Jak Barley, Private Inquisitor and the Case of One Damned Thing After Another

Jak Barley, Private Inquisitor

and the Case of One Damned Thing After Another

Dan Ehl

Published by Rogue Phoenix Press for Smashwords

Copyright © 2016

ISBN: 978-1-62420-299-5

Electronic rights reserved by Rogue Phoenix Press, all other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law. This is a work of fiction. People and locations, even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

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Dedication

Dedicated, again, to Kristen Watson, who sees I dot my Ts and cross my Is; and in memory of past friends–Kent Shelley, Jim Senior, Alberto Gasca and Pete Hussmann.

Chapter One

As usual, the offices were thickly hazed with bazzel smoke and the smell of stale kaffe brew. A few harried office lads and maidens rushed through the halls retrieving files, delivering messages, and refilling mugs. Blurry-eyed constables sat behind parchment-littered desks questioning shifty-eyed suspects.

Along a wall sitting on a bench were other suspects waiting for questioning, a rabble made up of the city's ugliest scofflaws, meanest rogues, most murderous blackguards, and just plain ne'er-do-wells. Most were from the ruder sections of Duburoake such as the wharves or the Old Quarters. I was met with a number of Hey, Jak, what cheer? How yah be, Jak? Afternoon, Barley.

I nodded my head to Automatic Slim, Razor Totin' Jim, Butcher Knife Totin Annie, Abyssinian Ned, Kudo-Crawlin' Red, Shaky, Fast Talking Fanny, and the rest of the usual swarm I either see here or at the King's Wart Inn.

Good to see that gash is healing. Too bad about the ear, I noted to a dwarf called Grint. Next time don’t be so intoxicated that you cannot run from a brawl with the missus.

From one desk came a barrage of angry bemoans. I knew me rights. I be pigeonholed because I be a troll. Yah're be always pullin' me over because I be a troll. I ain't have nothin' to do with that heist. That not be my crossbow. It be planted on me. Besides, I dinna know it was loaded. And do not be putting' me in with them godsforsaken ogres. They be all a horde of shiftless, lazy villains.

It was a regular late afternoon for the ending of the first shift at the Duburoake Division of Public Safety.

A foot patroller cooling his heels at a constable's desk snickered, Hey, Barley, whatcha working on now, some sacred goddess's stolen nose ring?

The snide remark elicited the expected chortles from those within hearing. I answered with what I hoped appeared a bored half smile. Such jibes are nothing new for a private inquisitor. Enforcers of the kingdom's edicts view my profession with suspicion, distrust, disdain, and also mixed with a bit of envy. They look upon themselves as overworked and underappreciated professionals and private inquirers as drunken, inept dilettantes who are only a step above the brigands filling the Baron's dungeons. I admit there could be some truth in that, but those who wear the brass shield signifying their guardianship of the law are also resentful of the glamor and romance much of the public attaches to my profession.

Until two years ago I had seen nothing glamorous or romantic about being a private inquisitor, only tedious boring tasks involving wayward husbands, petty thefts, and missing property.

Since then I have been plagued with adventures that include being the target of some of the nastiest wizards in the trade (a vocation known for its malevolency), hunted by lethal assassins, kidnapped by a piss dragon, attacked by evil minions of the primordial reptilian god Ztyeneran, fallen upon by a horde of demented Pigwidgeons, assaulted by a crazed harpy, and marked for death by the demented priests of Dorga, the Fish Headed God of Death. That be just for starters.

I am now happy to have only tedious and boring cases. I hate adventures. Still, the past ventures had their benefits. I am now known as the private inquisitor who brought down the malevolent temple of Dorga, as well as fulfilling an ancient prophecy that resulted in stopping an evil sorcerer from bringing back the voracious and evil Old Gods.

The gained prominence has placed my services in high demand among the more prosperous merchants and guildmeisters of Duburoake. That be a change from past clients who were normally as empty-pocketed as myself. I can now charge what I consider exorbitant fees. I almost went into paroxysms when I first heard my secretary, Osyani, relate the new charges to a potential client.

