by Dan Ehl
I sighed and returned to my desk, ignoring Lorenzo's banter. Finding the matching orb was just one more element to befog my poor aching brain. How was I to solve the sleeping maiden case while the target of assassins? Were they connected? And what about the glass eye?
"I suppose you did not notice whether any of the Reverian Assassins were one-eyed?" I asked Lorenzo.
"No, I am afraid my search was not that complete, though I did observe one had his appendix out at an early age and another had his canines filed to points."
"Well," I sighed again, this time in resignation, "I guess it is time to visit the municipal morgue."
Chapter Three
It is not unusual for a resident of Duburoake to travel incognito, whether for felonious business practices or sly dalliances in some harlot's quarters. The garb of choice is a hooded raincloak that covers to the ankles. It is commonly used in foul weather, but slouching figures in such attire can be seen skirting the back streets in the best of climate.
We were lucky the day had turned dour and a light rain was wetting the cobblestones. There were others about wearing storm gear, and probably half of them were honestly seeking cover from the elements. Even though Lorenzo was concealed beneath his cloak, his tall, lanky frame made him stand out in the sparse crowd briskly dodging the gathering puddles.
The Baron's constables once stopped such suspiciously garbed pedestrians until the Rain Apparel Guild got the Civic Freedom Union to sue, claiming such profiling violated the Glavendale Charter of Birthrights. The guild won, but the constables still stop suspicious figures when they want, claiming the suspects are jaywalking, littering, passing gas in public, or perpetrating some other nonsensical crime.
The Municipal Morgue is in the Old Section, the original part of Duburoake built before the city grew into a busy trading port. The early village was settled by a long-forgotten cult of cloud worshipers, whom it is said were not human. They are believed to have chosen the spot because of the weather. The moist air off the ocean hitting the cool gusts dropping from the high coastal cliffs produce a monotonous drizzle occasionally interrupted by brief bursts of sunlight or typhoons. I've often wished the sect had been sun worshipers.
It is easy to tell when you hit Old Section. The ancient limestone edifices and walks are sheathed in dark green mosses and lichens. Traveling the least trodden strips of the stone walkways and streets is like treading on plush carpeting. With their thick walls, the buildings look like a number of small fortresses grown together. Every now and then, thrusting out from the riotous growth, are horrendous carvings of clouds with angry faces of animals and races of demonic beings that no longer dwell on this side of the sea.
And looming above it all is the ancient City Morgue, once the main temple of the cloud worshipers. Like some grotesque castle cut from giant blocks of cheese mold, it has three towers that rise into the eternal cloud cover that squats above the cliff.
"Nice place," observed Lorenzo as he craned his neck to follow the towers into the dismal vapors. "Come here often?"
"Not if I can help it. I usually have Olmsted make the trip since he finds these environs of interest. He spent much his childhood dissecting road kills and finds this facility intriguing."
I shuddered at my own memories of the few times I had visited the City Morgue. At least I never had to visit much with the coroners. Their faces are never seen by the public. I have heard they are an appalling lot.
I thought of my past brief meetings with the bloodletters. Once was when working on an insurance case dealing with a supposed accidental death by harpy. The coroner was cloaked from head to foot in a robe and his face hidden deep within the hood. He was very short and unlike the assistants, the robe was unstained and brilliantly white.
"Maybe not so appalling," Lorenzo said. I was now used to his cryptic comments.
I shook my hood to dislodge some of the water. It was beginning to drip down onto my nose.
"There are vaults carved deep into the cliff that remain chilly in the warmest of summer days. They help keep the bodies from rotting," I added to the small store of knowledge I could pass on to Lorenzo.
We came to a door that seemed tiny when viewed from afar, it being dwarfed by the massive outer walls of the morgue. But up close, the door was as stout and large as any temple entrance. I pounded on the portal with a mallet that hung from a rope. It took several minutes before a small panel slid to the side and a pallid, narrow face peered out at us.
"Whaddayah want?" the sentry asked while giving a distrustful glance at the rain garb.
I held out my Private Inquisitor badge for inspection. He grunted an acknowledgement and the door swung open. Immediately, a jumble of vile smells assaulted my nose--of decay, vacated bowels, gases erupting from bloating bodies, and the acerbic chemicals used to delay the corruption. I forced myself not to gag and hoped the stench would not cling for any great length to my clothing.
We were led by smoky torch light through narrow, windowless halls that seemed to wind aimlessly through the bowels of the morgue like the fossilized intestines of some petrified beast. The original builders had not been thinking of housing dead bodies, most of which were already rotting by the time they arrived here, so there was only minimal ventilation in the form of occasional openings in the ceiling.
I glanced at Lorenzo to see how he was taking the reek, but his face, like mine, was hidden in the shadow of a hood.
