Baeor sniffed and wrinkled his nose in disgust. There was a faint but rather ominous odor in the chilly late autumn air, like rotten biri eggs that had been left to dry in the sun. Of course, there was always some disgusting smell in the air these days. But this one he did not recognize, and that troubled him. He turned to look at his travelling companion but the chief inquisitor of Brushwick, Mervin Haythorpe, gave no untoward signs that he had smelt anything unagreeable. However, this was nothing new. Mervin couldn’t smell the types of scents that he could, but it would be nice occasionally not to feel like he was the only one with a fiordian boar’s nose.
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Mervin turned to him. His sleek long neatly tied grey hair was slightly ruffled from the breeze and strands of it fell across his old, creased face. His usual spicy musk was generously coated with the floral scent of confidence and satisfaction.
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“Well, here we are Baeor.” He proclaimed in a booming voice. “Welcome to Silver Peak.”
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Baenor sniffed again, this time in irritation. “I don’t understand what is so special about this town, your honor. It looks like another mountain hovel to me. Hardly something to leave our warm beds for so early in the morning.”
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“Ha! You did seem warm and cozy this morning, honorable priest Baeor.” The old inquisitor chided him.
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Baeor’s cheek reddened, and he looked away. “You know I don’t like it when you call me that?”
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“What is not there to like? You should be proud of what you have become.” Mervin urged his phashtu forward next to him and slapped Baeor’s back, making him flinch. “Come on! Let’s see what entertainment our good friend Lord Mayor Haysteed has in store for us.”
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“I hope it is better than last night’s entertainment.” Baoer grumbled under his breath.
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Mervin laughed, a full-throated laugh that made his enormous stomach juggle and vibrate and his phashtu stumble unsteadily. “We will see young Baeor, we will see. After all, last night was some of the most fun I’ve had in days.”
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A sudden surge of muskiness from the man momentarily disoriented Baeor and the young priest turned away before he embarrassed himself.
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Damn, my nose!
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They stood at the peak of a hill. The town of the Silver Peak spread below them in a valley nestled between the mountains at its back and lower hill ranges on its three sides. A creek ran behind the town carrying water down from the mountains to the grassy plains to the south. On the town's north-east end towered its namesake, the snowy summit of Silver Peak. Early morning light glinting off the snow gave the mountain top a brilliant glow of white, silver and gold making Baeor squint his eyes.
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The town itself was a collection of stone, bricks, and mud houses, built mostly along the two main roads that came from the north and the west. The wealthier stone and brick homes lined the main roads that met at the center of the town in a big open plaza. The poorer wood and mud homes crowded the area behind them in a haphazard manner. Shops of all kinds lined the main street on both sides, butcher, dress maker, shoemaker, bakery, spice shop, groceries. The square, the main road opened on, had an inn and the temple on one side and the Lord Mayor’s mansion and the town hall on the other. In between them, there was a large open grassy field where seasonal fetes were held twice a year.
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As they entered the square from the west, Baeor wrinkled his nose again. The town smelled as any other town, a strong stream of sickly-sweet greed, pungent guilt and musky arousal with hefty doses of musty fear, coppery contempt and burning anger, and just a dash, so small you would not notice unless you were looking for it, of floral joy. No, it was not the smell of the town that troubled his nose. In fact, after Burshwick, the town almost smelled heavenly. It was that mysterious scent again, the one he could not place. It had been growing in strength ever since they entered the town. Now it almost seemed to permeate the air overpowering everything else around him. He tried to determine the direction of the scent, but it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. He finally decided to say something.
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“There is a foul scent in the air, your honor.”
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Mervin looked at him with an amused expression. “You have spent way too much time in the perfumed streets of Er Mordel, my friend. They have spoiled your nose. This is the country air. Smell it and seize it with both lungs and it will revitalize you, as it has me.”
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It was a lost cause. Honorable inquisitor Haythorpe was in an excitable mood. His scent was that of a field of forniac that had been trampled by a herd of fiordian boars, and Baeor knew it was not because of the country air. He doubted right now even a splatter of forlac dung would break his jubilance. On the other hand, Baeor’s back was sore and the offensive smell was starting to really get on his nerves. Sometimes, he hated his Joha-renounced gift.
