Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves

by Dan Ehl

  After facing death in the form of a rabid piss dragon, a snotty highway guardsman was a mild irritation.

  I pulled out my private inquisitor badge and flashed it in front of the guardsman's face. He rudely snatched it from my grasp. I was sorely mistaken if I believed the credentials would pacify the young scoundrel. He contemptuously flung it back to me.

  "Ah, a ferret.'

  "Private inquisitor."

  "You know you could lose your license over this, ferret," he gloated.

  "Private inquisitor." I paused, glancing down at the dead piss dragon and the overturned carriage further down the road. "For what, killing a piss dragon out of season?"

  "No, littering," he replied with a pompous smirk.

  "Littering, littering!" My calm had evaporated. I thought I was inured to most stupidities displayed by edict enforcement officials, but being threatened with littering was too much.

  "Do you see what that is?" I asked as I cocked my head sideways and looked at him with my left eye in what I hoped resembled the bleak gaze of a wasteland dismal lizard. "That is a piss dragon. Though diminutive compared to the caravan dragons of the Neebrasca Deserts or transoceanic flyers of the Iowian Empire, they are a malicious lot, pound for pound. I should be recognized for the elimination of such a public danger to Duburoake rather than with a paltry threat of littering."

  He was not impressed and drew a tablet from his tunic. "That be littering, interference with official acts, hunting within the city limits of Duburoake," he began saying as he wrote out citations with a blue quill the same color as his uniform.

  He did not get any further. With the agitation produced by the recent occurrences, I had forgotten one key element of piss dragons. They always travel in pairs. I was knocked over by the sudden flurry of wings as the mate of the now deceased piss dragon pounced upon the guardsman. It was obviously annoyed with its companion's demise and screeching in rage, plucked the young guardsman into the air.

  I was beyond astonishment and sat numbly on the road as I watched the pair grow smaller into the cloudless sky. Even the horse seemed too dazed to do anything but quiver in fright. Piss dragons are not noted for their intelligence and in its fury, it had decided to abscond with the first human it saw. Whoever sent the pair to assail a private inquisitor was going to find a very poor proxy.

  I made a half-hearted attempt at feeling pity for the guardsman, but the sentiment just would not come. When the guardsman arrived at the piss dragon's destination, let's see him try writing up a Ghennison Viper Mage for practicing the black arts without a permit. Sometimes there is justice in this cruel world.

  Before I could even gain my feet, the guardsman's mount finally decided it had had enough and bolted.

  Once again I found myself thinking of how my private inquisitor classes had never prepared me for any of this. I walked back to the carriage and stared at the wreckage. A feeble groan brought me from my shock. The driver was sitting up and rubbing his head. At least I was not going to have to explain the loss of a servant to Morganna.

  "What happened?" he gasped.

  "Just a minor accident," I replied, waving back to the dead piss dragon. "It must be rutting time. You know how those things are always flying across the road when they are in heat."

  He looked in confusion at the dead piss dragon. "I hit that?"

  "Don't worry. It was not your fault. Flew so quickly into our path you didn't even have time to swerve. Just stay here with the carriage and make out an accident statement when another, ah, when a highway guardsman shows up. I have got to get going, don't have time to hang around."

  I waved and turned before he had time to say anything more.

  My impression of the witch is that even the excuse of being attacked by piss dragons would not pardon tardiness in retrieving the other half of the parchment. I set out on a brisk pace into town, now and then looking nervously to the sky. If I spotted another denizen of the air, I decided, I would head straight for the beach and into the water. Piss dragons hate water, though with my luck, a sea serpent would be waiting for me.

  I stopped several times at the sound of horse hooves coming from behind and put out my thumb. I would often tramp for rides while a student. There is an art to thumbing and I liked to brag I was king of the trampers. Of course I had never tried my luck on the roads spattered with piss dragon blood and looking decidedly disheveled. Back then I was only hung over and looking decidedly disheveled.

  I was becoming disheartened when a wagon hauling sheep to market pulled over.

  "Need a ride?" asked the farmer, a middle-aged herdsman. His straw hat displayed a dragon clutching a shock of barley and written beneath was, "Wyvern Seed Company."

  I was climbing up to the wagon bench when he held up his hand. "Sorry, me hauling permit will not let me have passengers, but if you hide among the sheep we should be all right."

  I was too weary to argue and clambered in among the sheep and sat wearily on the straw bedding. Besides, if the piss dragon were sent back to look for its real prey, I would be safely hidden by the sheep.

  "That was quite the sight back there," the farmer spoke once the wagon was back on the road.

  "Huh?" I answered as an ewe began playfully butting me.

  "A dead piss dragon. Laying right there in the road. That be something you do not see every day."

  "Good thing," I replied. "The Duburoake Rotating Club patrols this stretch of highway cleaning up the rubbish. They would have a Hades of a time if dead piss dragons were the norm."

  The farmer laughed. "Queer, though. The carriage driver said he hit it."

