmor hadn’t outlawed.

  “I believe I would like a glass of water, Hisha,” he told her, as he dug into his lunch.

  The meat was juicy and succulent, a testament to Mistress Hisha’s skill in the kitchen. As he had earlier with the plate of goat, Prianhe devoured every last morsel on the plate, even the carrots. Hisha watched him quietly with a sad, distant look. When he finished, Prianhe pushed the plate toward her, inclining his head to show his approval, then quickly drank the glass of water. When it was gone, he motioned to the bottles of wine on a shelf behind her, and she obediently poured him a glass.

  “I’m told the criminals who assaulted me and stole a trevloc stayed at your inn during their stay in Carleton.” He purposely kept his tone casual.

  “Apparently they did, my Lord,” she answered simply.

  He took a sip of his wine and then looked down at his glass with disappointment. It was not a good vintage. Perhaps her choice was purposeful, or perhaps it was merely the best she had.

  “There were four of them at the resting station. I’m told only three stayed with you.”

  “That’s right, my Lord.”

  “Did you see the fourth?”

  She shook her head. “As I told the local guards a few days ago, they stayed in their rooms and only came down to eat. There were no visitors that I was aware of.”

  “I don’t care what you told the local guard, Hisha,” his voice rising momentarily, “I’m asking the questions and you will answer them.” She nodded solemnly. “The fourth man was older. Graying hair. A long scar from his mouth to his ear.” Prianhe traced a line along the left side of his face to emphasize the scar. “He would have had the look of a veteran soldier. A man accustomed to war. Are you certain you didn’t see anyone who looked like that?”

  “I’m sure, my Lord,” she answered, but Prianhe caught the faintest scent of a lie. His lips curved into a smile. The tinge of excitement increased. He set his wine glass down and stood up.

  “Why are you lying to me, Hisha?” Only moments after finishing his meal, Prianhe could feel some strength returning.

  “I’ve told no lies, my Lord,” she answered defensively.

  “But you have, Hisha, you have.” Her eyes widened fearfully. “There were other patrons in your inn that night.” Prianhe began to slowly walk around the corner of the bar as he spoke, holding her in his gaze. “We have witnesses who’ve described the man I seek. They say he was here that night.” Mistress Hisha was visibly trembling as he came to stand before her. Her eyes showed the terror she felt, but she was unable to look away from her questioner. “Tell me Hisha. There is no need to protect them.”

  “I’m telling you the truth, my Lord.” Her lips quivered as she broke into tears. “Please, you must believe me. Please.”

  Prianhe sighed. His left hand slowly withdrew the knife he kept on his left hip. With his right hand, he took hold of Hisha’s left hand bringing it up, and gently placing it on the bar. “I’m sorry, Hisha,” he whispered gently. His thumb caressed the back of her hand. “You’re lying and I need the truth. I will have the truth.”

  Hisha let out a blood curdling scream as Prianhe drove the belt knife through her hand and into the wooden bar. She reflexively reached over to pry the dagger out, but he grabbed her free hand and forced it down onto the bar beside the other one, then moved to stand behind her. He fumbled for the knife on his right hip and held it up so Hisha could see the sharp blade. Her face had become pallid and white, the effects of shock beginning to set in. Prianhe pressed the blade against her cheek, wetting the blade with her tears and grabbed a handful of her hair. He leaned over her as he pulled her head back forcefully.

  “Tell me everything you know, Hisha, and I’ll let you live.” He ran the wet blade under her chin, tracing the sharp tip down her throat to her bosom. There were laces keeping the folds of her dress tight across her chest. He cut them, and roughly pulled her dress down. Then he cut the laces of her corset, practically ripping the garment from her body, leaving her naked and exposed, whimpering. “The girl Hisha, what was her name?”

  Hisha stared ahead blankly, as though the question had confused her. She sobbed uncontrollably. Prianhe took the blade and slammed it down through her other hand, pinning them both to the bar. Her screams only heightened his delight. Her terror aroused him. He forced her head down on the bar and leaned over her.

  “Her name, Hisha? The pretty blonde?”

  “Rela…Re…Relador.” The name came roughly off her lips, barely audible through the hysterical sobbing. Prianhe knew it at once. The Reladors were a very powerful family from Merrame. Some had even been members of the Council of Nine.

  “Very good, Hisha. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me more.”

  “That’s all. Please, there’s nothing else.”

  “I don’t believe you, Hisha.�
�� Prianhe pulled out yet another blade and pressed the tip against the flesh between her shoulder blade and spine. “They told you where they were going, didn’t they?” A tiny trickle of blood ran down her back as the blade opened up a small cut. “If you don’t tell me where they were going and what they’re up to, I’m going to begin peeling the skin off your back.”

  Hisha began to tremble even more violently at the mention of the new pain she was soon to endure. She sobbed and moaned, but through the unintelligible babble, Prianhe heard the name Nal’Dahara.

  “Nal’Dahara?” he repeated. He leaned over her, pressing his body heavily against hers. To anyone who might have witnessed the scene, it would have seemed as though he was on the verge of raping her, but his arousal wasn’t for her naked flesh. It was the pleading and sobbing that excited him. It was the helplessness. She was his toy. He would extract the information he sought, and then he would play with her as a child might play with a doll. It had been so long since he had been able to feed his secret appetite. He closed his eyes and absorbed the moment. “Why? What’s in Nal’Dahara?”

  “I don’t know. Please, I don’t know anymore. They didn’t tell me. Please.”

  Prianhe savored her for a moment more, then stood up and took a deep breath. With the knife, he cut a two inch long incision in her back. “I believe you now Hisha.”

  “Thank you, my Lord. Thank you,” she wailed with relief that the ordeal was over.

  Prianhe looked at the bloody cut, watching thin crimson tendrils race down her back, pooling on her backside before dripping to the floor. He wanted more. Digging into the cut with his clawed fingers, he pulled, ripping a long stretch of muscle and skin from her shoulder to her tailbone, holding the strip of blood soaked flesh up for his hungry eyes to examine. Hisha’s incoherent cries for mercy and help only fed into his thirst for flesh. He felt light-headed as he watched the blood pour from the wound, the back of her rib bones exposed. With one arm he forced her squirming body against the bar, then drove his fist into the exposed ribs, shattering her ribcage, and pulled out her still beating heart. Hisha’s thrashing gently subsided as life left her. Prianhe took a deep breath, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her heart. She was a trival, he noted with even more excitement. The heart of a trival had always had a particular scent that set it apart from the heart of a normal person. With his eyes closed and his excitement at a fever pitch, Prianhe, breathless with enjoyment, began to devour Mistress Hisha’s heart. He slumped back against the wall behind him, sliding down until he was sitting in her pool of blood, lost in a state of blinding euphoria. When the last exquisite morsel of heart flesh was gone, he took to dipping his fingers in the blood around him and licking it from his hands.