Chapter One

Attacked by a horde of tin mining trolls, I was tied to a tree, beaten unconscious with pickax handles and left for dead on the floor of my loft. At least that was one possible explanation for the condition I found myself in this morning—though nocturnal patrons at the King’s Wart Inn might tell a different story of ugly inebriation and wretched overindulgences in vices frowned upon by the dour, dwarfish priests of my troubled childhood.

No matter what wicked act took credit for my fevered brain and palsied body, it resulted in an ill-favored day and a nastier attitude. The sulfuric smell lingering in the air, like that of rotting eggs, did not benefit my traumatized stomach. I watched the laboratory testings and spastic antics of the hunchback with little enthusiasm.

“I would say that the owners of the spilled seed and lock of hair are one and the same,” alchemist Olmsted Aunderthorn announced with finality as he held the glass vial up to one of several small openings cut through the limestone wall to the rear of the laboratory.

Dust motes flittered like gnats in the shaft of light pouring from a window in the shape of a two-headed carp. The ray went nova in the blue liquid of the vial and exploded into shards of primary colors that danced across the pitted walls, ratty furniture, and shelves of dusty jars containing aborted creatures, pickled eyeballs, shrunken organs and scaled parasites looking like grotesque, armored dew worms. I squinted in puzzlement, momentarily distracted by the light show, wondering how such refractions could be discharged from a round object.

“You do not seem overly elated about the success of your latest case,” observed the alchemist as he wiped his free hand on a greasy apron.

Olmstead might be a top-notch metaphysicist, but he maintained the personal hygiene of a corpse-scavenging dog. He stank worse than a dead, bloating cow in August. All he lacked was a buzzing plague of flies and they only remained truant because of a minor potion that also warded off gnats, lice, and mosquitoes.

“Yes, well one can only be so elated with proving the corpulent baker of Nostrine Lane has been in the bed of a kitchen wench. Especially when Baker Grensen is such a loutish old fart and his wife such a pretty thing, though apparently soon to be a rich divorcee. Will your findings stand in the King’s Court?”

Olmstead peered closer at the glass tube and shook its contents.

“Our bodies are more than just meat, Master Jak Barley,” the alchemist replied peevishly at my lack of confidence. “Though modern metaphysics cannot yet see or measure this vitality, there is an essence of life force all living tissues carry. Think of it as the magnetic power displayed by the iron needle of a ship’s compass. The life force also flows invisibly, but through our flesh rather than iron. When a part is separated from the rest of a stem, body, or trunk, this emanation seeks to rejoin the divided corporeal specimens.

“In this tube is a sampling of the seed taken from a blanket off the maid’s bed. I have also inserted a hair from your client’s husband. Though we cannot see the life force, we can observe its effect in this liquidous compound. The stronger the attraction between specimens, the bluer becomes the formula. Samples that are of no blood relation will remain in a clear solution. Those of distant kin will slightly tint the vial. Sisters, brothers, children and parents—these will murk the liquid even more. But the samples taken from the same organism will have this result.”

I backed away as the alchemist waved the dark blue vial in my face then gingerly grasped it and wrinkled my nose. The bitter smell made my afflicted stomach recoil even more.

Olmsted absentmindedly reached into a nearby jar, withdrew something green and popped it into his mouth.

I grimaced even more and said, “You just ate a pickle.”

The alchemist’s eyes bulged and he quickly spun to examine the container of live nose grubs. He turned back and leveled an accusing eye at me. I know how much he hates pickles.

“Well, I guess you can send the report when you have finished the parchment work. Just charge it to my office.”

“Humph-h-h,” he snorted. “Not bloody likely, Jak. Not until I see the flash of silver.”

“Olmsted, are you saying you do not trust my credit?” I spoke in as deeply hurt of tone as I could muster.

“What credit? You still owe me for that work on the missing spice trader, and I hear you are three months in arrears on your rent.”

I gave the alchemist an amiable slap on the back, only to jerk my hand away when I realized what I was doing. I maintained a strained smile as I furtively wiped my palm across a nearby rag.

