A week and a half in Mastifon was a week longer than Strella had expected to spend.
After she had questioned over three dozen rioters she had thought that it would be a simple matter of walking through the town and reading everyone she saw to track down the source of those inciting leaflets that everyone had received.
Speaking to the employees of the councilman’s brewery had proved similarly fruitless. No one had honestly any idea how their barrels of ale and cider had been fouled.
The so-called Narchist, whether an individual or more likely a group, would’ve been revealed with even the slightest errant thought.
Thus, it was troubling that she hadn’t picked up the slightest crumb beyond what had been in the rioters’ memories.
The mood among the citizenry had deteriorated further.
The lord and the council had done themselves no favors in the aftermath of putting down the mob. They had stationed guards around the street that held their homes and offices, while withdrawing their presence from the rest of the town.
It hadn’t escaped Strella’s notice in the course of her investigation that the only establishments damaged by the mob had been those owned by the wealthiest. It was to be expected that these people also lived in the same area as the leadership.
She supposed that it was understandable that they’d want to protect themselves from suffering the same fate as their badly injured lord.
“So, if I may? Later tonight, perhaps during dinner you can recount what has transpired since we parted?” Ariaska said.
One of the reasons that Strella hadn’t planned to spend more than a few days in Mastifon hurried to keep up with her longer strides.
The Chronicler had shown up the other day much worse for wear. Partially-healed cuts were on her face. Dried blood stains on her sleeves were visible.
“Are you certain you don’t need more time to record what transpired on your journey?”
“Ah, I’ve done that already. The bandit attack occurred about three days out from the city, which left me plenty of time to write before I arrived.”
Ariaska had found passage with a trade caravan. They had been exceedingly fortunate that several teams of bronze-ranked adventurers had also made the same journey. Combined with the caravan guards, they had been enough to handle desperate, half-starved bandits.
Another failing that could be laid at the feet of the late Lady Semutir. No competent leader would ever allow bandits to be so close to the city, whether by clearing them out or ensuring that a situation that they’d form from would never occur.
“In any case I’d like to hear from you about what’s been happening in Mastifon. The locals haven’t been exactly loquacious. Have a lot of people died? You mentioned a brewing rebellion? I didn’t see the telltale plumes of a mass burning from the road.”
“A protest on excessive taxation led to a rioting mob. Injuries, but no deaths. Including the town lord.”
Ariaska nearly stumbled. “Was… was that you?”
“No.”
“Miraculous… I mean that there were no deaths. You typically always get a few of those when the people riot.”
“And you’ve been a part of many of those?”
“I’ve read through accounts.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way to Strella’s next target.
An inn. The last of the town’s four that she had yet to visit.
“For your own safety, I suggest you wait elsewhere,” Strella said as the inn came into view.
Hearth and Home. The faded sign hung on the side of the wooden building. Three floors and a small stable attached to the rear.
“I can keep out of your way well-enough. Besides, it’d be valuable for me to have a first-hand view of your investigation into the unrest. Your daring and dangerous capture of the perpetrators isn’t something I’d like to leave to a retelling from an other's eyes,” Ariaska replied.
“Perceptive of you.”
“Study, experience and Skills have given me an eye for potential stories.”
Strella suddenly stopped in the middle of the muddy street. “Interesting. Which of the three is telling you that there’s a story waiting for us in that inn?”
“The former. You haven’t said much, but it’s clear you’re on the trail. Do you expect to find your suspects in there?”
“Uncertain.”
“Are you running out of leads? You cut right through Lady Semutir’s misdeeds barely a day after you had arrived. Yet, you’ve been in this town for over a week. Your thoughts?”
“Uncertain.”
“I see that I will need to take literary license with your chronicle.”
“So long as there are no fabrications that is within your right according to the laws,” Strella nodded.
The inn’s main room was comforting. The hearth of its namesake was burning with a low fire. Just the right amount of warmth to take the chill out of the morning air.
The innkeeper was a fat man, who greeted them with a warm smile.
Genuine.
“I’m Justiciar Strella,” she began as the man’s smile wavered, but only a fraction.
“What can I do for you? Are you here for a room? Unfortunately, we’re all booked until the end of the week.”
“Are you normally this busy?” Ariaska said.
“A warning, Chronicler, you’re not sanctioned to be a part of this investigation. You may only observe,” Strella warned.