  "Well, you know, it is piss dragon mating season. They get pretty careless when they are in heat."

  "That be just what he said," the farmer observed. "Still, the carriage was a bit of a distance from the dragon. And you'd think it would be kinda of hard to run over a piss dragon."

  "The scoundrel was probably drunk. It is a shame how these inebriated drivers are allowed on the road, running over hapless children and amorous piss dragons. Where are the constables when you need them."

  The farmer laughed again. "That be what I was just thinking. I spotted a patrol horse galloping off by itself, not a guardsman in sight."

  "That is the trouble with these young constables, no respect for government property. It probably got tired of waiting for him outside a pie shop."

  "Yah got that right," he laughed again.

  The rest of the ride into the city proper was without incident. No sign of the piss dragon, though the ewe continued butting me as if it wanted to play. The animal would only quit when I scratched behind its ears.

  I also kept a watchful eye out for Morgana, but as frightened as the team of horses were, I doubted they would stop until they'd galloped themselves wearily all the way home to her manor. Once away from the ambush and any sorcerer's spell, her mother had to become aware of her plight.

  I was let off at the main market square and caught myself from waving when the friendly ewe shoved its way to the side of the wagon to stare at me as if losing a friend. It did bother me that it was probably headed to the slaughterhouse, but having a warhorse is one thing and a sheep is another. I could imagine what my drinking cohorts at the King's Wart Inn would say if I came in with a pet ewe.

  I set off in a direct route to Flying Pan Book Bazaar, hoping Klis Klesster was in. I didn't fancy loitering around the shop while an assortment of cutthroats, assassins, and beasts seemed bent on my demise. I could feel the stares of passerbyers. The first thing to do upon arriving at the manuscript shop would be to wash the dragon blood out of my hair and off my clothes. I rubbed my tunic between fingers and thumb, wondering how difficult it would be to get the stains out. Damn, except for the spots left by a spilled bowl of ox tail soup, it was my best garment.

  My return walk to Klesster's was uneventful. I did follow through with my vow to be more alert and kept a close watch about me. That included spotting three pickpockets, a pair of enchanted mushroom
smugglers, and four cross-dressers.

  I arrived at the manuscript shop by early afternoon with a feeling of relief. Taking hold of the door grip, I found the entrance to be locked. I almost flunked my earlier resolve of being more alert. I was lifting my fist to begin rapping on the glass when I noticed several books scattered across the floor toward the back of his main sales area. The room was filled with numerous bookcases arranged at odd angles, making it impossible to view much of the room from any angle.

  Faint, damp footprints led down the aisle to the spiral staircase. They did not return.

  A locked door did not mean anything. Klesster was irregular when it came to securing the shop. After scanning the visible area of the room, I kneeled to scrutinize the lock. There were small, fresh scratches about the keyhole.

  I turned and examined the brick walkway. The footprints began from a puddle that ran the length of the curb for a half-dozen yards.

  Two men had exited a carriage and were not worried enough about their footwear to jump the puddle. I kneeled again. The print and heel shapes spoke of riding boots with little wear, which is common compared to boots crafted for hiking. The length of the strides spoke of one of the boot owners to be almost six feet in height, the other a head shorter. I could have guessed their weight if the prints had crossed wet soil.

  The cuts of the soles were not ones I had familiarized myself with of the two-dozen cobblers in Duburoake. There was corner wear on the left heal of the shorter man that spoke of a limp.

  There was a time that I yearned for adventure--easily jaded with the mundane cases of missing debtors and unfaithful spouses. I sighed. These exciting times were about to kill me.

  I stepped back to observe the shop. Two-stories and narrow, the building's roof is wickedly steep, an impediment against burglary. To the left is an almost duplicate of the bookshop, though it harbors one of the more frowned upon wares; intimate mature toys. A sign above the door identified the enterprise as "Whips Are Us." Klis' shop is not in the best section of town.

  The right side of the store is separated from the next building by a narrow gap. I sighed. As a child, I could have braced myself between the buildings and easily shinnied up. Not so now.

  I paused just below the second story window, my elbows feeling as if they had been attacked by a cheese grater-rubbed raw against the rough brick walls. The tunic sleeves were in tatters. So much for worrying about the blood stains.

  What I hated most were the webs I pushed my way up through, not knowing if they were still inhabited by spitting ogre spiders that are known best for their projectile spewing of poisonous spittle.

  I took a deep breath and edged my eyes just above the sill. I half expected the cruel visage of a wizard to abruptly appear inches from my nose on the opposite side of the glass. Cautiously sneaking a look through the bars and very dirty pane, I viewed a study much different from the one of my last visit. Furniture was overturned, papers trampled, books torn, and drawers rifled.

  A muffled shout startled me enough that I lost my tenuous purchase and began sliding downwards. I dropped free to prevent further abrasions and landed with knees bent. Straightening up, I came face to face with Lorenzo.

