The Inquisitor

By H.C. Harrington

A brutal murder, a disgraced inquisitor, and a city of secrets.

From the Amazon best-selling author of Daughter of Havenglade comes, The Inquisitor.
In the port city of Pax Grati, a highborn daughter betrothed to the son of a powerful lord has been brutally murdered.
Nestor Atius, left to rot in the dungeons has one chance to find the killer and bring justice to her family and the realm.
But when an unlikely friend reveals the investigation is more than meets the eye, Nestor must make a choice.
As he uncovers the truth, it becomes more and more clear, he is the killer's next target.

A fantasy mystery from the Havenglade World.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.C. Harrington
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463849286

H.C. Harrington

H.C. Harrington is an American novelist, teacher, and lifetime learner. From Orange County, Ca. he studied Anthropology and History receiving his degree from the University of Nevada. He is the author of the Amazon #1 Best-Selling Daughter of Havenglade Fantasy Series, as well as the Fantasy Murder-Mystery The Inquisitor.After setting aside archaeological digs in the Sierra Nevadas, H.C. moved to Chengdu, China to study Mandarin Chinese. During his writing journey, he has lived and traveled to more than a dozen countries.His hobbies include traveling, playing boardgames, creating constructed languages, backpacking, and reading.

Book preview

Prologue

Nestor Atias ran to the long steel bars, reaching out to touch them before darting back to the other side of his cell in three quick strides. As he reached out for the bars, sweat dripped from his brow onto the grimy stone floor of the dungeon. He kept racing from one side to the other. His breathing picked up, and his sides continued pleading for a reprieve.

Something dark flew past his head, landing against the cracked back wall of his cell. Stopping to see what it was, his nose had the answer before his eyes got a good look.

Shit.

Streaks of brown, courtesy of one of his neighbors in the next cell, were already giving off a vomit-inducing aroma. He grabbed his washrag covering his mouth and nose; it was all he could do to keep from losing his breakfast.

A bellowing laugh filled the dungeon.

Me figured if ya wants ta stink up the place with all that runnin’ round, ya wouldn’t mind a lil gift.

Nestor swallowed hard and pressed his face against the bars, hoping to distance himself from the smell quickly overtaking his cell. He came eye-to-eye with Brandon Malfirth. The one they called the Beard down in the monastery dungeon. He never allowed the guards to cut his long, ugly mess, and he refused to clean it, leading to small bits of each meal hardened to the long, coarse hairs.

It’s a shame they put these bars between us, Beard, Nestor said with a wink. The man was big but mostly round. He’d dealt with this type of filth on the docks of the port harbor all his life. And in this case, he was the one who put Brandon Malfirth in the dungeons, from monastic inquisitor to forgotten prisoner. The absurdity still made him laugh now and then.

What’s so funny? the Beard growled back.

If someone had told me as a little boy I’d grow up to be a monk, I’d have laughed at them. If someone had told me I’d end up in the dungeons of the Order of the Scroll, I’d have asked if they were a wizard.

Forget it, Nestor said. He waved a hand dismissively at his rude neighbor, turned away, and begrudgingly prepared to scrub the wall as best he could with the damp wash rag.

Ouch!

What now?

The Beard’s cellmate, Luca, was cowering in the corner of their cell with his hands held over his balding head. The Beard stooped over him. His right hand balled into a fist.

I didn’t touch it. I was on me sleepin’ mat the whole time, Luca whimpered in defense of Maker only knew what. Those two were always fighting, but with the Beard almost twice his size, Luca ended up on the knuckle end of things more often than not.

Nestor walked back over to the bars between the two cells.

Why don’t you leave him alone? He’s all skin and bones. Worst of all, he’s got no fight in him.

The Beard ignored him.

"What’s wrong, Luca?" Nestor asked. Deciding he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the Beard.

Luca crawled on all fours until he was up against the cold black bars. Nestor smelled his stale breath as the poor man exhaled excitedly. A dungeon guard had once told Nestor he’d get used to the stink of the dungeon, but that had been a cruel lie.

The Beard say I ate it. And I haven’t touched it. No, I didn’t. The poor man’s knees shook so fiercely that Nestor worried the floor might not soon gain a yellow pool.

"If ya didn’t eat it, who bloody did?" The Beard was stomping his feet, and Nestor watched as the veins in his neck bulged like a wild bull, ready to gore anything that crossed his path.

Eat it? I didn’t even see ya damn bread. If Luca was lying, he was fooling Nestor, too, which was very hard to do. An inquisitor chomps at the bit to catch a man in his lie, but there are none of the usual signs. His words rolled off his tongue quickly and didn’t hint anything hidden. Nestor had been given half a loaf of black bread and a tiny bowl of cabbage and carrot soup. The other two had been left with a loaf to split between the two of them.