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They came to a halt in front of the mayor’s mansion. The gateman opened the ornate iron gate for them and bowed them in. As they rounded a hideously garish statue of a half-naked woman pouring water from a receptacle, two boys came running out from behind the stables.
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“Welcome sirs!” The older of the two boys said as the two bowed in front of their steeds. “Tis’ early sir. Masters be sleeping still.”
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The boy was not more than sixteen cycles old, barely passable with sandy hair, smattering of freckles on his long-nosed face and a thick mountain accent. But Mervin’s eyes still lingered over his slight frame, his musk spiking and making Baeor cringe.
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“Boy!” Inquisitor Haythorpe puffed his chest up. “Do you know who I am? I am the Chief Inquisitor of Brushwick, Mervin Haythorpe and this is Priest Baeor. I think your lord mayor will wake to welcome us himself.”
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The boy flushed, looking aghast and smelling acutely musty. “Sorry sirs! I was not to know.” He stammered with red-faced panic.
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“What is your name, boy?”
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“Fenrit, sir!”
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“A very pretty name, indeed.” Mervin gave him a beaming smile that made the boy flush harder. Baeor rolled his eyes. “It’s alright, Fenrit. Inform your master that Inquisitor Haythorpe and his companion, Priest Baeor, have arrived as requested.”
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“Right away, sirs!” Fenrit squealed then elbowed his younger brother. The smaller boy sprinted towards the back of the mansion while Fenrit gingerly approached them.
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“I ken stable your phashtus sirs, if you like.”
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Mervin jumped down from his phashtu with an effort, the poor animal finally able to straighten its back as the large man’s weight was lifted off him and handed over the reins to the stable boy. Baeor followed him down with a tad more grace. The chief inquisitor proceeded to dig a few coins out his coat pocket and pressed it into Fenrit’s hands.
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“Take good care of them boy and there may be a bigger reward for you later.” He winked and slapped the boy’s behind. Fenrit yelped. Baeor hastily grabbed Mervin’s arm before the man created a scene and pulled him away from the thoroughly mortified stable boy.
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“Perhaps, your honor, we should not get so enthusiastic this early in the morning.“ He dragged the large man towards the front of the villa.
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Mervin chuckled. “Relax, Baeor. I’m just having a bit of fun. Nothing for you to be jealous of.”
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“Why would I be jealous?” He gritted from between his teeth, his own face reddening.
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“Ever since you returned from your pleasure trips in Esteban, you have become a sourpuss. It seems like I’ll have to keep you around for longer this time, loosen you up a little.”
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Baeor, thankfully, was saved from replying to the trite joke by the sudden appearance of a middle-aged brown-haired man dressed in bright blue silk robes and pajamas and a thick brown moustache above his lips. With his tousled brown locks and tasteless but expensive clothing, Baeor guessed him to be Mayor Haysteed, the master of the house. He smelled annoyance and faint traces of guilt and fear from the man.
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“Your honors!” The man exclaimed, wide puffy eyes bulging, as he rushed down from the covered portico towards them. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
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“So sorry to have awakened you Rogen.” Mervin’s voice was like a gong in the early morning silence and Baeor saw the mayor flinch. “But your letter did say it was urgent. So, I came as soon as I could.”
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“Of course, of course. Please, come in.” The mayor gestured towards the open door. “I’ll have Fenrit bring in your travelling bags shortly.”
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The mayor's mansion was a baffling mix of several architectural styles and somehow, it managed to draw out the most gauche aspects of them all. The three-storeyed beige colored building had a modern flat roof that was famous in Esteban and the pyridian peninsula but with the conical towers of Meyrin at its two ends. The front porch and all the windows sported the forest green terraced roofs of Fiordian highlands with Faldorian embellishments along its borders. One corner of the house had circular bay windows while the other sported a patchwork of smaller ones. And the front door, a wooden monstrosity four spans high, was so heavily done with craftwork, it hurt Baeor’s eyes to look at it. The building dripped with the sickly-sweet scent leaving no doubt in Baeor’s mind how its master’s wealth had been earned.
