Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves (3 page)

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 answered 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.

"I wager they are on the roof as we speak. That is where they would be waiting for me to leave the inn, someplace out of sight," I exclaimed.

Jennair looked at me with worry. "My brother, Reverian Assassins be almost mythical. One is said not to be for hire except for a fabulous fee, beyond what many dukes or barons can afford. And you say three of such executioners waited for you outside the latrine?"

"What can we do if they be on the roof?" asked Osyani as she took my hand.

The young girl's explicit faith in me was like a balm. I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. I had every right to panic. Knowing that Reverian Assassins are after you is like being told you suffer from brain grubs--you are doomed. And yet I could understand the incredulity of my friends. Reverian Assassins are next to legends. I know of none who has seen such an assassin and lived.

"How did you elude them?" asked Olmsted, always the curious alchemist.

"I, ah, threw something at them."

"What, a knife?" he persisted.

"A thing."

"A thing?"

"Yes, a thing," I snapped at the hunchback. "A thing."

He eyed me speculatively. "A thing?"

"A bug."

"A bug?"

"Am I in Echo Gorge? Do you try to drive me amok? Yes, I threw a bug at them."

Now even Osyani was looking at me with a bit of apprehension.

Sergey nervously coughed. "You fought off three Reverian Assassins with a bug?"

I exhaled deeply and tried to speak calmly, though I wanted to rap Sergey on the head again.

"There were these bugs in the water closet that had massacred a brood of army roaches. I was endeavoring to see what creatures could slay army roaches when one bit me on the finger."

I looked about to see how they were taking my words. Sergey's mouth had dropped open and Olmsted was looking anxiously at Selladora.

"Be as that may," I persisted, "I tumbled out of the water closet into the arms of the Reverian Assassins. Flinging off the bug, it landed on one of the assassins and began biting his nose. That gave me a chance to escape."

"And just what did this bug look like?" my half-brother asked.

I gazed at him suspiciously, wondering if he was just humoring a madman, but answered, "Like a bright green crawdad, but with the legs of a spider."

"Such a creature be unknown to me and I have made an extensive study of flora and fauna native to Western Glavendale," my hunchbacked brother observed in a soothing voice, as if he were speaking to a lunatic he did not want to send into a tantrum.

"If they were mundane creatures, do you think I would have been squatting on a piss-covered water closet floor sliding a dead army roach about as a lure?"

"You were squatting on the floor?" Jennair half asked and half exclaimed as her upper lip curled back in disgust.

It was too much. I had demented friends more concerned about aberrant bugs than my dreadful demise at the bloodstained hands of Reverian Assassins. I slammed my stein on the table and pushed back my chair.

"Maybe you would like me to be introduced to my executioners? That way you can discuss rare insects with them after my funeral," I shouted above the din of the band so that heads turned at the tables about us.

I stormed to the oak front door of the tavern and threw it open.

"Salutations, Reverian Assassins. Before you again attempt my extermination, I would like you to meet my friends," I shouted out into the now foggy street. "My brother would especially like to discuss insects with the unfortunate fellow bitten by the crawdad thing with spider legs."

I turned to glance at the shocked faces of my compatriots then back into the night--to see a trio of Reverian Assassins dropping from the sky.

"See, I told you they were probably up on the...," I began until what was before me sank in.

I yelped and slammed the door shut just as one threw a knife. A muffled thunk could be heard through the thick oak planks. With trembling hands, I frantically swung down the heavy latch and slid home a stout deadbolt. The Reverian Assassins began belligerently pounding on the door, sending shudders through the entire front wall.

I turned with my back leaning against the door. "Happy now?"

Occupants of several tables surrounding ours had already bolted, knocking chairs over in their haste to find the back exit. The disturbance caught the attention of the musicians. The band stopped in the middle of a ballad about a young girl with a tooth cavity who died after sucking venom from her boyfriend's snakebite. That song always made me tear up.