by Dan Ehl
"Isn't that chronicle number ninety-seven, or maybe one hundred twelve?" I shouted over the din of the itinerant band playing that night.
I often joked that after having retold his many tales so often, Sergey should just number them and save the trouble of relating the entire epic.
"You could just cry out, 'Chronicle one thirty-two,'" I would say, "and we would roll on the floor laughing about the time you were caught eavesdropping on the ambassador from the Amnesian Isles while masquerading as a boot glazer."
Sergey paused as if considering the chore of repeating the tale now underway, cocked his head, smiled at me, and dove once more into his yarn. I pulled a stool from a nearby table and dragged it to his side.
He finished his narrative and waved the serving wench to bring another round for the table.
With him were my hunchback half brother--a metaphysician/alchemist named Olmsted Aunderthorn--and his wife. She is the once infamous Selladora, who began her childhood as an orphaned singer with a traveling troupe of musicians. After becoming a famous siren of the music halls, she went on to marry a troll named Tgnatys, the richest guildmeister in Duburoake. Tongues had wagged at such an alliance, and the fact that Selladora was a beautiful woman and Tgnatys the ugliest of trolls made the gossip even tastier.
It was while I was investigating her husband's death she met Olmsted and fell in love--to prove that here was a woman who esteemed the inner person over outer comeliness. Not that I do not love Olmsted dearly, but he can cut an oafish figure despite his genius. Of course, he says the same thing about me--but that is what brothers are about, even half ones.
Also at the table was Jennair, a slim Frajan girl who just also happened to be a half sister. There is a tint of blush to her cheeks missing from the pale full-blooded Frajan maids, a heritage from our father. It was not the first time I had cursed the fate that made the beautiful Jennair my half-sister. It was because of our kinship the Frajan community let me keep my loft and office.
Most native Duburoakians gradually moved from the neighborhood to other parts of the city as the parochial Frajan immigrants moved in. Their cliquishness commonly translated into downright rudeness to those not Frajan. I like Frajans, but they act as if they have icicles up their arses. They remain behind an imperturbable facade, an aloof nature that sets them apart from the rest of the more demonstrative Duburoakians such as myself. That my father had been able to seduce a Frajan maid spoke more of his prowess than any other conquest.
At the shadowed end of the table was Examiner Hald, one of the Baron's constables--and you portended it, another half-brother. Of all my half-siblings, he is the most orthodox with his well-groomed countenance of neatly trimmed hair and tidy apparel. Hald sat, quietly savoring the noise about him. As an agent of the Baron of Duburoake, he is not welcomed at many tables. Though we run very different quarters, I cannot help but look at his neatly trimmed brown hair and square chin and feel affection. I know the feeling is returned.
Father might not have been a very good parental figure for his numerous offspring--a downright miserable one since he did not remain to see even one of his many offspring actually birthed--but he did leave behind an expansive network of kinship for his whelps that transcends the usual social and economic barriers of a provincial capital like Duburoake.
Father was impartial when it came to pretty women, be they scullery maid or duke's daughter. His whereabouts and state of health remained a mystery all through my youth since many good fathers and husbands of the berg nourished ill feelings. Many believed he fled to a far realm to ply his talent among a less suspecting populace.
It was only during my last adventure in Stagsford, capital of the kingdom of Glavendale, that I discovered who our real father was, the Baron Garsten Stee Hragen, now the King of Glavendale. In other principalities such birthings as any at this table might be of some import, but given to the formidable proclivity of our father's youthful indulgences, it mattered little. So we all kept silent on the riddle of our siring.
I like to believe that my fleeting time with Garsten through a rather perilous ordeal did endear me to him. But it was a card I preferred not to play unless faced with the direst of dangers.
And last but not least of the table troupe was Osyani, my secretary. She smiled prettily at me as I pulled my chair between her and Sergey. No doubt he had been flattering her through the evening. Osyani's appearance is of a lissom maid of eighteen or nineteen with skin the color of honey. I was suddenly aware she resembled in some part the sleeping Frost Ivory. Yet Osyani radiated a sweetness that even the sleeping beauty could not rival.
One would never guess this maiden sitting next to me was hatched a harpy who bonded to me soon after fighting through her shell. It is a long story that is entangled with the arduous trek through the Megaoulas Mountains to the capital city of Stagsford. Through the anti-magic properties of a foreigner named Lorenzo Spasm, she became fully human.
I can honestly say I love Osyani. But sadly the affection is on a level of what I feel for my half-sister Jennair. Because of my initial role as a parental figure to the once harpy hatchling, I can only feel a nurturing warmth when I look at her sweet face. I am lucky Osyani has recently shown an interest in a young baker down the lane from my office.
There normally need be no reason for me to patronize the Inn of the Six Toed Cat other than that of refreshment and agreeable company. But tonight I was here to query Sergey about Morganna, the evil witch. As a printer and scribe, he was privy to many shadowy occurrences and aware of things the more mundane citizens of Duburoake were of ignorant bliss.