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The inside of the house was even more gaudy. The front hall was tiled with dark hues of green, blue and silver. The winding marble staircase at the back was banistered with gold balustrades. Drapes and wallpapers in vibrant hues of red, blue and green covered every surface. In the center of the front hall, under a hulking chandelier or glass and gold, stood the rest of the family. Ruffle-haired and sleepy-eyed and still in their bed robes and pajamas, they stood in a line, sporting strained smiles. Madam Haysteed was a scrawny severe looking woman with grey tresses hastily tied into a tight bun and a smile that looked unnaturally out of place. Gannett Haysteed, the eldest, was the mirror image of his father, smell and all, albeit two decades younger, with much less grey hair, and a smaller ponch. The other three, two girls and a male toddler, were all some blended versions of their parents. Haysteed hastily made introductions, apologized for their disheveled states and then shooed them away like curs, as he led his guests to a study.
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A giant Meyrinian dewar desk occupied one-third of the small room, with neat piles of pads, scrolls, quills, and ink. A plush ornate high-backed chair with scarlet cushions stood behind it, matching the velvet wallpaper that overlaid the walls. One wall was covered with a shelf full of books, though it did not look like even a single volume had been touched since the day they were shelved. The titles were also abstract, ranging from theses on law and governance to lectures on animal husbandry and even a few fairy tale collections. The other wall had a giant portrait of the Haysteed family, dressed in garish clothing, and features accentuated to make them seem nobler than they were. A glass chandelier hung from the center of a ceiling plastered with abstractly designed cornices and blue plush carpet with silver leaf work covered the floor. A large bay window behind the desk overlooked the front of the mansion and onto the grassy field at the center of the town square. The overall impression of the house agreed with what Mervin had told Baeor about their host. The man, Haysteed, was an upstart, a peasant born with dreams and desires of nobility. It seemed, since his parentage couldn’t afford him a real title, he was determined to at least appear wealthy and well bred. Though in Baeor’s opinion, he was failing miserably at the latter.
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The mayor gestured them to a royal blue settee set with a wood and glass table in the center that occupied the other half of the room, taking the high-backed armchair beside it for himself. As they settled down, the chief inquisitor stretched his arms across the back of the settee, draping one carelessly around Baeor’s shoulders. Baeor stiffened at the public display of intimacy but managed to keep his composure.
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“Well, Rogen. Here we are. You mentioned a matter of great urgency that required my immediate attention.” Mervin asked casually.
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“Yes, your honor. But how about some chilled wine first to recuperate from your long journey. I have just received a fresh batch from Alpy last week.”
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“You understand my tastes well, Rogen. Well, why not! I’m sure whatever this urgent business of yours is, it can wait a drink or two. What say you Baeor? You look like you could use a drink.”
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Baeor simply shrugged, still quite uncomfortable with the way Mervin’s fingers were playing over his shoulder.
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“Go on then!” The chief Inquisitor waved his other hand in consent.
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“Excellent!” The mayor smiled gratuitously and then called out to a servant in the hall. “Henna! Henna!”
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A young woman, dressed in garbs of a housemaid, came running into the room and bowed deeply. “Yes, my lord.”
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My lord? Baeor eyebrows perked up. He has trained his servants to address him as my lord? This man truly thinks he is nobility.
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“Go fetch a decanter of chilled Alpinion wine from the larder for our guests, there’s a good gal.” Haysteed ordered.
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“Right away, my lord.” And the maid went scurrying to carry out the order.
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“Well,” Mayor Haysteed turned back towards his guests. “How was your trip up north, your honor? I hope you and your young friend did not have much trouble with the weather journeying here.”
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“Not at all. Not at all. It was a little nippy, but we had plenty to keep ourselves warm on the road, didn’t we Baeor?” Mervin winked at him and a whiff of his muskiness stormed Baeor’s nostrils.
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This time Baeor blushed. What in the name of Joha is the old man thinking, making such suggestions? The man can clearly see I’m a newil priest. Mervin had insisted Baeor wear his traditional white newil priest robes with the gold sunburst emblazoned on the chest and the back. Thankfully, the mayor did not seem to catch the innuendo and simply laughed loudly as if it was all a great joke. Baeor suddenly wished he had never agreed to come on this little country excursion after all.
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“And how about your wife and sons? Are they well?”
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“Ah yes! My dear wife, Joha bless her soul, is still alive and kicking, and vigorously too, if you get my drift”, which elucidated another roaring laughter from Haysteed. “The elder one is angling for the officer’s post in the Meyrin royal guard. The younger one, Joha only knows what he wants. The young are so aimless these days.”
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“An officer in the Meyrin royal guard? Another spectacular feather in your well ornate cap, Mervin.”
