by Dan Ehl
I felt like dung, a horde of assassins was after me, and now a dog was giving me grief. I was in no condition for either a mental or physical retort, so I just sat there staring dumbly at the dog. "Mine?" was all I could croak.
"No, just kidding. Only practicing a bit of ventriloquism. The dog is actually for the baker's little girl down the street."
Now I remembered why I had found such merriment in the thought of matching Lorenzo with Morganna.
I took my bath then drank some fresh snakewort brewed by Lorenzo.
So, Lorenzo," I tried being nonchalant, "how about going with me to see the dwarves later?"
I was preparing for a lengthy recital on why he should accompany me. Before I could begin the next sentence, he waved half a blood sausage at me and said, "Sure, no problem. Want the rest? It tastes like turtle."
"No thanks," I answered and again turned to the stained-glass oval window depicting the slaying of Dragon Gorgli. I rose and walked to the window, which had one piece of clear glass near the dragon's tail. I use it as a spy piece. The street was empty but for a beggar squatting at his bowl,
"Turd, there looks to be another assassin lying in wait," I moaned.
"No, just a lookabout for me. You might notice a pot mender later in the day and a rather large streetwalker tonight. I figure if you insist upon returning to the most likely place they will be looking for you, I better keep tabs on your office."
I took another sip of the snakewort and realized I was beginning to feel as if I would live. "Actually, since this be such a likely place to find me, and them knowing I am aware of that, they would most likely believe this to be the last place I would visit."
"Not necessarily true--two local thugs and a Mistrina Miscreant have tried breaking in here over the past 24 hours."
It is difficult to tell when Lorenzo is jesting or telling the truth. I watched him stuff a bit more of sausage into his mouth. He put his arms behind his head, crossed his legs, and beamed at me in innocence.
"Really?"
"Really. They were just amateur hooligans, sent to test the place. A deep fat fried rat-on-a-stick peddler who just happened to be strolling by is also a blacksock level Bermesian Kick Executioner. He booted them about a bit, but didn't learn much."
"Blacksock level Bermesian Kick Executioner?"
"Yeah, you know how they hate Reverian Assassins. He was almost willing to work for free. Professional jealousy and all."
"Morganna seems to think the assassins are here for more than just me," I began relating last night's discussion with the witch.
"If they are, they've been more discreet than usual. Reverian Assassins like to leave a lot of gore. It's their calling card," observed Lorenzo.
I thought back to Morganna's words. "She says they may be first wanting to settle with me before their other objectives become evident."
"Interesting theory," Lorenzo admitted. "What do you think?"
"Me? I think it has to be connected to the followers of Dorga. I find it difficult to comprehend one person could afford a dozen Reverian Assassins and their helpers. The Dorgians are little known for being a forgiving sect and I did defame their temple in Stagsford."
"What about King Garsten's warning of what he would do if you fell subject to foul sport?" Lorenzo asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. "Most likely, if the Temple is behind this and is planning something large, they are not distraught over what the King will think--which means even King Garsten could be in danger!"
I found myself pacing about the office. "The curse on Frost Ivory is a ruse. They would have guessed I could not reject such an outlandish case. Maybe the two are even connected. If I find out who is behind the curse, I may find out who is behind the assassins. Simple street thugs might not know the identity of their employer, but a wizard would."
"I have some people to see," I told Lorenzo as I dug through my closet. I pulled out my hooded rain cloak.
"It's sunny out," Lorenzo noted.
"This is Duburoake, give it a minute," I said as I tied up the front. "Make sure you are here just past noon. That is when we are meeting the witch."
I left my office and made my way to the back of the hall. A narrow window overlooked a cramped, abandoned courtyard--now just full of trash and dead weeds. The wall encircling it was about eight feet high and topped with broken glass.
After sliding out a few pins, the iron bars covering the window swung out as if made for the task--which they were. You never know when a hooligan, bill collector, or jealous husband may be waiting at the front door. Actually, the likelihood of a jealous husband is very small, but being a private inquisitor, I have to keep up my rogue image.
It did remain dry as I began my trek, but those I passed in my rain gear made a point of not staring--several also were wearing hooded wetcloaks. I was now entering a part of the old town noted for its less fussy merchants who would sell or trade anything for a profit. The Baron's constables would occasionally raid the district, but a constant flow of bribes procured forewarnings of the forays.
The streets were exceptionally narrow and some of the moss-enveloped stone structures were leaning outwards as a consequence of their age. It often felt as if I was strolling down a burrow rather than an alley.
I stopped at a patched tent that rose only to my waist. Strings of colorful banners crisscrossed about it like the pennants of a used carriage lot. I stooped to admire the fine craftsmanship embellishing a tiny chased armor tailored for a Pellanese pygmy. On the cuirass was a roaring dreadmole--the hereditary enemy of the pygmies. There were dozens of wee swords, shields, bows, and dirks. I picked up a lance that was about the size of a knitting needle.