Sergey and I are of the same age, racing into our thirties. And yet for all his intemperate lifestyle, he still appears to be but twenty-two or twenty-four--except mornings. After a night of roustabouting, he often looks twenty years older. Of middle height and slim build, and with brown hair to his shoulders, Sergey cut an unassuming figure.
"What?" Sergey finally asked me. "You are as nervous as a whore in a temple. What brings you to me?"
"Why, I am here only for your scintillating wit and conversation," I replied in mock injury.
"Well then, you shall pay for it by getting the next round."
I laughed and answered, "I did not say your wit was that precious."
"You are on a case seeped in great danger and you have come to me for help," Sergey spoke in a grave voice in what I knew was his attempt at mimicking a private inquisitor. "It involves a beautiful woman in frightful danger."
"And how do you know this?"
"You but jest. Am not I an investigative scribe, known for my prowess of uncovering misdeeds and injustices to satisfy the inquisitive minds of my readership?"
I looked at him with little feigned skepticism. "Sergey, are we speaking of your scoop involving the youth raised by savage chickens in the sewers of Duburoake? Or maybe the swine mutilations perpetrated by denizens of our moon? No, I believe it was the report that the deceased minstrel Elfin Pulley was really alive and flipping muskrat paddies in a mineral springs spa.
"It was frying apple rat fritters at a wagon train stop," Sergey corrected me. "No, I guessed it because all your cases involve damsels in distress. That is why you are always bordering impoverishment. Distressed damsels never have any money."
"You did get a retainer and some fare in advance?" asked Osyani with more than a bit of concern since she was the one handling the office bills.
"But of course," I huffed, not liking to speak of finances in front of friends. "I demanded ten marks as a retainer and ten marks in fare."
"And just what be you charging as a standard fee?" asked Sergey.
"Ah, I work on a sliding scale stipend," I was purposely vague.
Osyani caught my hesitancy and gave me a questioning look.
"I made quite the bargain. No matter how frigid this winter, we will stay warm. I am being paid in coal."
"Coal?" hooted Sergey, slapping the table so hard that the mugs of ale skipped about the table. "
Is the bonus a load of path-gravel?
"There be a hundred court jesters out of work and yet everyone at this table wants to be one," I sighed.
'You be working on the slumbering maiden case?" Hald interjected.
"Slumbering maid?" Sergey asked with his eyes lighting up at the hint of a sensational tale for his rag.
I looked at my friend with a stern eye. "Sergey, we have an agreement. You do not record my cases until they are concluded."
He held his hands up in an innocent gesture. I turned to Hald.
"What do you know of this, Hald? It is not in your precinct."
"I listened to hearsay of it down at headquarters. Some say it is an illness this Frost Ivory be afflicted with, others hint of something darker. But the fact that this lass lives with seven dwarves tends to discredit the case in some eyes."
"That be outrageous," Selladora snapped, her beautiful eyes blazing. No doubt her own sufferings of public disdain from once being married to a troll made her sensitive to such aspersions.
"I only repeat what I hear," Hald flinched under her stare, holding his hands up in much the manner Sergey had done only moments before.
"Wait but a moment," Sergey interrupted. "Did someone speak of seven dwarves as well as a slumbering maiden named Frost Ivory?"
"Does Hald stutter?" I asked, prepared for Sergey's derisive wit.
"This be fabulous! It will be one of my best pieces. I cannot wait until this case be solved," my scribe friend reacted instead. "I will aid you. We must unravel this knot within the month before the next journal survey is executed. This time I will thrash that cursed Weekly Planet and take the Sweeps."
"So, aid me," I said and looked at both Hald and Sergey. "Tell me what you know of Morganna, the witch."
It was if I had waved a magic wand and placed the two under an ice spell. Hald and Sergey were frozen for several moments before quickly glancing at each other then down at their drinks. I took that as a bad sign.
"You best be careful, Jak, if your case involves this witch," came word from an unexpected corner.
Olmsted was nervously rapping his fingertips on the table as he wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"You have heard of this witch?" I asked the alchemist as I turned to him in surprise. My brother normally shied from the murky chaos of the occult, preferring the hard science of metaphysics.
He reluctantly looked about the table before replying. "Some dread to even whisper her name, fearing it will draw her unwanted attentions. They say she is a demon in human form. The witch was unknown but until last winter when she commandeered Dorga's vacated temple."
Olmsted nervously again looked about the shadowed areas of the tavern before continuing. "They say all of the hideous practices of the carp-head god continue in the temple with this woman."
I turned angrily to Hald. "This is why the Baron's constables fail to investigate the maiden's plight? They are fearful of this witch?"
"This witch is not one to speak lightly of in a tavern," Hald hissed at me as quietly as possible while still being heard over the music. "You be too quick with your accusations. I know naught of the maiden's investigation. It is in the hands of our provincial constabulary. But I can tell you that this witch is of great interest to the Baron's Duburoake examiners."
