Warm rain was falling hard when Clem first walked into town. His old pony, Yarosh, walked with head down and rainwater dripping from his nose, a picture of weariness. Yarosh was a dappled gray creature with a good nature and failing eyesight. Clem and Yarosh had been on the road together for quite some time, but Clem thought this was likely to be their last journey.

“Good lad,” Clem said, speaking quietly to the old beast and clapping him gently on his flank. “Not far now until we can both get a rest.”

Yarosh whickered gratefully in reply and tossed his wet head.

The town was called Peaceful Crossing. That was a good start, though it could have been called Seventh Pit of Doom Crossing and Clem would still have stopped there for the night. These last few days on the road had been hard. The land around the north road from Brindle to Whitemere was rocky and unforgiving, uninhabited, and not the kind of place a traveler could expect to stop in comfort. He and Yarosh had spent a comfortless few nights under a makeshift shelter by the roadside, and they were both looking forward to a proper rest.

Peaceful Crossing was a decent sized settlement. Despite the rain, and despite how late it was, Clem was surprised to see a fair number of people moving around in the main square. He looked around from under his deep hood, trying to work out what was going on, and more importantly, where the inn might be.

Folks were milling about the main square in the rain, carrying torches that lit the scene with a wavering light that made the shadows dance crazily up and down the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. The buildings were made of solid river stone, two floors each and with solid slate roofs that sluiced the rain into iron guttering and down into bubbling drains.

“There’s what we’re looking for,” Clem said to Yarosh, and began leading the pony toward the large, comfortable-looking building to his left, on the other side of the square. The big sign dangling over the door said The Bridge Inn, and next to it, Clem could see what looked like the entrance to a stable yard.

He didn’t get far, however, when he was stopped by a young fellow with a bright red beard and eyes that looked wild with upset and fear. “You going to the inn?” the young man said.

Clem nodded in the direction of the stable yard. “That’s the idea,” he said, annoyed at the interruption. There might have been some disturbance in town - clearly, there was - but why this should get in the way of a weary traveler resting…

“You can’t go there tonight,” the young, red-bearded man said, shaking his head. “You’ll need to find other lodgings.”

Clem scowled at the fellow. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And who are you to tell me where I can and can’t lodge?”

“Dirk Bladeleaf, blacksmith’s apprentice,” the young man said briskly, as if being the blacksmith’s apprentice gave him authority to dictate where Clem could and couldn’t sleep.

Clem’s scowl deepened as the young man placed himself solidly in his way, crossing his arms and planting his feet as if readying himself for trouble.

“What’s this, then?” Clem said. “Why can’t I stay at the inn?”

“Because there’s no innkeeper,” Dirk Bladeleaf replied. “He’s dead.”

“All right, Dirk,” said a deep voice from Clem’s left. Clem and Dirk Bladeleaf both looked up to see a huge orc lumbering toward them, carrying a flickering torch in one hand. The orc, unlike everyone else Clem could see, didn’t appear to be bothered in the least by the rain. He was bare headed and bare chested, and even his feet were bare. He wore only a rough pair of trousers that looked as if they were made from the hide of some very large and probably very ferocious wild beast.

“Ah, hello, Master Grimgrip,” Dirk said deferentially to the orc, dropping his challenging stance and stepping away. “I was just telling this traveler here that he can’t stay at the inn, on account of Domus Yembold’s death. I was telling him he’ll need to find alternate lodgings, on account of… Well, yes. He’s not inclined to accept my advice.”

Dirk looked accusingly at Clem, and then glanced hopefully at Master Grimgrip as if he thought there was a chance the huge orc might back him up.

Grimgrip sighed and dropped a hand onto the young fellow’s shoulder. “And where in Peaceful Crossing might this weary traveler find alternative accommodation, hmm? At one of the many other inns and boarding houses you see crowding the town square? Perhaps he and his pony could put themselves up in your hayloft? No? Then run along and see if Mistress Grimgrip has some task for you. She’s with the mayor and the others in the town hall. Go on now, and find yourself something more useful to do than annoying visitors.”