  "As I said, watch out for those spitting ogre spiders," Lorenzo repeated then looking at my tattered tunic sleeves, added, "Yikes, that must smart."

  A tour of the alley side of the building revealed an impregnable looking iron door constructed with massive rivets, the thick coating of rust resembling half dried blood. The perpetual dampness of the murky alley had tiny ferns and vines growing from the gaps and cracks of the walls to the point that little of the brick could be seen. There was a jumbled of rubbish strewn along the alley sides. I recognized parts of a rotting wagon, old barrels, and what appeared once to have been a manufacturing mechanism.

  Lorenzo began dragging the larger fragments of refuse and propping them against the backdoor of the bookshop. I quickly joined in. It was obvious we would not gain entry through the rear of the building, but the fortified door would offer an escape route for any villains lingering at the scene of the misdeed.

  We retraced our steps to the front of the bookshop.

  "Ghennison Viper Mages, Reverian Assassins, or common thugs?"

  I paused to consider his half spoken question. "Not mages, they would never wear such boots. The soles look to be a cut above the footwear of common thugs. And besides, common thugs would have just broken down the door."

  "So we either have uncommon thugs or assassins," Lorenzo concluded while displaying his maddening little smirk that too often prefaces a situation where painful dismemberment is a very real possibility.

  "You sound so thrilled at the prospect, I will let you go first--and you get the bigger one."

  "Ah, but you carry the lockpick kit."

  "That I do, and I am always happy to open the door for an elder citizen," I replied as I withdrew my small leather pouch and began sorting through the various shaped slivers of iron. I chose one with irregular twists that ended in a hook.

  The lock was more sophisticated than it appeared. That was not surprising considering some of the rare and valuable manuscripts Klis collected. The pin tumblers finally turned over with a satisfying click. I straightened myself up to the protests of bruised and aching muscles.

  I lightly thumbed the door latch, pulled the door slowly open, and waved Lorenzo through. It seemed unnaturally quiet. A wall lamp to the left flickered as it ran out of oil. I could smell incense over the musty odor of crumbling wood pulp, moldy rag paper, and ancient leather parchment. We split up and followed the outer walls of the room to meet at the stairway.

  I peered cautiously up the winding steps. It was dimly lit by a few lamps and even fewer windows. I cocked my head. A floorboard creaked above our heads and seconds later it was followed by another. A low voice murmured. Lorenzo and I locked eyes for a second before slowly drawing our blades.

  My saber at first held back stubbornly. When it was finally pulled free, I could see I had forgotten to wipe it clean of piss dragon blood. Lorenzo silently tisk-tisked me when he observed the dried blood still on my blade. I would have liked to have smacked him with it.

  As I had insisted, Lorenzo was the first up the spiraling stairs. He stopped and stretched his head above the ceiling then quickly ducked. He was signaling with his free hand that there were two intruders near the stairs when a black boot appeared unexpectedly on a step inches from Lorenzo's nose. My friend reached out and grasped the boot before I had even processed its startling appearance. With a vigorous yank, he wrenched the even more startled intruder off balance. I shoved myself against the stair railing as the flailing rogue tumbled head over heels past me.

  "Take care of him," Lorenzo barked as he hurled himself upwards.

  I did not have time to worry about the competency of my foe. Taking the steps two at a time, I leaped over the railing when I reached the bottom of the stairway. The wiry appearing man had clearly taken several stalwart taps to the head and was struggling to gain his feet.

  My heart sank as he looked up. The bizarre, swirling tattoos of a Reverian Assassin covered half his face. The assassin's lethal reputation instills such fear in their victims that often the hunted will not even resist. Having escaped them once and knowing Lorenzo had single-handedly defeated three of the villains, I gripped my sword and placed the blade to his neck.

  "Down on the ground," I ordered in what I hoped was a firm voice.

  Even as dazed as the assassin was by his plunge, his sword abruptly flickered up to brush aside my saber. He stumbled as he snapped his sword back for a strike. I did not think. I swung my blade across his face. There was no thought of tactics, fancy sword moves, or fairness. I frantically attacked as someone wildly stomping on a poisonous spider.

  The blood from the gash flowed down into the assassin's eyes. The brief pause it took for him to wipe a hand across his face allowed me to hack again, but this time his blade stopped a second slash to the head. I plunge
d the sword like a spear to the assassin's chest. Even dazed by the fall, he adroitly brushed my blade aside. Another sweep of his sword sent my own flying across the room.

  The assassin's aloof smile made my chest tighten. There was no doubt he was savoring his next actions.

  Weaponless, I fell into the stance of a Kimchee master of the ancient art of thumb fighting, the only martial arts course I had taken during my private inquisitor student days. I had taken Kimchee because of my lack of prowess with a blade and more importantly, because I needed six credits in personal combat to graduate. My instructor said I was an apt student, but lacked the patience to reach the higher level of consciousness needed to truly excel in the art. It is said with the right state of mind, a Kimchee master can thrust his thumbs through a leather jerkin into an opponent's heart.