Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves

by Dan Ehl

  The lout next to Grup smiled and looked up at the clear blue sky, only to be smacked by his leader. It was beginning to look like I wouldn't have the heart to stick any of them, except maybe Grup.

  "We leave yah alone if yah pay up."

  "Pay up? What are you striving to be, highwaymen?"

  "No, we be collecting agents."

  It suddenly dawned on me. They were not hired to knock off Jak Barley; they were collecting on a bad debt from Slim Sim. Just my luck to impersonate a knave, who if not having the caliber of my enemies, had a greater number.

  "There has been a big mistake here. I am not Slim Sim," I began. "You have the wrong man."

  "Oh, then if that be the case, we just be on our..." began the smallest knave, who appeared relieved to find a way out from facing my blade.

  "Hah, that be a good one. See, I told yah he be a slippery snake," Grup growled. "Yah was pointed out to us when yah left Duburoake this morning. He said nobody but Slim Sim would dress in such clichéd dress."

  "Hey now," I protested and was about to look down at my attire in concern when I realized I was beginning to act far too much like Slim Sim. "Look, I will share a little secret with you. I am really private inquisitor Jak Barley in disguise. I am undercover at the moment."

  "Yah, yah, and I be the Earl of Olay. We knows that cannot be true. Barley is dead, killed by a bunch of them Reverian Assassins. It be all over town."

  "That is what I want my foes to believe. I am only telling you this because I know I can trust fine gentlemen like you," I flattered them, while also knowing this costume was probably only good for a brief spell and that time was now up. "Here, look at my badge."

  I pulled out my leather wallet and flipped it open under Grup's nose. He squinted at the badge and chewed on his lower lip.

  "Sure, yah, just as I thot. Hey, Frit, whadayah think?"

  The quiet hooligan, the skinny one who had bright red hair and freckles so thick it was the remaining dirty white skin that looked like spots, inspected the badge and nodded. "Yep, says Jak Barley."

  Grup, who obviously could not read, looked a bit deflated until I reached into my pocket and pulled out a few coppers. "Here, for being such good lads have a few drinks on me."

  They all brightened up and crowded around me. I would not have been surprised to learn their pay for roughing up Slim Sim was just liquor money. They took their coins and awkwardly clapped me on the back as if embarrassed that only moments before they had planned to plant a crop of lumps on my head.

  The four even introduced themselves--Grup, Frit, Frat, and Luginie. Frat was a bit overweight and was missing a few front teeth. He had been the one who knocked me from my horse. Luginie was the small sniveler of the band.

  They invited me to come drinking with them, but I begged off on a prior engagement. I shuddered to even think what disreputable gin joints they frequented. I conjectured it would make the King's Wart Inn look like a grandiose lodge. They were still waving as the nag and I disappeared around a turn in the road

  It was now time to visit dwarves. I had sent word ahead that I would be visiting by early afternoon. There was no one about as I left the nag in the same place Hazel had rested only several days past. I warily kept my eyes open for the two villainous bunnies while letting myself in the picket fence gate and down the pansy-lined stone path to the cottage. The yard was beginning to look a bit ragged now that Frost Ivory wasn't about for tending. I eyed the white stucco bungalow with distaste. It was just a bit too cute with its bright blue shutters, window flower boxes, red front door, and thatched roof.

  I had barely knocked when the dwarf named Snot answered.

  "Good afternoon, Snot. I need to look at Frost Ivory's room." I skipped the niceties since these coal dwarves seemed little prone to affable conversation.

  "Why?"

  "I am a private inquisitor, Snot. That be my job, to look for clues. It is why you hired me."

  He looked unconvinced, gripping the half opened door as if against an assault.

  "You do want to help Frost Ivory, correct?"

  The dwarf looked as if torn by indecision, but finally opened the door and motioned me into the parlor. Like the outside, it showed the hand of a damsel. There were adorable lace curtains, charming embroidered pillows on the divan, and enchanting paintings of immature elves with large eyes above the fireplace. I felt an ailment coming on.

  The dwarf noticed my observation of the room and after wiping his nose on his sleeve, asked, "Refined, ain't it?"

  "Ah, yes. I especially like the model of..."

  "The Baron's castle."

  "Oh yes, the Baron's castle. Quite interesting. It is made from, ah, beans?"

  "Yup," Snot eagerly shook his head. "That be Snoozy's. Frost Ivory be always pushing our artistic talents."

  She had not pushed hard enough, I thought to myself. The castle looked more like a nightmarish hovel built by deranged rats crazier than bat shit after a drunken and demented night of misdeeds best kept secret by the rodent world.

  "Yes, quite nice. Could you now show me to Frost Ivory's room?"

  He led me through a short hall and up a small curving stairwell. I had to stoop as I followed Snot to the second floor and found I couldn't straighten once I was in the room.

