by Sam Ferguson
Jonathan nodded to the man and surveyed the sheep. “Anyone go missing?”
Bruno shook his head. “They stay close to me,” he said. Jonathan smiled, partly because that was exactly what Bruno always said, but more so because it was true. Bruno had been a footman during the Troll Wars, fighting skirmishes as far south as Wendyn. He had a reputation for being nearly indestructible and, more importantly, for killing more trolls than any other soldier not assigned to the Ghosts of the Quags. Yet, for all of his hardness, the sheep adored him. The lambs were rarely, if ever, more than a few yards away from him at any time. He played with them as he would a small child. The veteran never said much, but it did Jonathan good to see the man smiling.
“Keep up the good work,” Jonathan said.
Bruno nodded and bent down to scoop up a small lamb in his left hand. The animal nuzzled into the man’s chest as he began petting it softly.
“Best job in the world,” Bruno said before continuing to walk along the brook, a trail of ten lambs following closely after him.
Jonathan watched the mountain of a man for a while and then moved on to the hayfields, where he saw Dersden and Morris tending to the fields. He chatted with them for a few minutes and then moved off to his favorite part of the family estate, the apple orchard. No others worked this part of the land. This was Jonathan’s personal sanctuary. He first tended to the bee hives he kept near the orchard’s farthest boundary, making sure the little creatures hadn’t been disturbed and were working their magic on his trees. Then he methodically moved through the four rows of twenty trees, one by one starting on the left side and moving to the right. He checked the fruit for insects and tested the branches for suppleness, bending the wood a bit as a way of measuring how healthy the tree was by the speed with which the branch would straighten when he let go.
When he had cleared a few bad apples from the lot he sat down beneath the largest tree and picked a tall stock of grass, sticking the end between his front teeth and chewing while he leaned back lazily. He was only there a minute or two before Griff came tromping through the grass to curl up beside him. The massive lizard acted more like a domesticated dog than the fanged, wild beast it truly was, but Jonathan was glad for the company. When Jonathan had first purchased the orchard after returning from Tanglewood Forest, he’d worked here with Pa. It was Pa who’d taught Jonathan how to work with the bees to draw honey from them without earning a thousand stings for his troubles.
Jonathan rested his right hand down upon Griff’s back, petting the leathery scales and staring off at one of the trees, imagining Pa picking apples from it and talking about how good Memaw’s apple butter was going to be this year.
A tear came to his eye then as he remembered leaving the orchard a few summers ago.
“I have left enough money to hire help,” Jonathan had told Pa.
“It isn’t about the help,” Pa had replied.
“Jason is still close by,” Jonathan had insisted, believing at the time that that would be enough. “I’ll be back soon.”
Jonathan could still see the sorrow in Pa’s eyes as the old man’s lower lip quivered and he looked to the ground. Of course, Jonathan had never seriously contemplated the notion that his grandparents would die before he could see them again.
Perhaps that was why he was refusing the current official summons. The last time he’d answered the call he lost Pa and Memaw, and for what? The trolls had already been stopped long before Jonathan went north into Tanglewood Forest. The elves never retaliated for the intrusion northward, for they were too ashamed that Brykith had been able to go unnoticed for so long. Jonathan spent most of his official service visiting other cities and raising volunteers for the expansion southward, a vast project aimed at reclaiming territory lost during the Troll Wars now that the monsoons had weakened and receded back to their former region. It was honorable work, he thought, but certainly not nearly so important as to let him forget how he had left Pa standing in the orchard that day.
Now the orchard was more than a sanctuary for Jonathan, it was a permanent warning to consider the costs of all actions. Though this was the place he could feel closest with Pa, it was also where he could most pointedly feel the regret and pain he had caused.
Jonathan was ripped from his thoughts as a butterfly fluttered in front of him, dropping down momentarily to sit upon Griff’s head. It slowly flexed its wings and then took off once more. Griff’s head perked up, his eyes following the white wings as they danced upon the air, and then he looked back to Jonathan.