I wound my way through the cluttered desks and down a short hall to a door marked, 'Examiner Chakobi.' I found the bearer of that name standing over his desk studying an open file of assorted parchments.

Close the door. Where were you given birth, in a poultry shed? the head of the inspection division grumbled without looking up.

I be glad to see you, too.

Just what I need, a celebrity ferret to round off my day, sighed Chakobi as he dropped into his chair, leaned back, and intertwined his fingers over his slightly rounded stomach.

That be private inquisitor, I automatically responded.

Chakobi shrugged his lack of concern for my fussiness and tilted his head to gaze at me with a practiced disinterest. I threw myself into the only other chair and draped one leg over its arm, there to study the blank walls of his cramped and grimy office. What sunlight fought its way through a small smudged window did little to cheer up the place.

Strangers would have thought the two of us adversarial by our interchange, but we are actually on affable terms and our rude routine formed over the years. Chakobi grew up down the alley from me and is a colleague of my half-brother, Hald, also an examiner for the Baron's constables. I often jest Chakobi that his lack of height and large ears and nose spoke of dwarf blood.

You really need to do something with this place, I observed while still casually inspecting the office. It be too intimidating to innocent suspects. It must make them think they are already in a dungeon.

Chakobi's only response was a lack of one. He continued staring at me as if watching a pan of water that refused to boil. I leaned back even further to examine the ceiling.

This went on a couple minutes until Chakobi spoke, Hald tells me you were at his borough office looking for information on the Shaynee family.

He said he could not give me anything.

What makes you think I can?

Because you are not my half-brother and do not have to bend over backwards to show no favoritism.

So who has to bend over backwards?

Not you. You are only a neighbor from our childhood, though I know I still hold a special place in your heart for the time I kept One-Eye from thrashing you in the Abandons.

You are the one who got us in the mess by getting his sister drunk on that batch of lunarsheen. You now also are an infamous ferret who probably at this moment be drawing undue attention to me by this visit.

That be private inquisitor. So, do you have anything of interest on the Shaynees?

Chakobi rubbed his eyes and reached for his cup of kaffe, only to wince when he took a sip of the now cold brew. You do not want to know anything about the Shaynees.

Oh, but I do. It could mean a hefty fee.

"No, you do not. Besides, I hear your wage from the Nerd Mages will keep you in opulence for the rest of your life. Though with the company you keep, that may not be of any great length.

I was now curious. Why do not I want to know about the Shaynees?

Because I have heard you enumerate a number of times that you are now finished with hazardous ventures.

That was not an expected retort. My case involved a fussy, frail grande dame who was worried about a godschild's wedding into the Shaynee family by way of a Ghlet Shaynee. What hazardous ventures could come from that?

I was also ordered by higher ups not to give you any further assistance. You have irritated certain members of the Baron's family once too often.

He was of course speaking of the Baron's son, Runuld, an heir who seemed destined to carry out vile deeds brought on by excessive greed and slothful ways. We had crossed several times in the past, each incident in various ratskellers. He was usually extremely inebriated and boorish. Runuld still blames me for his feverish awakening naked in the city square fountain after a two-day drunk.

Pardon me while I void my bladder, Chakobi abruptly broke into my thoughts. He stood and worked a few cramps from his shoulders before leaving the room.

I was becoming frustrated as well as uneasy. I had depended upon Chakobi for aid in my task and had not counted on any suggestion of an adventure. I sat up and contemplated the nicks and scratches in the examiner's desk while gloomily considering how a seemingly innocent task could sour so quickly. My eyes focused on the open folder Chakobi had been reviewing. I blinked twice. The top parchment was headed with Unexplained Incidents, Anonymous Charges, and Interrogations Dealing With Bing Shaynee and Siblings.