“Right, sorry,” Ariaska grinned sheepishly and mimed sewing her lips together.
The innkeeper chuckled.
“I need to look at your guest logbook.”
“Um—”
The protest died on the innkeeper’s tongue when he saw the Imperial Badge Strella held up.
“Right away, justiciar,” the innkeeper said as he hurried to the back of his bar.
“I’ll wait at a table,” Strella scanned the common room and found an isolated table far enough away from the hearth.
Ariaska followed her and sat down, taking out a small journal, a quill and ink pot from her small bag.
The innkeeper came over shortly with a thick logbook. “Can I interest you with breakfast!” he smiled.
“That won’t be necessary,” Strella said.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“On the house…” the innkeeper tried.
“That won’t be nec—”
“Yes!” Ariaska piped up. “I’d like a menu, please.”
“No menu for breakfast. Just whatever we happen to have. I do promise a warm, filling meal that’ll give you the strength to face the day!”
“That sounds wonderful,” Ariaska said.
“How much?” Strella said flatly.
“Don’t worry yourself, justiciar. The Hearth and Home is ever happy to repay the work you and yours do for the nation.”
The innkeeper waddled away with a smile.
“Such a nice and friendly man. I’ve been in plenty of inns and you’d think more of them would be like that. Instead of always having their palm out for coin.”
“They work for coin. That is their purpose.”
“They might do it for the love of hospitality,” Ariaska shrugged.
“Yes, but without coin they wouldn’t be able to do that.”
“True… it’s much the same for myself.”
Strella cracked the logbook open and began searching.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Names of those that arrived at around the time the unrest began and stayed up until or just after the riot.”
A serving boy appeared with a two plates, piled with fried potatoes and vegetables, several links of sausage and a generous portion of scrambled eggs. He unceremoniously placed the plates on the table and returned with a basket of freshly baked bread along with a teapot and cups.
The boy mumbled something that sounded like “please enjoy.”
Strella stopped him from leaving with a gesture. She took a handful of coins from her purse and placed them in his hand.
“But… grandpa said it was on the house?” the boy said.
“Then tell him that isn’t pay for the food, but for the service. Tell him that I may be displeased if his grandson’s work isn’t compensated,” Strella said.
The boy blinked and nodded thanks. Turned around, stopped and turned back to bow toward Strella.
Her face was a stone mask.
“You get that a lot, huh?” Ariaska said. “The bowing,” she said at the questioning look on Strella’s face.
“Too much,” Strella conceded.
“How’d you know how much the meal cost— thank you by the way, seeing as how I can’t currently repay you…”
“It’s on the menu,” Strella pointed at the sign on the wall behind the bar.
Ariaska squinted at the illegible scrawl in the distance. “Huh? You have good eyes.” She scribbled something in her journal.
“You’re welcome. I don’t expect repayment… this time,” Strella said. With that she turned her attention back to the logbook, absentmindedly shoving food and drink into her mouth at regular intervals.
Ariaska, for her part, ate like a starving dog.
When she finished her own plate, she had eyed Strella’s half-finished one for what must’ve been a half hour before the justiciar slid it over.
“Thanks…” Ariaska mumbled around a mouthful of eggs and hash.
Pouring over the logbook was just one part of Strella’s investigation.
“I’m curious about one thing,” Ariaska began.
Strella gave no indication that she had heard the Chronicler. She merely continued to thumb through the pages.
“Names and dates are useless without context are they not?”
True.
Which was why Strella wasn’t only reading the neatly-written words in their orderly columns. She was also reading the innkeeper and the handful of employees that moved in and out of the moderately-filled common room.
She pored through their memories to match names and dates to faces. Searching for any hints. Furtive demeanor from the guests? Secrets concealed? So on and so forth.
Most had been guileless merchants and caravan guards, a few had been silver-ranked adventurers. Bronze and lower didn’t have the coin to afford this particular inn. She viewed dozens of interactions between these guests and the inn’s workers.
One face stood out among the tanned and weathered bunch that came with spending most of their time in the outdoors.
A young woman. Plain-looking, but wearing clean clothes, aside from mud-stained boots. Muted yellow hair in an easily manageable short style.
Strella suspected that her sun-touched skin would’ve been rather fair otherwise.
Nothing about the young woman’s appearance or demeanor stood out.