“I need to go into town,” Jonathan said. “Stay here.”
Griff tilted his head to the side as Jonathan got up and went back to the road. He could have taken a horse, but he didn’t much care for riding. He found that walking freed his mind to think more than riding did, and a horse wasn’t all that much faster anyway unless he ran the animal most of the way.
He reached Holstead around noon and could feel his stomach grumbling before he reached Mortimer’s general store. The door was already open as he walked along the flagstone steps leading to it. He could hear his brother talking with someone inside as well. Jonathan shook his head. With all the money Jason had brought back from their last adventure, it bothered Jonathan that Jason would spend his days in the general store, a point he was oft to remind his brother of.
Jonathan walked in and saw Milo, another farmer who lived on the eastern side of Holstead, ordering supplies and going over the list with Jason. Jason looked up and smiled when he saw Jonathan walking toward him.
“Excuse me, won’t you Milo? If anything is amiss, just let me know.” Milo nodded and continued to look at the list, moving his finger along the items while Jason came out from behind the counter.
“Still slaving away behind the counter, I see,” Jonathan said.
“I like it better than buzzing bees,” Jason replied quickly. “What brings you into town?” Jason asked. “I just sent up your weekly order yesterday, was anything missing from it?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No, everything was fine. I just thought I would come in for a visit, that’s all,” Jonathan said.
“You were spending too much time in the orchard again, weren’t you?” Jason asked with a soft smile.
Jonathan knew his brother was right, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He went with another tactic instead. “I had a visitor last night,” Jonathan said. “A courier wanted to give me some sort of summons.”
Jason’s smile disappeared and he pointed at Jonathan. “You have already served more than anyone should have to. You tell the king that if he wants to call you back into service, he’ll have to answer to your big brother.”
Jonathan smirked. “Don’t worry, Griff ran him off.”
Jason laughed. “You sicced Griff on a courier?”
Jonathan shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, it was the middle of the night.”
“You’re serious!”
Jonathan nodded. “He said the summons wasn’t from the king though,” Jonathan put in. “It was some other man.”
“Well it couldn’t be just any random man, now could it?” Jason asked, his brow knitting close together. “What was his name?”
“Orin, I think,” Jonathan replied.
“Orin Ingbrethsen?” Jason asked.
Jonathan nodded. “I think so.” Jonathan watched the color drain from his brother’s face. “Why? Have you heard of him?”
Jason nodded. “I have heard people talk about him. He is one of the military inquisitors. He investigates allegations of misconduct, and has a reputation for being extremely good at his job.”
“Well, I don’t know what he would want with me,” Jonathan said. “The only times I ever did anything wrong were when I wasn’t officially in the army.” Jonathan gave a quick wink and smiled.
“Could be that he is investigating someone else,” Jason put in. “Maybe wants to question you as a witness to something.”
Jonathan shook his
head. “I suppose so, but I can’t see any of the other officers I served with doing anything to warrant an official investigation.”
“Jason Haymaker?” a voice called out from behind them.
Jonathan turned to see the same courier from the night before. His smile vanished from his face. Why was the courier coming to Jason?
“Yes, that’s me,” Jason said as he stepped around Jonathan. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a summons for you,” the courier replied. The courier dug into a leather pouch and then brought out a sealed envelope. Just then his eyes caught Jonathan’s and the courier’s face went white. The man looked around nervously and it was all Jonathan could do to keep from laughing.
“Griff doesn’t follow me into town,” Jonathan said.
The courier sighed and blinked as the color returned to his face. “Thank the gods. While you’re here, I will give you your summons as well. You are both expected to meet Master Orin Ingbrethsen at the address listed within two weeks. If you fail to present yourselves, a warrant will be issued for your arrests. Consider yourselves served. Good day, gentlemen.”
Jonathan took a second envelope held out for him and looked to Jason.
“Who would we both know that has gotten into trouble?” Jason asked.
“Captain Ziegler,” Jonathan said quickly, his eyes dropping to the envelope in his hands.
