Chapter One

“As I have said, this be a waste of time,” sniped the director of the Duburoake Asylum for the Deranged, Witless and Maniacal. “The witch says he be not possessed and our bloodletter be stymied. What can a ferret do?”

“That be private inquisitor,” I responded in irritation.

We private inquisitors are sensitive when it comes to that boorish slur on our profession. Goodwin Weestergard, as well, grimaced at the outdated phrase for his profession. The terms bloodletter, sawbones and leech have been replaced with mediciner.

Morgana and I were examining a resident of the asylum upon the request of Weestergard. The director was correct in saying the mediciner was stymied. Strapped to a bed was a man in his middle thirties. We were told the patient arrived two weeks ago in soiled and tattered clothing. His matted hair had been quickly cut and his odorous body bathed. Unable or unwilling to speak, the man’s identity was a puzzle.

“It be time to end this foolishness,” Evistye snapped. “I am going to have him sent back to his room.”

I spoke as if not hearing the oaf, “First, our patient is right-handed and an avid hunter.”

“Hmph,” the director huffed. You know this, how?”

“It be obvious,” I replied while lifting the man’s right hand. “Notice the callouses on these fingertips, caused when releasing the bowstring.”

“He could be an army bowman,” barked Evistye.

“I never met a soldier or mercenary who did not have tattoos. The fellow before us has none,” I replied, trying not to let annoyance enter my voice. “He is from a moneyed family. There must be a search for him. You should place posters with his likeness.”

“I hardly think that be necessary,” Evistye almost shouted. “I could tell upon his arrival that he was an impoverished vagabond, little worth such effort.”

“Though you scorned my examination of your patient’s mouth, it revealed teeth that received excellent care—something not seen with tramps and beggars. There be even a gold filling in a back molar.”

I turned from examining the mystery fellow to focusing directly on the director. “If you feel he be a wastrel, why take him in? Your asylum fees are costly and you cater exclusively to titled landholders and wealthy merchant families.”

If his venomous gaze could kill, I would be convulsing about the floor in muscle-ripping contortions.

“We have an anonymous benefactor who finances charitable cases, but that be none of your concern. This meeting now at an end.”

“I think not,” Morgana spoke up, surprising Evistye. My partner has said little until now. “I did determine this case does not involve possession, but further tests are needed before I can rule out malevolent spells and curses.”

“I am well versed in a variety of lunacies,” Evistye puffed up. “He be not a victim of some magical influence. One as young as yourself would of course not know of such things, witch—?”

Her simple reply of “Morgana” visibly snapped the director upright in shock. “M-m-morganna! What? No, wait—you are too young to be her.”

Morgana’s innocent smile did not hide how she was enjoying Evistye’s distress. “You are thinking of my mother, Morganna, who spells her name with two Ns. I am sure she as well will find this case very curious.”

It was no surprise the head of the asylum paled and stuttered at the mother witch’s name. Morganna’s reputation be that of the most powerful magic caster in Glavendale, of which Duburoake is a port city. Tongues wag that she be in league with demons and dark forces. I once gathered the courage to ask of her reputation.

“I do not practice the dark arts,” she replied. “There are those who rumormonger that I am a demon sorceress and I admit I encourage such whispered tittle-tattle. It does help my trade. I have studied blasphemous hexes and communicated with demons and damned souls that would sour your blood. I have examined cursed parchments that for you to read aloud would turn your tongue into rotting meat. But I have never called on such curses, performed those vile rituals, nor asked favors of soul eaters. I have done only what was needed that I would not be ignorant of those who would be my enemies.”

Many daughters wilt beneath the shadow of such a mother and shy from acknowledging their relationship. Not Morgana. Though coming late into her powers, she proved an apt student at the Kuu Academy of Mystical Arts and Witchcraft—so much so that many of her instructors feel Morgana might outpace her mother when reaching magical maturity.

Until Morgana mentioned her mother, I expect Evistye was under the false impression that the young witch was not to be taken seriously. She has the gentle and pretty face of a milk maiden or hospice nurse. Morgana be that, but she also has a will of steel and magical powers that should have the asylum director quaking in his boots.

“I have one more detail to complete,” I said while withdrawing a glass tube containing a small plunger and tipped with a slim needle. “I need a sample of our patient’s blood. My brother, Olmsted Aunderthorn, will examine it for any unnatural humoral differences regarding his phlegm and yellow and black bile, as well as any foreign substances.”