A few good strikes to the belly should give me all the truth I need. Let’s bring that bread back up, eh Luca? The Beard rushed Luca, and the answer came to Nestor.

Wait! Wait! Nestor pleaded with his hands extended through the bars.

The Beard stopped with his fist held high above his head. He looked like a smith ready to bring down a mighty hammer on his forge. But this forge would crumble if Nestor didn’t act quickly.

Luca didn’t eat all the bread, Nestor said with a conviction in his voice that said, ease up. I’ve got the answer you’re looking for.

The Beard dropped his arm and extended his fingers, cracking each knuckle one by one. He looked back at Nestor. This was as much attention as he could expect from the ruffian.

First, Luca, I know the Beard didn’t eat the whole loaf. He has too sensitive a stomach to eat that much bread at once. I’ve seen him save food for later; he always would wait a couple of hours before finishing his food. He thought he was being careful to hide his eating habits, but a man like me has little to do in this tiny cell besides look for something out of the ordinary.

Luca looked back at the Beard with wide eyes as if he’d remembered the same peculiar eating habits but never put the two together.

Inquisitor, if I may still call you as such, the Beard started with a gaze that told Nestor he’d hit the mark.

You may not, but here we are, Nestor said as he raised his hands and turned around in a complete circle.

You still haven’t given me any reason to believe that little thief didn’t gobble down all my bread.

Nestor pointed to Luca. If you have eyes to see, then you have your answer. Does this look like a man who would risk your fury when trapped in a cell with nowhere to run? Nestor asked, hoping the Beard would let reason sink in.

Then what happened to the bread? Did you pray to the Maker with one of those chants you monks always used to drone day and night upstairs in the monastery? Or did you use a potion to grow your arm and snatch the bread for yourself?

The Beard was talking calmer now. The red in his cheeks faded to the pale white Nestor had grown used to seeing. It was true, though. It was on Nestor to come up with an explanation more likely than one of the two eating the whole loaf. No matter how out of character the act would seem to Nestor. So he searched the cell, wondering what could have happened. He was about to shrug his shoulders and let the Beard believe whatever he wanted to believe when he caught a bit of movement.

Look over there! Nestor exclaimed as he pointed toward their water trough on the ground between the two dirty sleeping mats.

The Beard slowly moved to the trough and lifted it gently. Sure enough, a tiny gray mouse stood on his hind legs, nibbling the crust of the last hunk of bread. Nestor could see the little black crumbs from his cell.

Now, if you boys will excuse me, I have some shit to scrub.

Chapter 1

She was to marry Arthur Karsax, but now…now her heart beats no more…my soul aches with thoughts of vengeance.

In the quiet of the morning, Lord Tibius Kopp’s words met solemn faces around the long table in the Great Hall of Kopp Manor.

The Magistrate raised a hand to the distraught father as if to pass some unseen support from across the table. Anything to keep the man calm. He’d barely stopped screaming, and though a father must be given his time and space to grieve, Magistrate Oxbluf knew they’d need to press on.

My Lord, Oxbluf said as he slowly rose from his chair. The killer still runs free. I urge you to consider my proposal. He sat down as slowly as he’d risen, careful not to look too anxious to conclude the meeting.

Tibius Kopp stroked at his thick golden beard as he paced from a large stone sculpture of a scantly clothed woman to the mantle of his grand fireplace, where grey coals gave off a slight amber glow still not burnt out from the previous night.

Around the table, waiting for the destitute father, sat Eziel, a loyal servant to the Kopp family for many years, and four Havenglade soldiers brought by the Magistrate. Their pewter helms gleamed off the shine of the table, the likeness of Havenglade’s sacred bird, the Avix, prominently carved into their breastplates. They sat with eyes focused on the highborn lord, Tibius Kopp.

Tibius returned to the table, tightening the dark blue flowing mantle around his waist as if suddenly conscious of his exposed belly before taking a seat. The man you suggest has dishonored himself. Maker take him, too, Tibius growled back at the Magistrate before rolling his eyes. But let his gaze return, staring back at the magistrate with wide eyes; all energy sapped from his body with slumped shoulders and purple bags under his eyes.

The Magistrate had seen this before. Pax Grati was the wealthiest city in Havenglade’s kingdom and the most dangerous. People had a way of turning up dead, and it wasn’t hard to imagine how a parent would take it when their loving daughter met the cruel end. He had only to ask himself, with two young children at home. He’d curse land and sea if anything were to happen to them, but this was different.