I smiled as I quickly drew the dusty folder closer. It had appeared to have been buried in a dead file for some time. Chakobi, I knew, did not take kindly to any royal interference, especially from such a phlegmball as Runuld. I quickly scanned through the loose leafs of parchment knowing I had little time to maintain the charade before the examiner returned. I was just sliding the folder back to the center of the desk when the doorknob turned and in walked Chakobi. I stood and yawned.

Well, I guess I be just seeking out other sources since you are of no help, I spoke louder than I needed as I opened his door. Chakobi made a half wave and went back to examining the file. I was sure Chakobi was finding the file interesting reading. He was probably even smirking at the imagined ensnarement I now found myself in. If the veteran of the constable's force even guessed a partial truth, I doubt he would be smiling.

I maintained my air of indifference as I retreated onto the winding streets of Duburoake, a costal provincial capitol for the kingdom of Glavendale. Once outside I drew a deep breath and fought down a cry of infuriation. Why me? I was perfectly happy to take the mundane cases that other private inquisitors found so disdainful.

Each commentary on the Shaynee dynasty taken by itself painted little in the way of a monstrous and wicked family. A reader might shrug his or her shoulders at any one report's strangeness that only hinted at baser notions. With each following dab from the file's brush a painting began to emerge, one of demonic connections, vile appetites, and treacherous actions. Here be villains of monumental proportions with even darker allies.

Even now Chakobi was probably acquiring an uneasy feeling from the file. Adept in handling the more common crimes and mysteries, I doubted any of his past experiences made him capable of truly seeing the vast horrors that hid behind the seemingly innocuous documents. A Shaynee coming up as a neighbor in a missing person report. A Shaynee being one of many regular patrons of an eatery that mysteriously burned down along with its owners and customers. A Shaynee as a board member of an orphanage that could not explain the discrepancy between the actual number of waifs at the home and the number listed as being sent there by the Duburoake Division of Populace Provisions. A deranged drunkard claiming he was the sole survivor of a caravan ambushed by terrifying, sharp-fanged creatures, and that one of the accompanying human villains wore the scarlet livery of the Shaynee clan.

It went on and on. Some examiner had gone to a lot of trouble to sift through the mountains of sinister files and then to pull out ones that had even the faintest connections to the Shaynee family, no matter how innocent they appeared at first glance. I wondered if he or she be still alive.

I made an abrupt halt on the crowded walkway and I mumbled an apology to the person walking closely at my heels. I made my way to a storefront and turned with my back to a brick wall while scanning the street. My inquiries would now be common knowledge within the Duburoake Division of Public Safety. Such pebbles thrown into the murky bureaucracy had to be causing ripples expanding into darker waters. Even now plans could be afoot to turn me into one of those vague accounts of mysterious disappearances.

I pulled from my tunic pouch an odd pen given to me by my friend Lorenzo Spasm. He claims to be from a parallel firmament, one similar to this world in many ways, but devoid of any magic. It is such an instrument as this writing device that makes me believe his wild tale. It has no need of an inkpot and bears strange scribblings that Lorenzo claims to say, 'Joe's Tow and Tire Service,' just one more of his unintelligible adages.

I retrieved a piece of foolscap from where I pulled the pen and hastily wrote, Chakobi, not jesting or embellishing. You are in great danger because of that file. Leave early by back door and do not go to your lodging. I will meet you at my second favorite tavern.

I waved down one of the seemingly omnipresent street waifs and gave him a ten-pfhennig coin to deliver the note and with the promise of a second coin upon his personally handing the message to the examiner. I stressed 'personally' again before I sent him off. The next five minutes flowed by like sorghum syrup. The lad returned and held out a dirty palm for the rest of his payment.

Did you see the examiner face-to-face? I asked while holding back the coin.

Gave it to 'imself, the urchin swore.

It was not until I made the street waif provide a complete description of Chakobi that I flipped him the copper piece.

I gazed about at the hustle and bustle. Even the most harmless appearing charwoman or chimneysweep could be a hired assassin ready to slyly jab a poisonous spine into their next victim.