CHAPTER TWO
Morgan, a young woman just past her twenty-first birthday, paused just before her hand grasped the brass knob. Despite having worked with Orin Ingbrethsen for two months, she was still nervous every time she was summoned to his office. Morgan took a breath and reached up to pull a few stray strands of hair back into place, then she turned the knob and pushed the heavy door inward.
“Ah, Morgan, there you are,” Orin said in his deep yet soft voice. “Come in.” He raised a hand and waved her toward him. “I have just received a package,” he added.
The young assistant inquisitor slipped into the office and closed the door behind herself. The room was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, with only just enough of an opening to allow for a single window behind Orin, who sat at his desk staring at a long box atop his walnut desk. As usual, he wore a black silk tunic beneath a crimson vest. His black tailcoat hung from a nearby stand, as he was loathe to wear it unless forced to do so in official meetings. Though his hair was gray, he still had a solid look about him, and his meticulous diet and training regimen had so far proved successful in preventing any sagging or bulging areas. Had he been thirty years younger, Morgan might have been interested in him more than simply professionally. He not only had all the right physical characteristics, but he was quite intelligent and, under the right circumstances, passionate and devoted. It was too bad he and his first wife had never had any children before she passed on, otherwise perhaps there would have been a son about Morgan’s age.
She looked to the box and smiled.
“Aren’t you going to open the box?” Morgan asked, stalking across the rug and maneuvering between two small tables cluttered with books and parchment.
“No,” Orin replied with a smile. He looked up at her from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief reserved for much younger boys, or perhaps sly and crafty old men who knew they had won something very important. “It isn’t for me to open, my dear. Come, sit down.” He pointed to the chair opposite him and then picked up a piece of paper. “According to the official courier’s report, this particular package was sent from Duerbet by Tray Maloy.”
“Captain Ziegler,” Morgan said as her eyes scanned across the long box. “A sword?” she asked.
Orin Ingbrethsen pursed his lips and gave a nod. “It certainly has the right shape and weight for it,” he said. “The question is, which sword is it?”
“You think he would send Myrskyn by courier?” Morgan asked.
“Ah! There is the fly in the ointment, my dear. You see, this wasn’t sent by courier.”
“But you said—”
Orin smiled and offered a wink. “The courier’s report is fraudulent. Look here, hold the paper up to the light, and tell me what you see.”
Morgan took the report and turned so that the nearest oil lamp was behind it. “I don’t see anything,” she said.”
“Take it to the window child,” Orin said.
Morgan frowned. She hated being called that. Orin Ingbrethsen was the greatest inquisitor of the age, perhaps of any time before even, but she had competed against thirty of the brightest and sharpest minds to earn her position as assistant inquisitor. Though it was true she was the youngest assistant inquisitor in the institution’s history, she had actually completed all prerequisites for her apprenticeship by the age of thirteen, two full years before the mandatory minimum age to actually work within that first position, and her achievements didn’t stop there. She didn’t just wait those two years until she could make apprentice, she continued her studies and clerked for one of the magistrates to broaden her understanding of the law. Others normally spent three years as an apprentice, but she made journeyman first class in only one year. While others are expected to spend three years at each level from first class until third class, she spent only one year at each, qualifying to sit for her master’s exams at the age of nineteen. She spent only eighteen months working as a junior inquisitor before competing for this assistantship, and she knew she was not only more accomplished, but also just as mature as any of the other candidates who were at least four or five years older than her. If anyone else had dared to call her a child, she would not accept such a statement, but she chose to take it as a term of endearment coming from him, since he normally only addressed lower ranking inquisitors by their surname. She also suspected a hint of jealousy, because the claim of being the youngest assistant inquisitor had formerly belonged to Orin Ingbrethsen, who had taken and passed his master’s exams at the same age of nineteen years, but due to a scheduling conflict had waited two weeks more for the exams than Morgan had.
She took the paper to the window and held it up to the light. “The paper appears to be consistent with the region. It has similar color properties and grain.”