“I will have more than enough to pay these petty debts once the baker’s wife settles her bill with me, but I will not be able to give you a copper pfenning without this laboratory report.”

“Well…”

I knew he would relent. How could he refuse his own half-brother? 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 scions actually 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. He was impartial when it came to pretty women, whether they be scullery maid or duke’s daughter. His current whereabouts and state of health remain a mystery since many good fathers and husbands of the berg still nourish ill feelings. No doubt he fled to a far realm to ply his talent among a less suspecting populace.

The alchemist’s laboratory was in the guild section of Duburoake and hanging in the air was the stench of wet sawdust, rotting animal hides awaiting tanning, coal-burning forges, and workmen’s sweat concentrated like the collected essences for some noxious perfume.

The cobblestone alleys are wide enough for freight wagons to pass in opposite directions, but the sidewalks are little more than narrow ledges. They are raised just enough to be above the street rivulets of slop thrown unceremoniously from the second-story windows of cramped and squalid apartments. One always keeps a wary eye cocked upward when walking these streets. At each corner are steppingstones spaced to allow wagon wheels to pass between them, while offering pedestrians safe fording above the sewage. It is not my favorite neighborhood.

That is not to say my third-floor office and loft are situated on snob knoll. The neighborhood was once comfortably middleclass made up of prosperous burghers or elder yeomen who retired to town to let their sons take over the farmsteads. Not so anymore. The Dwarf Wars forced thousands of Frajan refugees to flee their dank mountains and many made their way to Duburoake. They now cram a 10-block area. Once comfortable townhouses are now roughly divided into warrens of cramped lodgings sheltering families of old and young Frajans.

I could tell I was nearing my office just by the gradual change in the appearances of sausage hawkers, street urchins, beggars, and vegetable peddlers. The city of Duburoake, like the rest of the nation of Glavendale, is composed of various peoples who arrived in waves through the centuries, blending until an array of looks can be seen in the market places—from black to yellow hair, blue to brown eyes and pale to black skin. But none are as ashen as the Frajans with their white hair, faded blue eyes, and bleached skins. They were often called spooks in jest, if not open derision.

They now swirled about me and an occasional sharp glance met my own gaze. They tend to keep to themselves even after twenty years and look upon strangers with distrust.

I heard the commotion before I turned the corner. Two teamsters were beating a downed horse, the large beast having collapsed to its front knees as if begging for mercy. The wagon it pulled was overloaded with white-crusted barrels of salted herring. One of the two freight haulers, a pudding-bellied man with sloped shoulders and watery eyes, half circled the mare as he unceasingly flicked at it with a braided wyvern-hide whip. The other, shorter and with a hairless crown shaped much like a volcano, sporadically slapped the horse’s haunches with the flat of a barrel stave.

I could have walked by if the horse had not looked up as I passed. Its large, dumb eyes were filled with more quiet misery than I believed any man or beast could survive. I faltered and came to halt. The horse continued staring at me. It was of the giant mounts bred to carry armored knights. The animals are sold cheaply once they become too old for the harsh rigors of battle. They mostly wind up as this one, half starved and pushed beyond their limits by spiteful simpletons. The poor animals are often left where they drop and usually find their way to neighborhood stew pots.

“Outa me way,” snarled the shorter of the teamsters as he elbowed me to the side while making his way around the horse. He had the pinched, close-set eyes of a rodent and his sparse, long whiskers lent themselves well to the impression.

The pinhead truly raised my ire. I do not seek quarrels, but I hate bullies such as the two cretins now before me. But they did present a quandary. Either of the burly shippers could stomp me into the ground. The oaf who shoved me wore large jagged rings on his sausage fingers—the type that inflicts scars similar to the blemishes running down one side of his face. Add to that his steel-toed brogans that were more likely used in brawls than for guild safety and I knew I faced a man-version of the pit dogs that fight at the wharf—so I pulled a stave from the wagon and smacked him on the back of the head. He collapsed silently to his knees before pitching onto his face. It took but a few seconds for the other teamster to notice his cohort’s mysterious swoon.