It took me completely unaware. I was numbed as if by a surprise blow that leaves one dazed. Yet I managed to freeze my face and continue the sweeping scan of the street. For but an instance one pallid face seemed to blaze in the busy street like a silver tooth in the dark maw of a rotting skull. I found myself holding my breath, but also gathering myself together before examining the fellow from the corners of my eyes. I could not even detect the color of his eyes from across the street, but for that brief moment when our gazes locked I felt as if his stare could freeze my blood. He was gone when I turned back for another look.

I was nervously considering the strange apparition when I jerked in surprise.

Lose your momma?

Agh. Would you stop that? I hate it when you sneak up on me like that.

Lorenzo Spasm had slipped, unnoticed, to my side. He was the only one I knew who could catch me so unaware.

Back so soon? I muttered with a scowl.

He had returned to his own magic-lacking world to destroy a dangerous gem that was used to free a treacherous Old God.

Missed me, didn't you?

I would not admit it out loud, but I was glad to see Lorenzo, especially after viewing the Shaynee file and now that sinister stranger. As always, Lorenzo was dressed in an odd assortment of garb to cover his tall, lanky frame. It was as if he had chosen a piece of apparel from each country he ever visited. His knee-high, black felt boots were of those worn by Ressdovian naval officers, the narrow-waisted blue jacket falling to his knees that of Novcainian royalty, and the saber and sheath of those worn by Kawsaks. The strange colorful tunic bearing semi-naked women and strange birds he called a Hawaiian shirt. Add to that his black shoulder-length hair and graying mustache and he cut quite the figure.

I decided to get right to the tip. What do you know about the Shaynee family?

Lorenzo whistled and then replied, I thought you were done with risky ventures?

It was a dreaded, but expected answer. I was not surprised that Lorenzo already knew something was rotten in the Shaynee family. I filled him in on the case and the file at Lt. Chakobi's office.

Lorenzo looked thoughtful. You could always drop the job, though you may already be on the radar as far as the Shaynee clan is concerned. They'd probably overlook some flatfoot nosing around, but you now have a reputation as an intrepid ferret. It looks like you're screwed.

As confusing as Lorenzo's idioms are, I can usually grasp his meanings. That be private inquisitor. Thanks for the reassurance. What am I going to do? I could just tell my client I would not wed a piss dragon into that family and the case, but that would really annoy the one planning on getting betrothed.

We could kill them all, Lorenzo suggested in the matter-of-fact voice he uses whenever advocating some outrageous solution. What is scary is that he sometimes means it.

Even if I were to escape their notice, I thought out loud, can I sit idly by while such evil walks the streets of my Duburoake?

I'm in.

What?

I know beneath that façade of cowardice lies the soul of an eternal do-gooder. Besides, I'm getting bored.

I did not say I was the one to do this battle, I protested. I was thinking more on the line of turning this over to the chief constable. What do you mean façade of cowardice? I like to think of it as being cautious.

From what I hear it's obvious that the tentacles of this nefarious tribe reach deep into all levels of the local government. I wouldn't be surprised if even the Baron is under their influence.

I groaned. What can one lone private inquisitor do?

Hey, buddy, you've got me. Then again, you are engaged to the daughter of one of the most powerful witches in the country.

I groaned again. I am not one of Morganna's favorite beings. She only tolerates me because her daughter Morgana – one N in her name – is in love with me. The mother witch is not hesitant in letting me know she thinks her daughter can do better, even though have I several times saved Morgana from certain death. It was also with me that her slumbering powers awoke while in the clutches of Dorga, the Fish Headed God of Death. Morgana is now away learning whatever arcane studies are taught to apprentice magic doers and returns home only on weekends.

I cannot go running to the witch like some frightened baby. Besides, maybe I am reading too great of misfortune in this.

I don't think so.

Why not?

Because we have an assassin edging toward us right now. See that sausage vendor.

I glanced to where Lorenzo tilted his head.

Sometimes a sausage is just a sausage, I quoted my half-brother Olmsted Aunderthorn, an alchemist. He could be just coming to peddle his wares.