She had paid the inn’s fees. Ate in the morning before leaving and returning for dinner to immediately retire to her room.
Strella searched the logbook until she found the name attached to the face.
Jocuvel.
“Interesting. Roughly, twenty years ago Unity saw a momentous increase in baby girls being named after the Adventurer Princess. Not only did she discover the Lost City of Scorn, but she also led the fight to slay the Lady of Red and Ruin,” Ariaska shuddered.
Strella was reluctantly impressed by Ariaska’s perceptiveness. It appeared that the Chronicler had managed to follow her sight lines.
“The greatest cautionary tale in modern history about the dangers of deviance in one’s Class,” Strella said.
“Absolutely, however one would have to acknowledge that such levels are outliers. Otherwise, we’d have had more threats, like said Lady, appearing more often instead of once every few generations,” Ariaska said.
“That they appear at all—” Strella stopped. She had been drawn into idle conversation.
Ariaska stared at her expectantly for a long, silent moment. “Um… so, is this young woman a suspect? It’s a young woman, correct?” she arched a brow.
Strella gave her a curt nod.
Ariaska eyed the log book. “She left this inn almost two weeks ago. The gatehouse wouldn’t have logged her leaving the town if my entrance was an indication of how they do this here.”
“Adherence to proper procedures was lacking upon my arrival,” Strella agreed.
“If someone is causing trouble, they wouldn’t stay in one location for long.”
“There are four inns in town and I haven’t seen her name in any of the others.”
“She could be hiding out somewhere else. Probably in town. It’s too dangerous to set up camp outside the walls.”
The memory of the bandit attacked flashed through Ariaska’s mind.
Strella felt a pang of sympathy. That hadn’t been a pleasant experience for the Chronicler.
“I notice that you’re making suggestions toward pushing this investigation along. Isn’t that going against your role?” Strella said.
“Maybe… some Chroniclers would agree that we’re only supposed to record events. I’m not one of them. I’d like to help you in your story. Not to mention that this unrest will lead to bad things for people the longer it continues. Town guards put down small riots. The 7th Army will quell a large scale uprising and I’ve read enough history to know that will lead to many deaths and suffering. So, I’ll offer my insight, meager as it may be,” Ariaska shrugged.
“Very well. You’re correct on that account. The task takes precedence.”
“Leaving aside the real reasons you’ve settled on this Jocuvel as a potential suspect… what now?” Ariaska said.
A multitude of suspicions danced through the Chronicler’s thoughts. None of them were particularly close to the truth.
“The young woman’s room is currently occupied by another. I’ll wait for the man to depart then search it.”
“Just like that, huh?” Ariaska popped the last bit of sausage into her mouth, chewing as she continued to speak. “Suppose the innkeeper won’t put up too much of an argument. Wide open doors if you’ve got the right… items.”
“My role and the Imperial Badge overrides most rules and laws, be they explicit or implicit.”
“Say, how’d you know this Jocuvel is a woman. A young one, specifically?” Ariaska eyed Strella.
She read the cast of the Chronicler’s thoughts again. Saw what she was trying to do. An investigation of her own to further the eventual chronicle that she hoped would be her key to ascending in levels, fame and wealth.
She didn’t begrudge Ariaska that. All citizens should be afforded the opportunity to rise to their potential, so long as they didn’t violate the greater laws of their humanity and the lesser laws of Unity.
“I’m not certain,” Strella lied.
Ariaska’s face betrayed nothing beyond casual interest. Her thoughts were different.
“It’s an assumption based on a similar sentiment to what you had stated. Jocuvel is a fairly common name among young women.”
“Top ten, I believe,” Ariaska nodded. “I suppose I’ll start working on a draft of your chronicle.”
Strella began reading through more memories as Ariaska rummaged through her bag.
The Chronicler scribbled away while the justiciar appeared to sit in contemplative silence, staring at nothing in particular.
It was a strange sight to the innkeeper and something pricked at the back of his mind.
There was an idea, a feeling that something momentous was taking place in his inn.
How little he knew and suspected at the time.
He would learn in time how close he had been to calamitous events.
He beckoned one of the servers over with a gesture. “If that justiciar wants anything, give it to her, complements of the house,” he discreetly pointed Strella out to the young woman. “Keep your distance otherwise and try to leave the tables around them empty.”