Dirk Bladeleaf glanced apologetically at Clem and then sprinted off and up a side street. Clem looked after him, seeing in Dirk’s way of running what the strange red beard had hidden from his eyes - Dirk was not really a young man at all. In fact, despite the beard, he was barely more than a boy.

“Sorry about that,” the orc said, holding out a hand. “Thaddeus Grimgrip. Good to meet you.”

“Clem Yelp,” Clem said, shaking the orc’s hand and finding - to his relief - that the big fellow’s grip was not nearly as grim as his looks or his name might suggest.

“You’re going to the inn?” Thaddeus said. “Follow me, I’ll show you the stable and you can get your pony under cover.”

“Thanks,” Clem said. He glanced back in the direction that Dirk had gone as he began to lead Yarosh toward the stable. “What was all that about?”

“You mean Dirk?” Thaddeus said. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just a lad trying to work out who he is in life. He has that beard, it makes him think he’s a man before he really is. He wants to throw his weight about and seem tough, you know.”

Stolen story; please report.

“I suppose I do,” Clem said with a smile, remembering a time when he had been as eager to prove himself - if not quite as naive - as young Dirk was now.

A lane just wide enough for a cart ran up the side of the inn, but behind the inn the space opened out and Clem found a good-sized yard with a small, neat stable block ready for his use. He led Yarosh inside one of the pens, found an old blanket and some tools, and gave the pony a thorough rub down. Then he filled the trough with hay from the loft and stepped back outside.

Thaddeus, carrying the torch, had stayed outside, standing still as a statue in the pouring rain.

“Hey, you didn’t have to wait,” Clem said.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” the orc said, smiling. “You’ll want to have a look at the inn?”

“Yes, if that’s possible. Thanks. But is the innkeeper really dead?”

Thaddeus shook his head sadly. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Dirk Bladeleaf is a something of a fool, but he’s not a liar. It’s a terrible business. Poor Domus was a credit to the town. A good man, and a good innkeeper, well-liked by all who met him, and not elderly by any measure. A real shame.”

“What happened to him?” Clem asked as they crossed the yard and opened the back door, stepping into a stone-flagged corridor.

Thaddeus stuck his torch into a sconce by the door, lit a candle that sat in a holder on a side table, and walked on down the corridor.

“We don’t know exactly what happened,” he said. “He was found only an hour ago, on the bridge that crosses the river, just half a mile out of town, to the north. Two dwarves coming into the village found him, and they carried him back to town. They’re regulars through Peaceful Crossing, and they knew Domus well enough to know who he was when they found him. They said he was already dead when they came across him, lying on his back in the middle of the bridge as if he’d been poleaxed.”

Clem and Thaddeus came out of the corridor into the common room, a good-sized, square chamber flagged with the same flat stones as the corridor, with a bar at one end, a huge fireplace at the other, and plenty of tables and benches in between. Clem guessed that there usually would have been quite a crowd here on a night like this, and a fire blazing in the hearth, but the place was eerily empty.

He walked over to the hearth and plopped his wet pack down on the hearthstones, then crouched in front of the embers and set to work getting the fire going again. A wicker basket of kindling material sat near the hearth. Clem stirred up the embers and carefully placed some of the kindling, before blowing steadily on a hot spot. After a moment, there was a crackle of flame and he began feeding slightly larger pieces of wood on. It took a few minutes, but soon Clem was able to place some full-sized logs on the blaze He stood up again, warming his hands at the fire.

Thaddeus had resumed his statue-like stillness, standing a little away from Clem and watching him work with detached interest.

“Was there no wound on the body?” Clam asked. “No sign of a struggle?”

Thaddeus raised his very black eyebrows in surprise. “What are you, some kind of detective?”

Clem chuckled. Old habits, he thought. Aloud, he said, “No… That is, not anymore. But yes, I was a captain in the king’s guard back in Quarry City. A while ago now, but I was tasked with investigating the more unpleasant and difficult of the crimes that happened there. So I suppose I was some kind of detective, though I’m not sure you could call me one now. I’m, uh, retired.”