"I notice among the potpourri of odors," Lorenzo said to our guide, "the smell of coniferous resin, balsam, beeswax, and plant oils--all used in the preservation of bodies. I thought this was just a morgue."
"We make a bit of coin on the side by preparing bodies that are claimed," answered the man. "Though few enough are ever spoken for. They be mostly riffraff and beggars, no more craved in death as they were in life."
"What becomes of the unclaimed?" Lorenzo persisted in discussing a subject that made my stomach churn at the imagery.
"They be dumped down a bottomless shaft. It is said they provide sustenance for creatures best not contemplated."
I was saved from further prattle that was bound to turn to subjects like purification by our arrival at the main desk. Almost identical to the doorman in color, that of none, this clerk was puffy like rising dough. With eyes almost hidden within his bloated face, he resembled a sightless grub. He wore greasy leather trousers held up by a woven hemp cord tied around his flabby gut.
I again flashed my badge. "We are here to examine some bodies."
"Why?"
"Why?" I repeated in surprise. "Why? Because I am a private inquisitor."
"So?"
"So, as a licensed private inquisitor, certified by the Duburoake Public Safety Council, I am allowed to see bodies connected with any of my investigations."
"Sayeth who?"
I cocked my head and glared at the clerk. He was living up to the common image of all Glavendale civil servants--that of being insolent, feeble-minded, and obstinate. He was almost as wretched as the bureaucrats with the Ministry of Transportation, the most oppressive of all officials.
I debated several tacks and ruled out beating him with the flat of my sword blade or cuffing his rather mushroom-like nose. Either action would be effective for today's errand, but would tend to deter future cooperation on the part of the folks at the Duburoake Municipal Morgue. Still, one could not let this kind of insolence go unchallenged.
I took a deep breath. "Just what be your problem? Do you know who I am? Are you trifling with me?" I cried loudly, rolling my eyes, flinging out my arms, and letting fly a bit of spittle.
Sometimes acting the crazed lunatic has gotten me further than decorum or coin. No one wants to confront a seriously deranged person--who might break out weeping, piss their pants, bite off someone's nose, or go on a crossbow rampage. The only problem with such tactics is that they can painfully rebound when mistakenly used upon someone truly maniacal.
I was once trapped in a tavern patronized by a devian
t pony cart gang angry at my search for one of their members. Though some carters are drinking cohorts of mine, many are a roguish lot with more color illustrations covering their bodies than at the local art market. Most of their tattoos commemorate relationships with underage maidens, the emblem of King Guard's units they once served in, or adages such as "Birthed To Be Bad" and "I Brake For All Hallucinations."
I had wildly waved my hands above my head and screamed about giant bloodsucking bats. It was my bad luck that several carters were at that time suffering from delirium tremors and saw the vampire bats--and blamed me for letting them in the back door.
The morgue clerk silently stared at me for a moment, thrust a crooked finger up his right nostril, dug around for a few seconds, looked at what he had retrieved, stood, and walked across the room--there to disappear through a narrow doorway.
"Now look what you've done," Lorenzo commented.
"Me?'
"I think you hurt his feelings."
"I guess I showed that dunce who is the boss," I answered. "There is only one way to handle such louts."
"And what way is that?"
"Why, you just have to..." I began before faltering as the clerk returned--with a friend. His companion could have been another brother, but one who was at least seven feet tall, had a neck bigger than his head, yellow teeth the size of smoked toads, assorted inflamed tumors, oozing ulcers, and clumps of course hair that sprouted like tufts of lush grass growing where dogs have shit in an otherwise barren yard.
"Don't worry, I have a plan," Lorenzo volunteered.
"You forget that I do not enjoy your plans?"
"You will this one."
"What is this plan?" I surrendered.
"If this turns to violence, you take the mutant and I'll take the other guy."
"What is a mutant?"
"I think you call them sports."
I paused while trying to think of a witty retort, "That will work."
"Really?" Lorenzo asked in surprise. "You will take the sport?"
"Yes, of course. Since sport means stunted, I get the clerk."
"Sport doesn't mean stunted."
"Yes, it does."
"You are such a liar. No, it doesn't. It means a genetic freak like Dog Boy there."
"Whose language is this?" I anxiously replied as the pair drew closer, having never argued semantics just before being soundly beaten. "I am sure you have not yet learned all the nuances of Glavendalian, or perhaps have misunderstood certain denotations."
Our discourse ended as the pair reached the desk. The clerk sat back in his seat and the frightful escort took a position behind his right shoulder.
"My confederate is displeased with your demeanor," Lorenzo spoke before I could reply. "I hope you know my friend here is a master of Kimchee, the ancient martial art of thumb fighting. He is coming this close to..."