  "Thank you, Snot," I said as we stood in the damsel's quarters and I looked about. He didn't get the hint and I had to repeat the gratitude in a louder voice. I could tell the dwarf didn't like it, but Snot finally excused himself to go slop some lard frogs.

  I began my search with the more predictable areas--shelves, boxes, drawers, trunks, and under the bed. This took about forty minutes. I discovered she had a sister and her parents were worried about her--this discovered from a few bundled letters crammed beneath her mattress. She had written to family members and related her observations of Duburoake and the dwarves. No names were used and it was questionable if she ever intended to post them.

  Her wardrobe was quite modest. Her gowns all prim and proper, though I detected a subtle sensuousness in some of the cuts. I held one frock at arm's length and examined it closely. Was it my imagination? At first glance it seemed fit for an innocent teen. But the more I looked at it and imagined it on Ivory Frost's nubile young body, the more it seemed just a bit erotic, as if playing on a virginal image. There were some ladies of the night in the more raucous quarters of Duburoake who specialized in dressing as school maidens or virginal priestesses.

  Most likely it was just my imagination stirred up by that old lady's comments, I decided as I let the dress fall back against the wall where it hung from a hook. I kneeled to examine a pair of her shoes--modest footwear designed more for sturdiness than looks. Wrapping knuckles against the closet walls revealed no hidden panels. Her trashcan was even empty.

  All in all, what stood out most about Frost Ivory's living quarters was the lack of anything significant. No favorite paintings on the wall, no cute little stuffed animals, no portraits of friends and family, and no travel memorabilia. It was stark.

  I made my way back downstairs and found Snot washing dishes.

  "You will make someone a fine cottage-husband someday, Snot. Do you do windows?"

  He glared at me and snorted, "We take turns now that Ivory be cursed."

  "Did she ever talk about her family?"

  "She had none."

  "Not according to the letters to a sister."

  He looked at me as if I were trying to trick him.

  "Did she ever say who she was hiding from?"

  "Hidin'? She be hidin' from no one. Why do yah ask that?"

  "Come on. A beautiful maiden, used to the city, living by choice with a bunch of dwarves. No visitors, not telling you about her family--what does that tell you?"

  "She be happy here," he defensively retorted.

  "How did she happen to come here?"

  ''Answered a bit in the local journal. We needed a housekeeper."

  "Where was she before here? Did she come with references?"


  "We did not ask."

  "How did everyone get along after she arrived? I mean a pretty maiden, seven males…?"

  "Fine."

  He was becoming more curt in his replies.

  "No jealousies?"

  "It weren't like that. She be like a sister." He was starting to sound angry.

  "Relax, Snot. I have to ask such questions. That is what you hired me for."

  "You dwarves all brothers, friends?"

  "Brothers."

  "How long has she been addicted to opium?"

  "What?" the startled dwarf exclaimed.

  "Just kidding, Snot. I have to go, but if you think of anything that might help the inquiry, send me a note."

  "I don't see why yah be asking all these questions. It is the evil witch that be behind this," he grumbled.

  "Do not get your bowels in an uproar. I have to follow all leads. And for your knowledge, I will be visiting Morganna tonight at her domicile."

  His reaction was more extreme than when I had asked about the opium.

  You-u-u be seeing the witch?"

  "It is what I am getting paid for, ah, getting the coal for."

  "But to visit the witch. She will quash yah like a bug. Yah cannot do that."

  "Don't get all teary on me, Snot, but it is nice to see you care. A real private inquisitor knows no fear. We laugh at death, guffaw at dismemberment, and snigger at anguish."

  I left him fisheyed, finally impressed at the caliber of sleuth they had hired. The hackneyed mare was waiting for me and I began my slow ride back to town.

  Chapter Ten

  I do not like formal dress, especially what Stagsford high society considers fashionable wear. Something has to be novel each year to be in vogue, with more subdued variations filtering to the coast a year or two later. Some rakish knave decided silk hose, the more garish the better, and knee-length embroidered tunics with ruffled collars and cuffs were to be in fashion for men. The apparel I purchased last year for the private inquisitor convention was a subdued green tunic and gray hose, though I had to stand my ground at the clothing stall. The proprietor had been determined to see me decked out in mauve and teal.

  "I hate these lizard suits," I grumbled about my attire as Jennair straightened my collar. "That is the trouble with Stagsford, they always think they have to be pompous toads. I never thought this style would come to Duburoake. I want to relax instead of parading around like a peacock in heat. And these shoes are killing me."

  "Sh-h-h-h," Jennair admonished and stepped back to get a better view. "You look very handsome. Morgana and the other maidens will swoon when they see you."

  I eyed her with suspicion. "You do not seem very worried about your poor half-brother falling into the clutches of frightful witches. Have I said something that has offended you?"

  "Oh, pooh. Lorenzo said she seemed like a nice girl."

  "Nice! Nice? The daughter of a witch who lives in a former temple of Dorga, Fish-headed God of Death. And since when is Lorenzo such a good judge of witches? It is not as if he has much to worry about being not vulnerable to curses and spells. Maybe we could make this a match engagement and he could woo the old witch."