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“Yes, yes! Well, we’ll see if he gets it or not.”
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Haysteed’s eyes came to linger on Baeor, and he smelled the scent of uncertainty on the man. “And …”.
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“Oh! So very sorry. But I'm remiss in my introductions.” Mervin declared as if suddenly aware of Baeor’s presence next to him. “Rogen, this is my protege, Baeor. He has just obtained his priesthood and spent a year in Esteban, training at the grand monastery there. Baeor, this is a very old and close friend of mine, his honorable lord mayor of Silver Peak, Rogen Haysteed.”
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Baeor noticed the ever-slight widening of Rogen Haysteed’s grey eyes and his scent of uncertainty turned into greedy interest.
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“Ah! Congratulations, Priest Baeor!” He exclaimed, quickly hiding his knowing look behind a mask of simpering placating reverence, but unable to mask his scent. “Unfortunately, I have never been any farther away than Brushwick. Tell me your honor, is what they say about Esteban true?“
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“What have you heard, your excellency?” Baeor asked cautiously.
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“They say Esteban is a den of sinners. El Mordel is infested with faardis, bandits and cutpurses. Whores and degenerates openly walk the streets selling their wares. And with enough gold, you could even buy yourself a murder. I do not understand why Johanai would choose to maintain a monastery in such a place.“
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There was a very subtle emphasis on the word degenerates though Haysteed’s expression of polite curiosity didn’t falter an inch as he said it. But he couldn’t hide the spike of interest in his odor from Baeor’s gifted nose.
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“Sinners are everywhere, your excellency, even in this quaint little town of yours.” Baeor replied with prim piety. “Besides, what better place to spread the pure light of Joha than in a den of sinners.”
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“Of course, of course.” Rogen smiled toothily at him.
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The musty smelling maid, Henna, presently returned with a tray carrying a frosted glass canter filled with wine and three brass goblets, truncating any further discussion on the matter. She set it down on the table and poured each of them a goblet.
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“Thank you, Henna! You may leave us now.” Haysteed dismissed her.
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Baeor noticed Mervin give the woman’s behind a lecherous glance, his musk spiking again, as she scurried out the room. He stifled a roll of his eyes. Didn’t the man ever deflate? For a while, they sipped the cold wine in silence, enjoying its rich oaky aroma and deep savory taste. Then Mervin cleared his throat.
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“Now then, what is this murder business about, Rogen?”
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“Ah! Yes. Your honor! Unfortunately, what I feared has already come to pass. Feldor Hargreev was brutally murdered the night before by the boy in question.” Haysteed’s voice sounded sorrowful but his scent betrayed anticipation, and guilt.
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“Is that so?” Mervin raised his eyebrows. “The same miller boy you mentioned in your letter who supposedly killed this Hargreev’s son.”
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“Yes, your honor. The man was a fool no doubt, a drunk. I warned him not to create a scene, to wait for his honor to arrive before taking any action. But he did not listen. He barged into the boy’s engagement ceremony, spouting all kinds of nonsense, and even threatened that he had evidence against the boy. Later that night, he was killed.”
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“And how do you know it was the boy who killed him?”
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“We found evidence, your honor. The boy dropped his promise band at the scene.”
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“How careless of him? But then it is often the little mistakes that give them away in the end, doesn’t it? Well, it looks like your little murder mystery is solved, Rogen. No doubt the son was killed by this boy and when the father suspected him, the boy murdered him as well. I do not see why you would need me now.”
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“Ah! But your honor, the manner in which the two were killed? Feldor believed Tam had been lured by the boy into those demon ruins as a sacrifice. The son’s body was never found. And then he himself was murdered so brutally, neck slashed, severe wounds on his body and his hands and feet cut off.”
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“Was he now?” That roused Mervin’s interest and he straightened up and clasped his hands.
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The chief inquisitor had made his name by solving some of the most brutal murders on this side of Coriadni. Baeor could especially remember one case, ten cycles ago, involving a series of very similar grisly killings by a man who claimed himself to be a Beniot-worshipper. The murders had terrorized Brushwick for weeks and hundreds had been arrested in suspicion, Baeor being one of them. In the end, the perpetrator had turned out to be a recently widowed dock worker who believed he could bring his dead wife back to life if he sacrificed enough human souls to Beniot. The case was Mervin’s claim to fame and earned him his current position. In recent years, however, his renown had been trumped by some young upstarts. Baeor could smell the wheels turning in Mervin’s head on how he could turn the current murder case to his advantage.