Olmsted, my half-brother, be a noted alchemist and student of the metaphysical arts. I anger quickly as those that see him as only a hunchback and not the clever and kind soul that he be.

“I have never seen such an instrument,” Weestergard said excitedly. “Be that from your otherworld friend, Lorenzo Spasm?”

I answered by only nodding my head as I was concentrating on performing the maneuver as instructed by Olmsted. As for Lorenzo, he claims to come from what he calls an alternative universe where magic does not exist. Lanky and about six feet in height, he appears to be in his late forties. Traces of grey can be seen in his shoulder-length hair and a black mustache hangs past his chin. It be his garb that most stands out—short-sleeved tunics with images of palm trees and topless women in skirts of grass.

“Parallel firmaments,” Olmsted exclaimed when being told of Lorenzo’s otherworld claim. “Fjsten, a great metaphysicist, hypothesized such manifestations.”

I believe Lorenzo’s tale since he has proven impervious to magical assaults thrown against him. Such spells will rebound upon those casting the attacks. Proof of his claims was rudely thrust upon me when I was dragged into one of those parallel firmaments chronicled in The Weekly Tattler as “The Case of Idol Curiosity,” a publication by friend Sergey Varvervane.

The room was silent as all watched the tube fill with blood. Evistye’s intense gaze was one of dismay. I let out my breath upon withdrawing the needle from the mute fellow’s wrist. He showed no sign of feeling the jab. I placed the sheath over the needle and placed it in my waist pouch.

“That should do it,” I announced. “We will let you know if we find anything of interest.”

That I was eager to leave the asylum most likely showed in my voice. The former winter manor of a disgraced earl, I swear the chill of the gloomy edifice made my bones ache.

“My mother may want to hold her own examination,” Morgana forewarned Evistye with a smile. “I will tell her of the excellent care provided to this poor wretch and that she can be rest assured of finding him safe and sound if she should visit.”

Evistye belatedly realized Morgan was waiting for a response as she continued her gaze upon the asylum director.

“Ah, yes, ah, of course,” he grudgingly sputtered.

The hansom cab was still waiting for us as we exited the building. I stopped to gaze at the asylum. Even under an affable summer sun, the sprawling structure loomed menacingly over its colorless surroundings. No effort had been made for groundskeeping and its weedy landscape was dotted with skeletal trees and bushes.

“That was a sly comment about the patient’s safety,” I said as we settled into the two-wheeled buggy.

“Without such mention,” Morgana replied, “there was a danger our mysterious patient could suffer a fatal affliction or disappear altogether. Even a dunce as Evistye could decipher the not-so-subtle threat.”

“Weestergard was right in contacting me,” I spoke. “Everything Evistye said of the patient was a lie. That the director did not outright deny Weestergard’s request for our services means he knows no magical causes will be found and that he places little regard upon our abilities as sleuths.”

That last statement rang oddly in my ears. Until now I have always been a one-being agency. Morgana’s magical talents made themselves known later than most witches. Her slumbering powers awoke while in the clutches of Dorga, the Fish-Headed God of Death. Morgana was away the past two years learning whatever arcane studies are taught to apprentice magic doers. She returned home only on weekends, spring and summer breaks, and pagan holidays. During those times her blossoming powers were vital in solving several cases. With her sharp mind, Morgana proved more capable than many already holding private inquisitor licenses.

If I have hesitancies, it be that Morgana as a partner means more involvement with magical cases. Until meeting Morgana, I shied from anything involving witches and wizards. Physical assaults are one thing, but dealing with folk who can turn you into a smoking puddle of bubbling fat and charred bone be another.

“Tell me more about that needle and vial,” Morgana asked as we traveled deeper into Duburoake proper.

“You know my brother,” I sighed. “Olmsted avidly seeks new knowledge. Since meeting Lorenzo, his studies have become like a flight of arrows wildly scattering to hit here and there. He has become somewhat of a mediciner, himself. I have no idea what he hopes to find with this sample.

“I plan on meeting with several asylum attendants this evening at the King’s Wart Inn. They may be able to shed additional light on the matter since Weestergard was not on duty when our mysterious patient was admitted. For all we know, the tale of his arrival in such a disheveled state could be a lie. I need also visit brother Hald about missing beings.”

“And I meet later with Superior Holle of the Duburoake Coven,” said Morgana. “Holle left a message on Mother’s crystal asking me to come to the coven hall. She was quite vague.”