Lorenzo rolled his eyes and then headed toward the street vendor. The sausage hawker stopped at Lorenzo's approach and held out a rather greasy sample of his merchandise. My friend smiled, but instead of reaching for the fare, punched the peddler between the eyes. The street vendor dropped like a fainting sheep. Lorenzo kneeled to examine the sausage and then to rummage through the peddler's clothing.

And? I asked upon my friend's return.

Well, he could have been an assassin.

You just punched an innocent sausage hawker?

He shouldn't have attacked me with that wiener. Let's get out of here before he wakes up and begins to whine.

It was my turn to roll my eyes. I told Chakobi I would meet him later at the Cave Inn, but first I must visit brother Olmsted. He can maybe shed some light on this.

The alchemist's laboratory is in the guild section of Duburoake and hanging in the air is the constant 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 district.

~ * ~

The interior of Olmsted's laboratory had once been no more hygienic than this neighborhood. Olmstead has always been a top-notch metaphysicist, but he once maintained the personal hygiene of a corpse-scavenging dog. He stank worse than a dead, bloating cow in August. All he had 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.

Things have changed since my brother became married. He is now aware of private hygiene and has a new assistant whose main duty is that of cleaning up after him. Still, the dim interior of the small stone shop could use a renovation. Lorenzo and I passed through the doorway to view the familiar 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.

Jak, Lorenzo, what cheer? Olmsted greeted us from a stool perched in front of a half dozen candle-heated and bubbling glass phials.

We returned the welcome and I went straight to the peak, Olmsted, we need your help. There be baleful happenings afoot.

He chuckled. What? You seek laboratory proof that some wayward spouse be unfaithful? Or maybe evidence of a shop theft by a clerk?

I sighed. There was a time when such cases made the bulk of my work.

If only it was so simple, I replied, then went onto explain the files of Chakobi.

He listened to my report, brightening each minute as the mysterious accounts unfolded.

Ah, Olmsted said as I finished. You believe this family has unholy ties with malevolent allies? To what purpose?

I am not sure. That and what these creatures be is what I must discover. You made a hobby out of the study of exotic creatures. What could be prowling so secretive about Duburoake?

Hmmm. Such cruel predations could be the work of a number of beings.

Such as? I prompted.

Well, let me think. There be Gogmagogs, Ciguapas, Acephalias, Cambions, and Dhampires.

Yikes, I bet they are Ciguapas, Lorenzo chimed in.

I turned to my friend in frustration. These all be just names to me. What be a Ciguapa?

Olmsted rose from his stool and made his way to a number of shelves overloaded with ancient tattered scrolls and dusty tomes. He pulled out a bound collection of parchments and returned to the table. He leafed through the pages until he stopped halfway through the documents.

Ciguapa, Olmsted began reading out loud. An alluring female creature with blue skin and a full mane of shiny, long black hair. Traveling in naked form, they bewitch males who gaze into their deep black eyes. Their most noticeable attribute is the backward positioning of their feet. Their backward feet confuse those attempting pursuit since they leave trails appearing to travel the opposite direction.

I chewed my lip and gave Lorenzo a dark scowl. Do not you think a naked blue woman with backward feet would gather the notice of even the most jaded Duburoakians? Why would you believe our culprit be a Ciguapa?

Lorenzo shrugged his shoulders. It sure beats an Acephalia.

And what be a…

A race with no head, Olmsted cut in as he read from another section, their mouths and eyes being on their chests.

As with a Ciguapa, do not you think we would have heard of headless creatures prowling even the darkest alleys? Is there not one of those creatures that could remain unnoticed as they did their dirty work? What be a Gogmagog?

Olmsted quickly thumbed through the pages. A giant human-like being with bulging muscles and with the strength of twenty men. They are said to be the sons of humans and demons. They also…

This time I cut in. Giant half-breed demons? Oh, yes. I see them all the time. My sarcasm was evident even to my brother. Is not there one of these beasties that could be our spects? What be a Dhampire?