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“As you can understand, it has created quite a panic in town, your honor.” Rogen continued, excitement wafting from him now that he had finally caught Mervin’s attention. “It would greatly reassure the town’s people if someone of your position was to take interest in bringing the culprit to justice.”
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“Indeed, my dear friend, indeed. Now tell me everything you know about this boy, his background, family, everything. Do not hide even the smallest detail. You never know what might be useful.”
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Rogen gave a malicious grin. “Thank you, your honor. Thank you indeed.”
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Mervin made Rogen describe the suspect’s circumstance and the events leading up to the murder of Feldor Hargreev in detail. As Rogen talked, Baeor simply sat in silence and noted his lies. When a person lied, they always gave off a specific aroma, a heady mix of anticipation, guilt, and fear. Baeor had gotten quite skilled at catching liars by their scents. Moreover, he could deduce from the proportions of the different smells, whether the liar was nervous about being caught or confident in his subterfuge. Judging by the aroma coming from the mayor, the man was lying through his teeth and was overly confident of not getting caught.
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After Rogen had finished his tale, Mervin reclined in the settee with a frown and rested his chin on his clasped hands. Baeor suppressed a smug smile. He knew Mervin had already decided how he was going to convince the boy to confess. He could tell from his scent. Now he was just playing the part of a conscientious investigator for the mayor’s benefit. Rogen, on the other hand, looked from Baeor to Mervin nervously, his odor spiking with concern.
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“Is something wrong, your honor? You suddenly seem lost in thought.”
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“No, no.” Mervin shook his head gravely and then sighed. “But, the case is very complex, my dear friend and I need to think about how to proceed from here.”
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“But surely, the presence of the promise band at the murder scene … “
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“The promise band does not prove anything, Rogen. One could argue the promise band was stolen and placed there intentionally to implicate the boy for the murder. No?”
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For the first time that morning, Rogen Haysteed’s bright smile faltered. “Surely, you are not suggesting that … “
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“I am not suggesting anything, old friend. I am merely speculating. I will have to look at the body, see the evidence and question the boy myself before I can come to a definite conclusion.”
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Baeor could tell this was not what the Lord Mayor had expected to hear from his quickly paling parlor. His aroma, a heavy cloud of fear and guilt, surrounded him like a cloak.
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“But don’t you worry, Rogen.” Mervin continued, no clue he had suddenly slipped the rug from under the Lord Mayor’s feet. “If the boy is guilty, which seems likely, he will be brought to justice. I promise you that. Now.” Mervin suddenly stood up and Baeor and Rogen hastily followed. “I think we would like to rest a while. It seems like the journey was more draining than I had realized earlier. Once my faculties are fully functioning again, we will go and meet with this Chief Muntoose of yours and see what he has to say.”
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“Of course, your honor. I have your guest room already prepared.” Rogen clasped his hands and tried to hide his agitation behind a strained smile. “Alas! I wasn’t aware you were travelling with company, otherwise I would have made accommodations for two instead of one. Please give me a little time to prepare another guest room for Priest Baeor.”
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“Nonsense.” Mervin declared as his hands slipped down Baeor’s back to rub above his hip. Baeor stiffened. “No need to go to such trouble on our account, Rogen. After all, I do not plan on staying too long. We can manage with a single room.”
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Baeor’s heart thudded as Rogen’s eyes darted to Mevin’s hand on his hip. His eyebrows rose and then his expression fell back to its usual obsequiousness. But based on the scent emanating from the mayor now, if there had been any doubts in Rogen Haysteed’s mind about the nature of his and Mervin’s relationship, they had been surely squashed.
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“Are you sure, your honor?” His face was a mask of innocent dubiety. “It will not take any time at all.”
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“Yes, yes! I’m sure Rogen.” Mervin waved impatiently, completely oblivious of Baeor’s discomfort. “Now why don’t you show us to our room. We are quite tired and I for one would like some rest before we jump into this grisly business of yours.”
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“Of course, your honor. Please, this way.”