We rode in silence until Morgana spoke, “You seem deep in thought.”

“I am thinking that if we identify this anonymous asylum benefactor, the case will be solved. I doubt paying those exorbitant fees be purely one of charity. Besides our patient’s identity, we need to discover why he be there and the cause of his malady.”

“Why the high fee when the asylum be so run down?” Morgana wondered. “Maybe it offers a convenient way to hide those troublesome to others?”

“I wager there be other questionable commitments at the asylum,” I added to her thought. “An additional stop will be to The Weekly Tattler. If anyone has dirt on the asylum, that person be Sergey.”

~ * ~

“You have five messages and there are several seeking your services in your inner office,” Osyani greeted me.

I stopped mid-step to stare at the closed door.

“Do not even think of bolting,” my secretary warned.

Though her appearance be that of a lithesome maid of late teen years with skin the color of honey, no one would guess Osyani was hatched a harpy who bonded to me soon after breaking her shell. As a harpy, she matured magically fast. It be a long story involving an arduous trek through the Megaoulas Mountains. After being severely injured, she became fully human following a blood transfusion from the magic-bane Lorenzo Spasm. Osyani looks upon me as a father figure—and Lorenzo an uncle.

“What now?” I moaned. “I asked not to be taking new cases. I am only looking into the mysterious asylum case as a favor to Weestergard. I now regret that. I need a break.”

Though paying very well, my recent cases involved royal court conspiracies, an arduous mountain passage in search of a dangerous jewel embedded in the forehead of a demon idol, being pursued by an assortment of irate assassins—and to top it off, being left to rot in an abandoned dungeon. That does not even include previous cases involving abductions, twisted torturers, seven-headed dragons and marked for a painful death by Ghennison Viper Mages. I felt exhausted even thinking of them.

All of those exploits made good fodder for Sergey’s The Weekly Tattler, but they left me desiring nothing more than quiet afternoons sipping ale in the King’s Wart Inn.

“Who are they?” I finally asked.

“They gave no names,” Osyani replied.

“No names?”

“No.”

“Did they say what they want?”

“No.”

“What are they? Humans, elves, dwarves…?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Are you toying with me?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I had to laugh. “Obviously, you take great joy in this.”

Her teasing did arouse my curiosity and I opened the door, having no idea what to expect—and quickly slammed it shut.

“What in Hades?” I choked out. “Really?”

“Really.”

“A swarm of bees? Did you call Orcin Bug Terminators?”

“No, that would be murder,” she said in a shocked voice.

“Murder? Bees?”

“They say they are Vespian bees and representatives of the Hive Akkordia.”

“And they said this, how?”

“Hear for yourself,” she said, making no attempt to hide her merriment.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. It was not a large swarm and except for a few bees circulating near the ceiling, the rest were on the chair in front of my desk.

I did jerk when a buzzing voice greeted me, “Good day, Jak Barley.”

“Ah, good day,” I answered and walked around the desk to sit.

There have been odd clients sitting in the chair now facing me, but none ever this outlandish. I was at a loss for words.

“We understand your confusion. We Vespian bees purposely isolate ourselves in remote mountain valleys. We find this prevents unwarranted friction between our hives and your various races of hominids. We are hive minds, a single intelligence comprised of all the members of a hive or occasionally, a swarm. As a dragon cannot fly without magic aiding their wings, so magic works to merge and amplify our many minds into one when needed. We in this swarm are but a small part of our hive, but of a sufficient number to plead our case.”

I finally grasped how the swarm was speaking to me. It was an orchestrated buzzing of their wings.

“And, ah, how can I help you?” I asked.

“We would like you to find our queen. She was kidnapped one week ago.”

“Kidnapped? How and by whom?”

“They are of your species and overheard speaking of their trade as collecting exotic lifeforms. Our hollow tree was ravaged in the middle of darkness when we were in torpor. Though a new queen can be created by feeding royal jelly to a worker larvae, the hive must protect the existing queen. We take that responsibility very seriously.”

“If I might ask, how did you come to me?” I was puzzled how a remote hive of bees found its way to my office.

“They be one human we have had occasional contact with. He said you could help us. He be…”

“No need to explain,” I cut in and almost groaned. “You speak of Lorenzo Spasm.”

~ * ~

Though I planned on taking on no new cases, both the novelty and Lorenzo’s promise of my aid led me in agreeing to rescue the hive’s queen. I sent Osyani to fetch a jar of honey from the market and the bees settled in for a stay in my office.