Oh, I am afraid that is just a mythical creature, child of a mortal woman and a vampire. Vampires can only have offspring with one another.

That gave me pause. I looked at Lorenzo and he gave me a nod in return. I groaned. It be time to meet Chakobi.

I gave my brother a hug and we set off once again.

~ * ~

The Cave Inn is in a seedier part of Duburoake near the wharves. We stopped beneath the inn's sign hanging above the doorway. It crudely pictured several fleeing miners from the entrance of a dark hole spewing chunks of rock and dust. It be aptly named. The inn's interior is dimly lit and perpetually filled with bazzel smoke. I picked a table in one of the darker corners and ordered two Duburoake Star Ales.

We waited a half hour before Chakobi entered with a pair of foot patrollers. I groaned at his conspicuous entrance. I would soon be an unwelcomed patron if I made a habit of bringing in the law. A number of patrons shifted nervously in their chairs and furtively turned away from the door. Chakobi scanned the dark depths of the ale joint and spotted us. He motioned his men outside and crossed the littered floor to our table to take a seat.

I am glad to see you took my message seriously, I said after ordering another ale for Chakobi from a shabbily dressed dwarf.

He gave me one of his dull stares for several seconds before replying. I could not much help it. I was barely outside headquarters when I was attacked by a street vendor with a sausage.

What? I yelped.

He had a slim dirk blade sheathed in the meat. Almost got me, but he was acting a little punched-drunk. Could have been from that big knot in the middle of his forehead.

From the corner of my eyes I watched Lorenzo fight off a smile and finally compromise with a smug smirk.

Did he say who hired him? I asked.

Had not the chance. He popped the sausage down his throat and choked on it before we could get a bloodletter to him. Which brings me back to how did you know I was marked?

I took a long sip of ale and then told him my fears.

I found the file strange, admitted Chakobi, but mainly about why it was created. The reports have barely anything in common.

Except for the Shaynee connection, I corrected him.

Chakobi stared in my direction with unfocused eyes; his way of concentrating. Some mentions hardly count.

Any one by itself would not draw interest. But think. It be too much a coincidence that such a volume of strange deaths and missing persons all have ties, even if weakly, to the same family. Someone else must have also thought so to gather the reports into one file. Who was it?

Chakobi leaned back in his chair and gave me his customary blank stare before replying, I do not know. Normally there are initials of the agent on the sleeve when a new dossier is created. I stumbled upon that particular file by happenstance only because I knew you would be at my door worrying at me for information.

He turned to Lorenzo. They had met only briefly several times, but I know Chakobi was aware of my friend's peculiar reputation. What do you think, Spasm?

Vampires.

That broke the lieutenant's famous reserve. Vampires!

Missing bodies, burned bodies, disappearing witnesses –in great quantities – and none would be able to reveal bite marks or great losses of blood, Lorenzo cheerfully replied.

Vampires are a solitary lot, scoffed the lieutenant as he did a slight double-take at Lorenzo's apparent high humor at the notion. They have to be. A single bloodsucker can escape notice if he not be gluttonous and prey only seldom on the beggars and outcasts of the poorer warrens. Any larger number would draw attention as the plundered bodies began to pile.

Unless the vampires are especially clever and wealthy, I interrupted. Your file speaks of such evil cunning. They have entrenched themselves in Duburoake as gutmaggots eating from within. The Shaynee's henchmen go about following nefarious orders by day and the vampires carrying out their own vile deeds by night. They have as an extra precaution the control of, by fear or bribery, high officials to help veil their crimes.

The discussion continued for several more minutes. Chakobi was still not convinced, but said he would investigate further, as well as take extra precautions for his own safety.

That also goes for you, he noted as put on his narrow-brimmed hat. Beware of sausage hawkers. Oh, and here, you might want this.

I sipped slowly on my ale as I considered the packet Chakobi had dropped on the table. I shrugged and began to consider our next course of action. We would have to leave by the backdoor. My