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The mayor led them through a long, carpeted hallway decorated with more portraits of Haysteeds, to a chamber at the back of the mansion. The room, they were bowed into, was a haphazard collection of mismatched immoderate furniture and ostentatious wall decorations. The floor was carpeted the same hideous blue as the study, the walls covered in red velvet and a smaller but equally gaudy chandelier hung from the ceiling. One side of the room had a red-cushioned armchair and a study table, the other, a large four poster bed with mesh curtains and white satin sheets. Large taxidermized boar and hinen heads were hung on two of the walls with cheap paintings of scenery and marble busts of various animals surrounding them.
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“This will do perfectly Rogen.” Mervin approved magnanimously.
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“I am grateful that you approve, your honor. Very well. I will see you at lunch.”
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Rogen Haysteed bowed, gave Baeor a lecherous smirk and then left. As the door closed behind them, Baeor’s controlled composure finally gave away. He steered himself to the large window overlooking the garden behind the mansion and clenched his fists tightly. How could Mervin do this to him? After proclaiming publicly how proud he was of Baeor’s accomplishments, he went ahead and threw him over the rhine, with such a casual disregard to his position and the risks that came with it.
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“Why so uptight, Baeor? Relax. It is a vacation for you.” Mervin came to stand behind him and massaged his neck gently, his heavy musk threatening to shatter Baeor’s anger.
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“Relax?” Baeor turned to face his benefactor and snapped. “How can you ask me to relax after you, just as good as, exposed me in front of that man? Do you have any idea what would happen if he suspects that we are, that I am … ?”
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Baeor failed to utter the words as the familiar terror of being caught sent shudders down his body. He involuntarily rubbed the large brown scar that disfigured his left cheek. He had seen what they did to the likes of him. Being a priest, he had participated in meting out the punishment several times himself. And if he was caught, the punishment for him would be even more terrible, not to mention the humiliation of the public spectacle that will be made from it.
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“Is that not why you became a priest in the first place, to not be ground into the dust by every little street scum that crossed your path? To not have to live in fear of your desires? To have the power to take what you want, who you want and when you want?” Mervin reminded him quietly as he gently patted his cheek. “So why are you so fearful to use that power now that you have rightfully earned it?”
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Baeor did not reply. Mervin was right. That is why he had become a priest, why he’d labored through pages of mundane religious scriptures, recited thousands of unintelligible oaths and stood through many ghastly executions with a mask pious serenity even as he watched men like him be tortured to death. For all those things. And yet, he was even more terrified now than when he had been selling himself off in back alleys of Brushwick just to survive. He may hold the power of life and death of many in his hands but those same would turn against him in a heartbeat if they caught any whiff of weakness in him.
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“Do not worry about Haysteed.” Mervin looked into his eyes, patting his cheeks reassuringly. “He did not earn his good fortune by running his mouth. He knows when to keep his lips sealed. He will not risk losing my trust and favor.” Then suddenly the older man’s voice became cold, and his scent turned ashy. His hands gripped Baeor’s cheeks painfully. “And one more thing! Do not ever use that voice with me again, boy. Do not forget who made you.”
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The steely look in Mervin’s eyes thrust Baeor back into the past. Suddenly, he was seventeen again, starving, disfigured and terrified, trapped in a cold damp cell, dreading the morning to come. An inquisitor with sleek black hair, steel grey eyes and an invigorating musky aroma stood in front of him with a proposal that will save his life. He looked away, flushing with shame.
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Mervin let go of him and walked over and stretched himself on the bed.
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“Now come over here, little Baeor,” he said crooking a finger at him, “and tell me all about what that wonderful nose has been telling you.” He chuckled at Baeor’s startled expression. “You thought I hadn’t noticed, didn’t you? And take that damned robe off. It is starting to annoy me.”
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To say that Chief Muntoose of the Silver Peak’s town guard was startled, when they marched into his chamber late in the afternoon, would be an understatement. The short portly man stood up so suddenly from his chair that it toppled over with a crash. It seemed, from the red liquid jostling in the cup clutched in his hand, that they had caught the chief in the middle of his drink break. His mouth gaped as his eyes fell upon the silver crossed-swords badge pinned to Marvin’s chest and guilt, shame and fear billowed from him in waves. Then, realizing where he was, he hastily put the cup down on his desk and bowed.
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“Chief Inquisitor!” He stammered. “I was not expecting you for another day. Please.” He gestured towards the two chairs in front of his desk.