  "Quit your sniveling. Where is this stalwart ferret you like to portray? And quit your pacing--you are akin to a young lad before his first date."

  "That be private inquisitor. And I am not sniveling nor pacing," I said as I strode to the window and gazed onto the street below. "I wonder where the carriage is Lorenzo promised. I will be late."

  "It should be here by now," she agreed and walked to my side. "Why, there it is."

  "Where?" I said as I scanned the dimly lit street that ran in front of the inn. "I only see a hearse."

  "I believe that is it."

  "What? A hearse!" I cried then relaxed as I turned to her. "Jennair, you almost had me there. For a wink I actually believed you."

  Her unsmiling expression made me nervous.

  "You are jesting, correct?"

  "Well, Lorenzo did say he had problem finding a conveyance on such short notice."

  "Problem? Problem? No, a problem would have been if he could find but a dogcart. That would be a problem. A hearse is more than a problem. Going to a ball at the Baron's in a hearse is a cataclysm."

  "Master Jak Barley, settle down," Jennair said in her no-nonsense Frajan tone. "Lorenzo said you would make quite the impression coming in such a conveyance. It would be as if you were thumbing your nose at both the Duke and the witch Morganna. 'He will look quite the scamp arriving in such a mode of transportation,' he told me."

  Jennair could see I was not being swayed. "He also said something I did not quite understand--that it would be a 'babe mobile' when it comes to witchlings and it was the closest he could come to something called a limo. Lorenzo said he had taken the liberty of having it outfitted with a bar, hot tub, and comfortable divan."

  "A bar? A divan?" I peered out the window and examined the hearse with a less critical eye. "What is a hot tub?"

  "He said you would like it."

  It was a stylish rig for a hearse, I had to admit as I circled the jet-black carriage. I especially admired the way the burnished brass trimmings gleamed beneath the solitary street lamp. Through a smoke tinted window could be seen plush, red satin upholstery and rich wood trim.

  "I would wager not many corpses complain about being hauled to the graveyard in this wagon," I mused out loud.

  "Not a one," agreed the driver, a skeletal looking chauffeur dressed to match the hearse--all black. He smiled. It was not something he should do in public. The receding gums gave him a grin normally seen only on fleshless skulls. Add to it the sunken checks and eyes and we had a face that would launch many nightmare and cold sweats in the middle of the night.

  "You must find this a different chore than your usual hauls," I tried being jocular to cover my surprise.

  "How so?" the chauffeur eyed me strangely.

  I mean, ah, you will be carrying live passengers tonight."

  "Always do. Most days I drive for the Rainbox Tyke Academy and evenings I be driving for the passenger trolley between here and Stringtown. Yah don't take me for some meat wagon hauler, do yah?"

  "Oh, certainly not. Well, ah, I guess it is time to go."

  His look was now more of a nettled gaze as he watched me unlatch the door and haul myself up the rungs and into the hearse The rig jumped to a start before I could find the divan and I tumbled to the floor.

  "Where to?" the driver yelled above the rumble of hoofs and iron-rimmed wheels clattering across cobblestone.

  "To the residence of Morganna in the former temple of Dorga, Fish-Headed God of Death," I screamed back.

  I was again sent tumbling to the floor as the driver reined in the two black horses and pulled on the brake.

  "Yah said where?"

  "The residence of Morganna in the former..."

  "That be where I thought yah said," the highly agitated driver replied. "Ain't no ways I be taking fare to a witch's abode. I be not getting paid enough to risk my hide for a miserable evening's wages."

  "Well, I hardly believe you would be risking your..."

  The driver marched past my window and I watched him set off down the street.

  "Actually, she is not a bad person once you get to know her. Hey, wait a moment. You cannot just walk away, you have a job to do," I opened the door and called. "Hey, hey, where do you think you are going? I need a driver. What am I suppose to do now?"

  "Yah must be a devil's spawn yourself to want to travel to such a loathsome address. Call up one of your demon familiars and have it take yah," the chauffeur ordered over his shoulder.

  The argument was over unless I wanted to chase him down the street. I kicked a wheel of the hearse in frustration, forgetting I was not wearing my thick leather boots well suited for bar brawls and wagon wheels. I clutched my newly injured foot, and for the third time in just as many minutes I found myself toppling.

  "Oh, turd," I cursed
. "What more can go wrong?"

  "Git yore hands up, topper," a voice interrupted my pity fest, letting me know exactly how bad can turn to worse. "Hand over yah baubles and you won't git hurt."

  I looked up to see four raggedy highwaymen hiding behind facemasks of rags so vile appearing one would have thought they'd swoon from the fumes.

  I slowly climbed to my feet and leaned against the hearse. "Well, if it is not Grup, Frit, Frat, and Luginie. Still at work? I must give you credit for plying your trade with enthusiasm, if not deftness."