Hald quickly downed his stein of ale and rose to his feet. Still speaking as low as possible, he added, "I would advise you to drop this case, but I know such urgings are futile. But tread carefully and out of the sight of whom we just spoke."
At that uttering, Hald doffed his hat and walked solemnly to the door.
I turned to Sergey, who appeared less eager after hearing a witch was involved. "Well, friend, I know you be anxious to begin this adventure."
The hack scribe gave me a sickly grin. "Oh, yes. The hunt is on and all that rot. Still, we should not rush off without first being properly prepared. And that could take weeks."
"You are always the jester," I laughed and heartily slapped him on the shoulders while enjoying his squirming. I stood to make my way to the water closet. I could feel Osyani's worried eyes upon me as I worked my way across the crowded tavern floor.
Being the evening before St. Grulog's Day, the tavern was crowded with celebrants who had returned home for the holiday. Luckier patrons had found tables or stools at the bar. The rest leaned along the walls with mugs of assorted spirits gripped tightly in their hands.
The itinerate musicians were absorbed in a turbulent tune that had the strutting fiddler making his instrument wail like a tortured banshee. Their music was a hybrid that combined the earthy pulse and abandon of the southern wilds of Chicoleans and the more sophisticated melodies of the northern lands. Young girls danced next to the stage and intermittently stopped to shout their love to members of the ensemble.
The water closets are at the end of a long, narrow hallway barely lit by two sourly smoking yimp fat lamps. The "Sir's" facility is almost as poorly lit, which is fortunate because it is best one does not see too clearly in such a malodorous chamber.
Upon opening the door, a herd of small insects scuttled for cover. I had interrupted the slaughter of a number of army roaches. I was glad I had not gotten a good look at whatever vile bug could bring down an armored cockroach.
Then again, how many times had I been kept awake at night by the peeping bellowings of bull cockroaches as they fought in my walls and under the floor during mating season? I especially hated the tiny clicking sounds as they butted antlers, which were extensions of their exoskeleton. What if these other bugs could be bred as exterminators and released in pest-ridden homes? It was a thought.
The writings on the wall were visible, if not always legible. Some were in cryptic runes, others in the lettering of those beyond the Misty Mountains. In the script of Glavendale were a number of witless musings, crude drawings of what appeared to be fertility goddesses, and the addresses of maidens said to be exceptionally friendly.
"This wall soon to be made into a major theatrical production," read the only graffiti not dealing with body functions.
After relieving myself, I again contemplated the scene that had met me when I first opened the door. I crouched down, my nose wrinkling from the odor rising from the floor, and pushed a half-eaten army roach to a crack in the wall. The iron-grey cadaver, as big as my thumb, was sheathed in shattered scaly plates.
A furry green insect leg reached out and began pulling the carcass into the crack. I placed a finger on the dead roach and began sliding it away from the wall so I could observe what manner of bug I was dealing with.
This obviously was not what the mystery creepy-crawly had in mind, for suddenly a pair of wicked pinchers shot from the crack and latched painfully onto my finger. I jerked back in surprise and stumbled to my feet before slamming through the door. I floundered into the hall while wildly waving my hand above my head. Attached to my finger was what appeared to be a tiny lobster with long spider legs.
My hasty exit took three very unattractive giants by surprise. Wearing the bizarre facial tattoos and black hooded cloaks of Reverian Assassins, they had been standing just outside the door with knives drawn--which does not augur well for making new friendships. The loathsome insect finally let loose, only to fly into the face of one of the rogues. The thing gripped the scofflaw's nose with its pinchers and the would-be killer howled in both pain and surprise.
Gathering some of my wits, I kicked the second of the trio in the shins and dodged a dirk thrust my way by the third hooligan whose aim was hampered by his howling confederates. I took advantage of the confusion to hasten down the hallway and back to my friends. I doubted the Reverian Assassins would try anything in a crowd. They did their foul work in the shadows.
I wished Hald had remained. Why is it that there are always constables underfoot until you need one?
"What be the matter?" Osyani asked as I sat down.
"I, ah, had a run in, ah with three Reverian Assassins outside the water closet," I answere
d while trying to catch my breath.
"What?" shouted Olmsted. "Reverian Assassins?"
They looked at me blankly, as if I had claimed to have been sharing a beer with the top ten demons of Hades.
"Are you sure they were Reverian Assassins?" Sergey finally asked in a doubtful tone. "Reverian Assassins are seldom seen except by their victims, and their victims do not survive as witnesses."
I scowled at the scribe. "No, I guess they could have been young damsels selling Maiden Scout pastries, and the tattoos were new types of badges. What? You don't think I know Reverian Assassins when I see them?"
Sergey retained a look of doubt.
"Look at me," I commanded my friend. "Now lean over closer."
He bent forward as if to hear some secretive message and I rapped my knuckles on his head. The sudden appearance of death-dealing thuggies had sapped any bit of patience I possessed.