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“I am getting quite tired of hearing that today.” Mervin said brusquely as he drew the chair and seated himself. Baeor took the other chair while the mayor came to stand behind them.
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“Uuuh.” Muntoose looked at the three of them wildly. Then realizing he was one chair short, hastily picked up his chair and tried to offer it to Haysteed. Haysteed politely declined.
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“Chief!” Mervin barked impatiently. “I believe we have a murder on our hands.”
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“Right. Yes, of course.” The frightened man finally sat down, wiping his bald pate with a handkerchief. “What can I do for you, your honor?”
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“It is not what you can do for me, Chief Muntoose. It is what I can do for you. Lord mayor has informed me of the various circumstances around this brutal murder and graciously asked my help in solving this mystery.”
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Muntoose looked confused.
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“I don’t understand, your honor. As you may already know, we found the culprit’s promise band with the dead body. There is not much left to solve here.” He glanced back up at Haysteed once more but seemed disappointed at whatever he saw on the lord mayor’s face.
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“I have heard the account of how this young man was caught and I am suspicious that the investigation was not carried out as thoroughly as I would’ve liked.” Mervin’s tone was nonchalant but the threat in his words was implicit. Yet, despite his outward severity, his floral scent told Baeor how much the man was enjoying himself bullying the lowly town guard.
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Muntoose’s face paled and he wiped his bald head again. “I assure you, your honor, we’ve … “
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“For instance,” Mervin cut him off. “Did you consider that the promise band might have been placed at the murder scene to implicate the boy? Does it not seem a little too convenient that the man, Feldor, publicly accuses the boy and the very night he is found dead, brutally I must say, and the boy’s promise band is found next to his body?”
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“But …,“ Mutoose, wild-eyed and musty-scented with fear, looked up at Rogen one more time. Then realizing he was not going to get any help from the man and chose to meet Mervin’s gaze instead. The change in him was sudden but Baeor noticed when his pungent musky scent of bewildered apprehension turned into the earthy odor of steely determination. It seemed like Mervin may have misjudged his quarry this time.
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“I assure you, Chief Inquisitor.” Muntoose replied with a new calm confidence in his voice. “The investigation was conducted very thoroughly. Apart from the jewelry, we also have an eye witness who claims to have seen the boy loitering around the place at the time of the murder.”
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Mervin was taken aback. Baeor knew this was a piece of information he had not been told about and if there was anything Mervin hated more, it was being blindsided in front of someone he considered his inferior. He also smelled Haysteed uneasiness behind them. It seemed like even the Lord Mayor had no knowledge of this new development. An eyewitness changed the case completely. If the boy was seen at the scene of murder, it was as good as he had confessed.
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“And did this eyewitness see the boy actually murder the man?” Mervin asked, trying to save face.
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“No. But there was no reason for the boy to be there at that hour. He was, from his own mouth, walking home, which is on the opposite side of the town, after spending an evening celebrating his engagement.”
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Seeing a gap in the chief's argument, Mervin started to comment but the bald man hurriedly cut him off.
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“And there is more, your honor. The boy is not right in the head, strictly speaking.” Muntoose’s voice suddenly took on a conspiratorial tone.
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“What do you mean?”
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“Well, he has nightmares, your honor, violent ones. The guards say he talks in his sleep, sometimes makes wild animalistic noises, and even claws at empty air. When he’s awake, he just mutters to himself and cries.”
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“I see.” Mervin frowned, taking in this new information.
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“We were hoping that along with his promise band, this would be enough evidence to get a confession out of him. Of course, we have yet to question him. It would’ve been improper without the presence of his honor.”
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It seemed like despite Mervin’s efforts to unnerve him by poking holes in his investigation, Chief Muntoose was clever enough, or experienced enough, to have taken precautions against it. He still looked nervous, but the earthy aroma of his confidence told Baeor this man was not going to be easily cowed.
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“Very well.” Mervin said gruffly at last. “I would like to see the body of the dead man myself first and then you will bring this boy to me so I can question him.”
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“Yes, of course, Chief Inquisitor. We have the body carefully preserved for your inspection.” The chief of the town guard stood up and walked to the door. “If you will all follow me.”