"Cute, huh?" cracked a squeaky voice. I looked about until I spotted a pygmy lounging on a stained canvas recliner. He was wearing the plain cotton tunic and leggings of the type worn beneath armor. I guessed him to be about fifty years of age. He needed a shave and the stubble was mostly gray. Balding on top, he had pulled the rest of the hair back into an equally gray ponytail.
Throughout the market were used and new weapons and armor of every size and shape displayed on folding tables, benches, and ragged blankets on the ground.
"Yes, it is," I admitted, holding the artfully crafted piece at eye level. The first third of the shaft was of ivory and etched with runes too small to read.
"Yah know that some people buy this stuff to display on their desks or walls as miniatures?"
"Ah, yes. I have heard that," I said, fearing a hard sale was coming on.
"And some of you folk buy them as toys for your kinder."
His voice was becoming a bit strident, not a tone associated with peddling.
"Yeah, that little needle you think is so cute once killed a badger that wiped out an entire family of pygmies. That armor was worn by the pygmy King Artor, who fought the Unionberg Midgets to their knees. We have ballads about that one. But I suppose you look at it as a plaything for some nephew."
"Well, ah, no. I was just admiring the craftsmanship."
"Yeah, yah probably think it was mass produced by the Chinese as some cheap tourist item." The pygmy was now on his feet and shaking a tiny fist at me.
"Hey, I do not even know what a Chinese is. I was just looking," I snapped.
"Yeah, that lance meant life and death for a pygmy, but our life struggles are probably only whimsical puppet shows for you humans. These are all just toys," he screamed. "We bleed. Did you know that? We feel pain."
I glanced about, feeling slightly mortified and saw a couple walking past with a small girl scowling at me. "Matta, why is that man abusing the little man?" asked the child.
The parents didn't answer, but the trio glared in unison as they passed. I squelched the impulse to shout that the "little man" sodomized helpless rabbits and I was a representative from PEDA, the Punctilious Endless Defenders of Animates.
The pygmy disappeared beneath the canopy, only to pop out a second later with a diminutive crossbow.
&
nbsp; "What about this? Do you think this crossbow is cute? What about this bolt?" he continued screaming as he fit the arrow in the breech.
"Now wait a minute," I shouted back. "That thing could put an eye out."
The pygmy raised the weapon. I frantically grabbed a shield that was no bigger than a butter dish and waved it about, not sure where he intended to aim. I was beginning to become irritated. "Put that down, you little dolt, or I am going to swat your runt butt to the other side of the market."
"Quit pickin' on the tiny guy," a rough voice spoke behind me.
I was too worried about the berserk pygmy to turn to the misguided do-gooder. "Picking on him? Are you demented? He is the one with a crossbow."
"Yeah, like that tiny thing could hurt yah. Youse just being a bully."
"Ack-k-k-k," the pygmy screeched and waved the weapon above his head as he would a banner. "Yah do not think this can hurt yah? It be just a toy, huh?"
The pygmy dropped the crossbow to his shoulder and I fell to my knees with the shield in front of my face. The bolt sailed over my left shoulder and I heard a yelp, followed by a curse.
"Why you little pimple, that smarts. I will..."
"Not had enough, huh?" the pygmy shrilled and ran back into the tent.
I scooted backwards and climbed to my feet. The would-be pygmy defender was gingerly pulling a dart from his chest. A dot of blood marked a spot on his yellow tunic. He was tall and broad, with wheat colored short hair and the garb of a cobbler.
"Thanks for taking that hit for me, big guy," I said as I dusted off my knees. "But then, it was just a toy."
Before the dunce could answer, the pygmy reemerged from his tent. He was grunting and tugging on a braided red cord that soon proved to be attached to a trebuchet. It was mounted upon a small wagon. Full size, the catapult is used to hurl heavy boulders that can bring down a hold's bulwark. This one looked capable of flinging fist-size stones--big enough anyway that I was not dallying to see its potential.
I quickly continued my march though the neighborhood, this time ignoring the wares and hawkings.
"Thanks be to you, but I am not needing a kidney cleaver," I said politely to a river troll offering one with a polished oak handle.
"Never partake of the stuff," I waved off a Rovian smuggler offering a translucent purse made from pig gut and containing a few grams of berserker dust.
I did look back before I was completely out of sight of the pygmy's tent. The cobbler was sprawled flat on his back and clutching his forehead, with the pygmy doing a jig on his chest. That is what I love about Duburoake--you never know what to expect.
I made it through the weapons fair without further problems and entered a twisting alley that followed the course of a small stream. The walkway narrowed hazardously at several sharp bends and I clung hand-over-hand to rusting iron grab-bars set into the stonewalls. The brook was not large enough for regular boats, but in the past I had seen the small gondolas of carp dwarves plying its meandering flow.