What the swarm could tell me was that there were four of the rogues and mentioned was the Duburoake harbor, which most likely meant the kidnappers were taking the queen to the Banshee Bazaar—the fabled Rum Island market where almost anything can be sold and bought. It be much tamer than the island’s infamous pirate days, though still maintains a questionable reputation. I first visited the market during what Sergey titled, “The Case of the Cursed Golden Muskrat.”

Rum Island be part of the Amnesian Isles. With no time to spare by traveling by ship, I would need to enlist the dragon, Adalbert.

Dragons come in varied breeds and temperaments. There are nasty and stupid creatures like piss dragons. I have not only been attacked by piss dragons on several occasions, but even abducted by the wretched creatures.

Then there be the Cloudshark, a rabidly gluttonous dragon of the Cadmium Isles that will pick sailors from a ship’s deck like a chicken snapping up dung beetles. There are also gentle and smart ones like Regal Coppers. The worst combination is mean and smart—traits possessed by such breeds as the Bone Reaper, which adding insult to injury, can spray an acid venom.

Adalbert be a member of the Cyan Isles Clan. We have shared several adventures, but first met during a case Sergey entitled “The Case of the Dark Lord’s Conspiracy.” Copper-hued, Adalbert be at least forty feet in length from nose to tail tip. While many of such beasts have narrow snouts like crocodiles, Adalbert has a shorter and squarer jaw that provides a milder appearance. His back and lengthy tail also lacked spike plates.

~ * ~

“What?” I asked in mild irritation beneath the critical gaze of the city inquisitor.

“Did you not declare two days ago over an ale that you were taking a leave? Was I fevered when hearing you complain about recent cases involving violence and mayhem? Now you ask about missing persons and the Duburoake Asylum for the Deranged, Witless and Maniacal—no doubt for a new case.”

“It be a simple favor for an old friend,” I answered my half-brother, Hald, a city inquisitor with the Duburoake Royal Constabulary.

“How often have I heard such? There be nothing simple when it comes to that asylum,” he replied.

“Really? You know that how?” I asked “No, wait. You do not have to explain. Bouts of lunacy can happen to anyone. I am just glad you now seem almost normal.”

Sighing runs in our family and Hald released a long one before speaking, “Please be serious. There are sinister rumors about the place.”

“Such as?”

“Such as wealthy men consigning troublesome wives to the asylum under the guise that they fell prey to dark melancholy or deliriums. There are also whispers of others being secretly whisked away to the asylum, never to be heard from again—rivals in inheritance, business or courtship.”

“And this continues, how…?”

“As why any illegal trade flourishes—behind a wall of secrecy built with gold and silver. Several attempted investigations were ultimately obstructed by powerful guild members, priesthoods, rich shippers and even members of the Baron’s family. Two city inquisitors have actually gone missing.”

I held up my hand as he prepared to urge me off the case. “You know me well enough by now that once on the hunt, I will not be warned off.”

I went on to describe the absentmindfulled patient and asked Hald to forward a list of recent disappearances.

He sighed again. Hald, like Olmsted, was one of my many half-siblings in Duburoake. 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 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, whether they be scullery maid or duke’s daughter. His whereabouts and state of health remained a mystery throughout my youth. Many good fathers and husbands of the burg nourished ill feelings and believed he fled to a far realm to ply his talent among a less suspecting populace.

It was only during my first trip to 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 birthing might be of some import, but given to the formidable proclivity of our father’s youthful indulgences, it mattered little. The few of us in the know kept silent on the riddle of our siring.

Of all of the brothers, Hald be the most orthodox with his well-groomed appearance of neatly trimmed hair and tidy apparel. Though we frequent very different quarters, I cannot help but look at his open face and feel affection. I know the feeling be returned. Actually, he be more a mother hen than an older brother.

“And now on a different matter,” I continued. “What do you know about exotic creature collectors?”

Hald opened his mouth as if to question the odd request, but thought better of it. “It can be a problem if they trade in endangered, dangerous or sentient creatures. Our harbor constables are constantly on the lookout for such contraband. Your client?”

“A hive of bees looking for their kidnapped queen.”

Hald shrugged. “I should know by now not to expect serious answers.”

“Would you have a file of suspects dealing in the poaching of banned creatures?”

“We do, and Lorenzo was already here and went through them.”