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He led them through a room full of nervous smelling guards and down a narrow corridor. The chamber they stepped into was bare save for a large slab of balsite laid on top of a stone platform. On top of it, covered in a brown blanket was a body. Burning incense sticks surrounded it and were tacked to the walls, perfuming the air with the heavy scent of fornic and filling the room with a purple haze. However, the smell of death and rot was still strong, and they had to cover their noses with their tunics as they walked up to the dead man, everyone but Baeor. He smelled worse things daily.
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Muntoose pulled back the cover to expose the dead man’s torso. Baeor had seen dead bodies before too. It was an unavoidable part of a newil priest's life, and they were trained for it so they do not flinch or bawk when delivering the Joha’s judgement to the degenerate and the depraved. Still, he couldn’t help but gag a little looking at the condition of what was left of Feldor Hargreev.
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The dead man’s face was lined with bruises, one of his eyes still swollen from where it looked like a sharp object had gorged it. A thin sinuous scar encircled his throat, a large claw mark covered his chest and stomach and his hands and feet, seemingly roughly hacked off with an axe or a saw, were lined with the stumps on his limbs. He wondered if the man had tried to fight his attacker, felt the fear as he realized he was overpowered and understood his life was about to end as the murderer had pressed the sharp serrated blade to his throat. If he felt his life flash before him as blood gushed from the rip in his throat and he slowly lost consciousness. If he realized, even in death he would find no peace; his corpse would be desecrated, denying his soul entry to Aigon and he would be forced to roam the ether for eternity. It was a cruel way to die and Baeor found himself pitying this stranger.
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“Well. What do you think, Priest Baeor?” Mervin’s voice broke his reverie.
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“Huh?”
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“What do you think about the claw marks on his chest? You are our religious expert here. Does it look demonic?”
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Baeor glanced over at Mervin, to see if the Chief Inquisitor was trying to test him. His normally musky aroma had turned increasingly ashy after his failure to subdue Muntoose. But Mervin was not looking his way, instead poking intently at the jagged wound with his little finger.
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“The scriptures say there are no demons, your honor, only the evil inside.”
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Mervin looked up and gave Baeor a wilting look. “I did not ask you what the scriptures preach, Baeor. I am asking whether you think these look like the claws of a demon to you.”
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There was a note of disdain in Mervin’s voice, which did not go unnoticed by the mayor and the chief of the town guard. Baeor’s cheeks reddened. He knew Mervin was just venting his frustration at Muntoose out on him, but to do so openly in front of these men, that felt even more humiliating.
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“I believe the scriptures, your honor.” Baeor kept his voice levelled. “I don’t think there are such things as demons, and therefore, I do not think these marks could be demonic.”
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“Hmphf!” Mervin grunted as he went back to the examination of the wound. “Well, I believe I have seen as much as I care to see.” He finally said, looking away from the body. “Take me to the boy now.”
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“Yes, your honor.”
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Muntoose opened the door, and they stepped out. This time the chief led them down a winding stone staircase to the level below the ground. The building’s foundation was a dungeon built of grey blocks of stones with pillars laid down at intervals to support the multistoried structure above. On one side there was a row of cells barred with iron, each with a stone slab for bed, a wooden pail and a small skylight near the ceiling. It was damp and dark, only two torches to light the surroundings, and the air smelled of sweat, piss, and feces. Baeor shuddered involuntarily. Being locked in an underground prison such as this and forgotten was his recurring nightmare.
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Muntoose picked up the torch hanging from the wall nearby and led the way towards the last cell. There was a figure inside it, sitting crouched in a corner with his head tucked between his knees. The chief banged on the iron bars to get his attention and the figure raised its head. In the dim light of the torch and the little sunlight streaming in from the skylight above, Baeor saw a brown face with dark, red-rimmed maroon eyes stare up at them. The boy was not a boy, but a young man, of about eighteen or nineteen cycles. He was filthy with matted black hair, dirt-stained cheeks and bleeding fingers. He was barefoot and his feet, white tunic and brown breeches were coated with grime. But it was the smell that nearly made Baeor choke. He had found the source of the foul scent he had been smelling since they arrived in Silver Peak. It was coming from the boy.
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Baeor gripped Mervin’s arm to catch his attention, but the Chief Inquisitor did not seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on the terrified young lad, a predatory gleam in his eyes and a sharp musk of fresh arousal in his scent. Baeor's heart sank as he recalled that expression and smell from ten years ago when Mervin Haythorpe had rescued another young man from certain death. It seemed like the old lawman had found himself a new prey.
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