“Hey, what happened to me mate?”

I paused as if surprised he was speaking to me then kneeled to closely examine his partner. “I believe he naps.”

“What? A nap? He ain’t taking no nap.”

“No? He appears to be heavily into slumber.”

“Ooh, my head.”

I had not cuffed the brute hard enough. He was climbing to his knees and rubbing a growing knot. “Yah hit me. Wot did yah hit me for?”

“Are you mad? Why would I hit you?” I exclaimed in feigned astonishment.

“Yah hit Kried? What did yah do that for?”

“Obviously Kried still suffers from his collapse. I suggest you find a blood letter as soon as possible in case his brains are addled—the loss of a few pints to a leach would do him good.”

I was now facing two severely nettled teamsters. Fists the size of hams clenched convulsively as they towered over me. Spittle flew from the half-dazed hauler as he tried mouthing accusations. A small crowd was gathering. It was getting ugly.

“Stand where you are,” I spoke in my best voice of command. I drew forth my brass identification badge showing I was bonded and licensed by the Duburoake Royal Council of Public Safety as a private inquisitor. “You will do best if you cooperate with this investigation. Or perhaps you would care to taste of the Duke’s famous hospitality? I believe I can reserve a room for you.”

They stopped in mid-step when I flashed the badge, both licking their lips nervously at the sign of authority in my hand. I hoped they could not read.

“What investigation?”

“Animal brutality. The Duchess has ordered that the beasts of Duburoake no longer be ill treated, such as you have been doing with this poor, dumb animal.”

“By Ubick’s five eyes, we was just beaten the horse. It would not move, the lazy animal. Wot was we supposed to do?”

I meaningfully eyed the overloaded wagon and turned back to the duo. “I believe you may also be in violation of weight limitations. Could I see your freight permits?”

That put the oafs on the defense. I could tell by their sheepish visages that they were hauling without proper tax stamps and royal warrants. They looked nervously at each other. The big one abruptly turned to the horse. It had risen shakily to its feet and watched as if following our conversation.

“To hell with dah horse. We was just doing our jobs. Yah is going to hafta talk to the yard overseer about this. We’ll go get em.”

I watched in surprise as the two hastily took down the street and disappeared around the corner. I turned to look at the horse. It stoically returned my gaze.

“You are in luck that the drivers did not know you are only a ferret,” a silver voice tinkled behind me. The crowd was drifting away, but a slim Frajan girl remained, arms crossed in a haughty pose. She stood with the cocky assurance of a rathskeller bouncer at closing time. “Is not it a high offense to masquerade as a city warden, ferret?”

“Private inquisitor, it is, Jennair, not ferret.”

“What are you to do with the horse?”

“Horse?”

“The horse, me sweet but dim simpleton,” the girl said as she stepped lightly off the curb and picked her way carefully to the animal. “If you do not claim it now, the mare will be butchered before you have gone two blocks.”

“What am I to do with a horse? I was only teaching those rude dolts some manners. I make it a gift to you.”

Jennair smiled. “No doubt me mother would delight in the arrival home of such a pet. Do you believe it will fit under me bunk at night?”

Her laugh was contagious and I could only smile back. It is hard to frown around Jennair, or not gaze appreciatively at her lithe figure and sweet, open face. There is a tint of blush to her cheeks missing from the other Frajan maids, a heritage from our father. It was not the first time I had cursed the fate which made the beautiful Jennair my half-sister. It was because of our kinship that the Frajan community let me keep my loft and office. Most native Duburoakians gradually moved from the neighborhood to other parts of the city as the parochial immigrants moved in. Their cliquishness commonly translated into downright rudeness to those not Frajan. They suffered my presence because of Jennair. That my father had been able to seduce a Frajan maid spoke more of his prowess than any other conquest.

“Here, help me with the harness. Those dolts will be quickly back with another horse in fear that more than this nag will be missing from the wagon,” Jennair ordered as she began working at the buckles. “Do not tell me you were just arguing with those teamsters. I know you stopped because of this suffering beast, Master Jak. You have too soft a heart for that of a ferret. You like to pose for your ruffian tavern friends, but I know you better.”