I stopped outside the Flying Pan Book Bazaar and peered through the unwashed window to see if the proprietor was in. A few smoking lamps cast dim yellow lights among the tall rows of shelves. The door was unlocked, so I pushed it open to the tinkling of a small silver bell hung from the inside doorknob.
"Any being home?" I called.
"Comin', comin'," the voice of Klis Klesster answered from the shadowed depth of the shop. I soon saw a pair of scuffed brown kneeboots stepping down onto a spiral stairwell set at the far wall. His short, sturdy body followed.
"Ah, it be the master ferret," Klis said in a welcoming voice as he walked to the front of his store.
"That be--"
"Yes, yes, we know, Master Barley," he laughed. "Such professional pride. And how are you this fine day?"
Without waiting for a fitting reply, he went right into the expected sales banter. "I have just the set of books for you. They came in today, The Complete Works of Chur Mockbones, which includes the never before published story, 'The Case of the Vanishing Bandicoot.'"
"I actually came here to--"
"And what do you think these tomes would go for at a Wallmarket or Peasants and Nobles? Maybe twenty marks, twenty-five marks?"
"Klis, I just--"
"And surmise what I be selling them for today. Not even fifteen marks. No, I will sell you the entire set today for only twelve marks. Wait, since you be my favorite ferret, I will let these books go for ten marks."
He thrust one of the books into my hand and I had to admit it was nicely bound and printed. The entwining lettering of red and blue was highlighted with flashes of gold. Tomes are so much cheaper now that those automated scribing widgets are at work.
"And if you buy two sets, give one away as a gift, you can have them for eight marks each. You know what I say, I would rather make a fast pfenning than a slow mark. I am the deal gent. And if that doesn't trip your crossbow, I have some parchment scraps unearthed at the ruins of a Mhjwk temple that your brother, Olmsted, might relish. They appear to deal with the metaphysical reflections of an elder race that--"
"Let me think about it, Klis." It was my turn to interrupt. "Right now I need some help identifying spells. I know you have an extensive collection of manuscripts on incantations, enchantments, and bewitchments--and have read even more."
"Well, I have delved into the subject a shred," he replied cautiously, "though only as a dilettante. You know how ireful the wizard guild gets about anyone practicing sorcery without proper credentials."
"I am not asking you to practice sorcery, just help me track down information. I am conducting a case involving a bewitchment on a young maiden. She has been slumbering for more than three weeks with no apparent ailment."
"Hm-m-m, an apparent case of intense induced languor. Does she show signs of wasting or of her complexion changing cast? Have her bowels moved?" he asked.
"No, it is as if she has only laid down for a nap but a moment ago."
"Is there any remaining food or drink she consumed that can be examined?"
"No. The dwarves believe a wicked witch did it with a poisoned apple, but they have no physical evidence or witnesses.
"Dwarves, wicked witch, poisoned apple, sleeping maiden?" Klis was looking at me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. "Is this some kind of prank, Master Barley?"
I raised my hands. "Honest. I am working for some coal dwarves. This young woman came to stay with them--did their housekeeping. They do not know anything about her, but they became quite attached to her. They think Morganna did the foul trick."
"Morganna!" he almost yelped.
"Yes, but I do not believe she is involved. Or at least she says she is not."
The tome merchant's eyes widened. "You went and interrogated the witch Morganna? Questioned her like some suspect rag lady? You have more boldness than I believed, or a feeble-mindedness that I did not guess."
I bristled a little. "It is not that big a matter. It was while I was escorting her daughter that--"
"And you are wooing the witch's daughter? By the gods, Jak, you take your ferret duties seriously."
"That be private inquisitor, Klis, It is not exactly wooing. I just enjoy her company, that be all. Anyway, we are going astray of the subject. If I knew the type of curse or spell, I might be able to find the culprit."
Klis chewed at his lip and rubbed his chin then turned on his heels. "Follow me," he directed as he retreated back down an aisle and to his spiraling staircase. It led to a second floor that was much less organized than the bottom reserved for the public.
Heaps of parchment, papyrus, and foolscap were piled in table corners and on shelves like leaves drifted in by the wind. Teetering stacks of books were scattered about, some almost as high as my shoulder. I stepped gingerly over yellowed tracts that bore unnerving sketches of creatures barely seen behind cavernous gullets of serrated fangs--and villainous mechanisms that could only have been designed to warp and rend muscle and bone.
"Nice re
adings. Preparing this for the children's section?" I asked as I paused to inspect the depiction of a bound and naked maiden hanging just above what could only be giant lunging leeches. "I just remembered something."
"What?" asked Klis as he climbed a small ladder and began sorting through dozens of dusty scrolls.
"You are a very ill man."
"Nonsense. I have only a scholarly interest in deviant and abnormal occultism." He had pulled out a rolled-up vellum and was working at the knot of a string that bound it. "And besides, if I didn't, who would help you with these curious cases? Try going to your brother and his precious science or the municipal archives to find out about lascivious naiads."