"But I am sure we do not need to resort to physical duress," I interrupted. "Perhaps we could speak with your overseer?"
"He be on furlough."
"Then perhaps the assistant overseer?"
"That be me."
"You see, we only crave to view the bodies of the Reverian Assassins."
The clerk and sport tensed at the mention of my would-be executioners.
"Why would your curiosity extend to the assassins."
I eyed the pair, wondering what to reveal. "Ah, it seems their, ah, quarry was me. Call me frivolous, call me timid, but I tend to find such gestures very disconcerting."
I detected an immediate change in both of the municipal morgue employees' postures. I held my breath to see if this was good or bad.
"Be you the ferret for the dwarves?" the clerk asked as he leaned forward across his desk. There was fish and garlic on his breath. I would normally find this annoying, but I was relieved it was not that of Carrion Helper.
"That is private inquisitor. Of course I am not at liberty to discuss confidential aspects of any case, but, ah..."
"Be you ferret for the dwarves?"
"That is private inquisitor," I again answered with a bit of pique. "I, ah,..."
"Be you ferret for the dwarves?"
"That is PRIVATE INQUISITOR."
The clerk's expression was that of someone trying to shit a square turd. "Be you the private inquisitor for the dwarves?"
"I, ah..."
The sport either smiled or scowled. Either way, I was looking at more fang than I desired.
"Yes," I shouted. "I am the private inquisitor for the damned dwarves. What are you going to do about it?"
The clerk ignored my outburst and sat back in his chair.
"Why did not you tell me this in the first place?"
"Is this a rhetorical question?"
"A what?"
"Never mind. Can I just see the bodies of the Reverian Assassins?"
"Of course. Follow me."
Lorenzo and I looked at each other and found ourselves shrugging shoulders in unison.
We were again taken into the serpentine burrows of the morgue. The smell grew progressively worse.
"So, you know the dwarves?" I asked, perplexed about his turnabout.
"They be my wife's second cousins," the clerk answered with a bit of defensiveness in his voice, as if daring me to comment upon his marital connections to dwarves. Being liberal minded, I see nothing wrong with such alliances--though I draw the line at ghouls. I would not want any of my dozen half-sisters to marry one. Think about the children who would never know whether to eat their vegetables or the kindly old neighbor lady who died last week.
We finally were brought to a large hall where a number of waist-high stone slabs were lined down the middle. Some were unoccupied and others were draped with stained sheets that covered the morgue's unwilling, but also uncomplaining customers.
Only at one slab was there any activity. Two bloodletter assistants were poking about a corpse. "See, I told you trolls have bigger..."
They both snapped to attention when they saw there were visitors. Several large crocks rested on a nearby table and overflowed with eviscerations that made my own internal organs uneasily squirm.
The underleaches' once-white smocks were crusted with dried secretions of blood, phlegms, biles, and vitreous humors. The taller of the two had twisted front teeth that sat in his gums like half opened doors. He examined us with jaundice eyes while the second bloodletter's assistant pointedly ignored us, his face hidden by the flickering lamp shadows.
"They want to see the Reverian Assassins," said the clerk.
"So?" said the one with the bad teeth.
Before I could as much groan at this bureaucratic sequel, the clerk picked up a spatula-like tool and slapped the offending morgue technician in the face.
"They want to see the Reverian Assassins," he repeated.
I was going to have to get a spatula for my future involvements with governmental divisions.
The two freaks shifted from foot to foot and nervously glanced at each other.
"Ah-h-h-h, I don't think that be a good idea right now. Perhaps tomorrow."
There was a kind of irritating whistle that accompanied the geek's speech, most likely caused by the large gaps between his teeth. He ducked and the flipper missed his head by inches.
The clerk became angered by the recalcitrant assistant, grabbed him by the smock, and began screaming, "Do you know what this is, Lerk? This be the Great and Eminent Spatula of Reason. The more I cuff you with it, the more you gain reason."
With eyes rolling until only white showed, the clerk began wildly smacking his subordinate.
I was impressed. The clerk did one Hades of a good parody of being amok (at least I hoped it was feigned). A good private inquisitor is always open to learning new methodology and this clerk was a master of the maniacal. I watched in awe.
Lerk reluctantly yielded and agreed to take us to the cadavers we sought. I guess I should have been more wary of his recalcitrant mood. It went beyond laziness.
Again, we
traipsed through winding burrows by torchlight and occasionally descended stairs that were cut into bedrock. The edges of the steps were rounded and the floor polished as if by heavy traffic, most likely worn smooth over the centuries by the former inhabitants. Our own footsteps echoed eerily in cadence with the plopping of water drops pooling in the shallow depressions of the floor.