Thaddeus grunted, a noise halfway between surprise and disappointment. “A shame,” he said. “We could do with a detective for this mystery. The thing is, there was a mark on Domus Yembold’s body, but it’s not one that anyone can understand. It’s not a wound, exactly. Not a wound at all, in fact, but a mark like nothing anyone around here has seen before.”

“What’s this mark look like?” Clem said, his interest piqued by Thaddeus’s words. He felt the old spark kindling inside him again at the scent of a mystery.

You came here to get away from all that, his internal voice scolded him. What are you doing trying to get involved in something here? Remember Dreshorn Gate? There’s a reason you’re out here in the sticks and not back in Quarry City. You’re supposed to be retired.

“I thought you said you were retired?” Thaddeus said with a smile, his words eerily echoing Clem’s thoughts.

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Clem said. “I guess… old habits, you know.”

“Aye, I do know,” Thaddeus said thoughtfully. Then he clapped his big hands together and spoke decisively. “How about this,” he said. “You’re hungry and in need of rest, but I have a feeling about this - I get these feelings sometimes. I know where the kitchens are, and I think in the absence of Domus to grant permission, we should probably help ourselves. There’s no one in charge of the inn tonight. It’s a strange situation, but I knew Domus and I think he’d be horrified if I didn’t see that a traveler like you got a meal at his inn on a night like this. Then, if you feel like it, perhaps you could come out of retirement long enough to have a quick look at this mark on Domus’s shoulder. It would be a great comfort to all in the town.”

Clem drew a breath to reply, but Thaddeus held up a warning hand.

“First things first,” he said. “Let’s see what we can find for you to eat before we discuss anything further.”

They went behind the bar together. Clem felt more than a bit uncomfortable at the thought of putting a meal together for himself in this inn that no one was in charge of, but Thaddeus was clearly a trustworthy fellow and a respected person in the town, so Clem would go with what he recommended for now.

The kitchen had a well-stocked pantry, and they found cheese, bread, cured meats, butter, and ripe apples, as well as half a meat pie. Thaddeus appropriated all of this, placing it on a tray and carrying it out to the bar. Clem sat on a stool, and Thaddeus on a seat at the nearest table. Clem set about the food. He was very hungry, and the food was excellent. If this was the kind of thing that the Peaceful Crossing inn could offer when the owner was dead, it must have been a very good place to visit when he’d been alive.

“He was a good cook, your Domus,” Clem said, but Thaddeus shook his head.

“Domus didn’t run the kitchen,” the orc said. “That was all done by Hemmer Redforge. He’s the culinary genius around here. I think I’ll just have one of those apples…” He crunched fully half of one of the apples down in a single bite, chewed with gusto, then swallowed with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Hemmer Redforge,” Clem said thoughtfully. “That’s a dwarven name, isn’t it?”

“Aye, Hemmer’s a dwarf. I’m always trying to get him to come work in the smithy, but he’s given that up and dedicated himself wholly to cooking now.”

“Wait a minute, you’re the smith?”

“Oh, didn’t I say? Of course I didn’t. Sorry. Yes, I’m the blacksmith in this town. Dirk Bladeleaf is my apprentice. How’s your hunger now? Do you think you might want to have a look at poor Domus?”

“What, now?”

“Why not? He’s just upstairs.”

“Here in the inn?”

“Aye.”

Clem swallowed a last mouthful of food, feeling his throat tightening with the revelation that the corpse of the erstwhile landlord was here, in this very building.

Thaddeus slapped his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Stupid of me. I forgot how sensitive you humans are about death. My orcish nature coming out there, I suppose.”

Clem smiled reassuringly at the big orc. He knew that orcs had a very different view of death from humans, though it was sometimes hard to remember that when you met an orc as closely integrated into human society as Thaddeus seemed to be. “Don’t worry about it,” Clem said. “So you’d like me to have a look at him? Have a look at this mysterious mark?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. The townsfolk are understandably upset by the business. It would be reassuring to them to have a detective take a look.”

“A retired detective,” Clem said with a resigned smile as he got out of his seat and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “But sure, I’ll come upstairs with you and see what I can see. It’s the least I can do.”