“Good, what else can you tell me?” Orin asked without turning around.
“The countermark in the bottom right hand corner is present,” Morgan said. “It appears genuine.”
“What of the seal?” Orin pressed.
Morgan took in a breath and narrowed her eyes on the seal.
“Any good inquisitor must be able to distinguish a real courier’s report from a fraudulent one,” Orin said.
The young assistant inquisitor studied the curvature of the stamp, the design of the crest and field, and then she smiled. “The spelling is wrong,” she said. “The motto across the bottom of the seal is in old Taish, but it’s misspelled.”
“No it isn’t,” Orin countered. “I believe you will find the text is spelled entirely correctly.”
Morgan turned and set the report in front of him. “Exactly,” she said victoriously. “That’s why it’s wrong. You see, when the seal was designed, the motto was intentionally misspelled, omitting a single vowel from the middle of the third word. As all of the consonants are still intact, and the other vowels are present, it is an easy mistake to overlook, and that is why it was created that way. A forger’s first instinct is to create a perfect document, and therefore they might also overlook mistakes.”
“Very good,” Orin said with a nod. “So tell me, who created this report?”
Morgan shrugged. “I can’t know that from looking at the paper,” she said.
Orin laughed and gestured to the box. “No, but if you look at each piece of the puzzle, what do you have?”
Morgan smiled. “You mean that Tray didn’t hire just anyone for this job. This is Myrskyn, and the person he hired to smuggle this package back through our borders is a close associate, someone he trusts.”
Orin smiled. “Now you are thinking like an i
nquisitor.” The old man folded the report and slipped it under the wooden box on his desk. “Turns out, the courier is an old friend of Maloy’s. I saved the questioning so you could watch.”
Morgan’s eyes lit up and she felt a rush of excitement surge through her. “Oh no, I don’t want to watch. I want to lead.” She had watched several of Orin’s interrogations, but what she wanted was for him to watch her, so she could prove herself.
Orin smiled. “I enjoy your enthusiasm, but not this time.”
“Orin, you know I have conducted my own investigations before. Let me do this one.”
Orin shook his head. “It would take too long to bring you up to speed on some of the facts.”
Morgan folded her arms. “It’s customary for the senior inquisitor to observe an assistant inquisitor’s performance as they lead their own investigation. It’s been several months, and I have yet to get my own case from you.” Orin wrinkled his nose, but his smile didn’t dim. If Morgan didn’t know better, she would think he was enjoying toying with her.
“It’s also customary for an assistant to have spent years at each stage of progression from apprentice to master, then there is the normal junior-grade positions as directed in some of the smaller cities and at the training grounds and forts. Shall we adhere to every custom?”
“Orin! Passing my exams early shows that I have the necessary skills to perform all of the expected duties.”
“Does it?” Orin said with a smile. “I tend to think experience is quite important.”
“You passed the tests at the same age I did, and you used to be the youngest assistant inquisitor, surely you can appreciate my position.”
Orin nodded. “I did, and I was, but I also appreciate your unique position more than you realize. You see, I may have been the youngest assistant inquisitor, but I was also technically the only person to stay in that position for ten years.”
Morgan knit her brow. “No, your file says you spent one year as an assistant.”
“A record I am sure you have your sights on,” Orin said with a chuckle. “But it wasn’t like that according to my record.” He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “You see, technically it’s true, but that is only because they put my position on hold while I was drafted into battle. We had a glut of inquisitors during that time, and we needed more men on the front lines. So, the record says one year, but I say I spent ten years in that position. In those ten years, I gained more experience than I could have ever thought possible.” Orin sighed and shook his head. “You see, I am the chief inquisitor with jurisdiction over any and all military investigations. It is precisely my ten years in the field that makes me who I am today. I know the soldiers, I understand them. I can push the right scars to make them sweat in the interrogation chamber. That’s what separates me from the likes of Yovanitch, who is a highly educated and capable inquisitor, but will never rise to become chief.”