“Private inquisitor, Jennair. I am a private inquisitor.”

The brief rest aided the nag. It had quit its shaking. Though its ribs showed much too clearly, a look at its teeth and legs showed a horse that had more than a few good years left. The teamsters were not only brutish and mean; they and their master were stupid for overtaxing the beast to the point of almost killing it.

“There, she is ready to go,” Jennair proclaimed as the last clasp was freed and the harness slipped to the ground.

I eyed the horse. It was a wasted mountain of skin and bones.

“What am I to do with it? Its feed alone will impoverish me, let alone the cost of shelter.” My protests followed Jennair’s back as she returned to work in a small milliner’s shop. “How do I get it home? I doubt the beast can go three blocks.”

The next moment it was just the horse and me. We silently scrutinized each other before I finally sighed and turned homeward. Maybe I could fill out the poor animal and make a few coppers. I needed no lookback to see if the mare followed. The echoing clomps of her tub-sized hooves were enough.

I like Frajans, but they act as if they have icicles up their arses. They remain behind an imperturbable facade, an aloofness that sets them apart from the rest of the more demonstrative Duburoakians. Therefore it was no surprise that those on the street made a point of not gawking at the lone pedestrian followed by an immense and malnourished war steed. I, in turn, acted as if I were completely unaware of my equestrian shadow, smiling and nodding at the occasional fishmonger or street vendor. It gave me a certain delight knowing that there had to be some puzzlement behind those cool exteriors.

But I was the one with the dilemma. I reached the limestone structure and had yet to figure what to do with the horse. I looked with longing at the third-story window of my office. Above it was a smaller hexagonal portal that marked my attic loft.

“What be with dah horse?”

“What horse?” I asked as I turned to face Hebron, the kettle mender and knife sharpener. He was one of the few non-Frajans to remain in the neighborhood. I attributed that to his unmatched ability to not comprehend the most direct insult.

“Dah horse behind yah.”

“Behind me?”

“Aye, dah horse behind yah.”

I made a great show of slowly turning and reacting with surprise as I looked up into the weary face of the mare.

“By Saint Quantumous, it is a horse!”

His gaze darted back and forth between the mare and I. “Yah is jesting. Yah knowed dat horse was behind you.”

“Yes, Hebron,” I sighed. “I had a suspicion she was behind me.”

“What are yah to do with it?”

“I guess the first thing should be to feed the poor creature. The mare was left for dead by two teamsters.”

“I ‘ave ah cousin who stables. He will feed dah horse for yah.”

“Hebron, I thank you. Please take the mare.”

“Dat will be ‘alf ah mark.”

“Half a mark? That is outrageous. What does your cousin use as feed, wine-soaked rice and bread?”

“Dat will include a couple night’s lodging. Yah cannot let dah animal in dah streets overnight. And I need it up front,” Hebron added.

I fished in my pockets, feeling mostly lint until I drew out a few phennings and a lone mark. The pot mender eyed the coin suspiciously before handing me back half in smaller coin. I hoped the baker’s wife was prompt with her payment.

I was heading to the stairway door when Hebron’s shouting brought me around. The horse was trailing me to the entrance as if it wished to follow me inside.

“Whoa, my lady. You must go with Hebron if you wish to eat,” I said while patting its nose. “I will see to your quarters when I have finished other business.”

I do not usually converse with dogs, cats, rats, king’s guardsmen, or horses. I was surprised not to feel simple-minded, but an awareness I imagined in its eyes made my remarks feel not that preposterous. It appeared to understand me, turning away and pausing as if waiting for Hebron to lead the way. I watched as the odd twosome strolled down the street.

At least my headache was easing off. I climbed the wooden steps two at a time until I came to the third floor and its narrow, high-ceilinged hall. My neighbors were a tax consultant, solicitor, astrologer, palm reader, and barber who also pulled teeth. As honest tradespeople, we frowned upon the lawyer as the only disreputable scoundrel among us.