My Lord, there are many questions that need to be answered, and I dare guess you’d like to keep a tight lid on this for the sake of your family’s peace and out of respect for Lord Karsax, the Magistrate continued. Jillis Kopp had been betrothed to the son of Lord Karsax, King Duenoro’s Lord of Coin and a not-so-distant relative. It was in everyone’s best interest to avoid potential embarrassment and proceed cautiously.

Tibius rubbed his bloodshot eyes with a hand and let out a deflated sigh. There must be justice. Arrange for this man to come at once.

The Magistrate nodded his head. I’ve already written the orders, my Lord. The Magistrate handed Tibius a fresh sheet of paper signed and sealed by Lord Karsax.

Tibius read it over and slid it back to him.

The Magistrate stood, pushing in his chair as he rose. He motioned for his attending soldiers to do likewise.

Lord Karsax leaves for Gradur Castle on orders from King Duenoro this afternoon. He wants this investigation concluded before he returns, and so do I, Tibius said. He clenched his large, chunky hands into fists but had no one to take out his agony on.

Poor soul.

Magistrate Oxbluf pitied whoever had committed the gruesome murder.

The servant Eziel reached the door first, opening it for the Magistrate and his attendant soldiers with a bowed head and a curious glance that didn’t go unnoticed by the Magistrate.

As they walked the narrow walkway linking the Great Hall to the Front Courtyard, the grief of Tibius Kopp rang out. Find the twisted soul who took my child. His trembling voice echoed down the corridor and stayed with Magistrate Oxbluf long after he’d departed from Kopp Manor.

Chapter 2

Nestor tried to concentrate on the story as he shivered in his damp, musty cell. At least they let me read, he thought as he pulled his thin, soiled bed sheet up around his shoulders, noticing he could see his breath as he exhaled. The monastery dungeon’s furnace only fired after sundown. And when the coals went cold, the dark stone floor of his small cell became as chill as winter frost.

He’d request another book by the end of the day. Books were now the only thing that kept his mind off of her. And of his crimes. He was currently passing the time reading Duenoro Military Victories and the Brave Men Who Fought Them. Some of the histories seemed wildly exaggerated.

Maker take the Duenoros.

The last chapter described in detail the victory at the Battle of Torba. Where some wizard supposedly scared off a dragon to great acclaim. It all sounded woefully sensationalized, but it was better than staring at the mildew-covered grey walls surrounding him.

He wiggled his toes in his straw sandals, hoping to warm them up, to no avail. He’d never gotten used to the cold. He came to Pax Grati from the independent Spice Isles as a young lad but could still remember the first time he truly felt the cold of Havenglade. Truth be told, the coastal territory around the harbor wasn’t nearly as frigid as the high mountain valleys farther inland, but he still shivered when winter brought her icy touch.

The weather of the Spice Isles ranged from warm to scorching hot. His father told him their dark skin was better suited for the sun of their homeland and not for the more seasonal and often cold conditions in Havenglade.

His mind eventually wandered from his readings. He mused over the events that led to his imprisonment. Was I more a fool for taking the cloth of the Order of the Scroll or for thinking I could keep my love for a woman a secret from the brothers?

As the door opened, a clanking sound echoed from the top of the staircase. The heavy metal groaned as usual as it swung open.

Nestor set down his book and watched as the boots of several visitors came into view as they came down the stairs. There were quite a few of them. Some wore metal greaves and Havenglade armor.

Nestor could feel his heart speed up as he saw the scabbards attached to thick leather belts.

Had something changed? He was only to remain imprisoned for another six summers. Had the Order of the Scroll decided he was to be taken to the dungeons of Gradur Castle? Perhaps they would behead him, and he’d be done with it all: no more guilt or regret.

He rubbed his fingers together and waited to find out.

A familiar face made his way to the front of the group. He wore a black long-sleeved doublet with diagonal gold stripes that met at the shiny golden buttons down the center. He wore a dark wool hat and black stockings. His face was just as it had been two summers before when he’d approved the Order’s sentence and spoken of how sad he was to see such a promising and intelligent man toss his youth away over a woman.

A hooded monk unlocked the cell door and held it open as the man entered through the rusted frame. The soldiers hung back with another monk near the bottom of the staircase.

Nestor got up from his bed mat, his eyes studying the man carefully.

Magistrate Oxbluf, you’ve not aged a day. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have…well, I guess I wouldn’t have done anything differently. A smirk formed across his face as he held the Magistrate’s gaze.

The Magistrate gave what seemed a forced smile to Nestor. The older man’s brown eyes stared past him, preoccupied with something else.

What burden taxes his mind?

The Magistrate finally focused in on Nestor. Brother Atias—

"He’s no longer a brother, as you well know," another voice snapped. The figure came forward in the light brown robes of the Order of the Scroll. The figure pulled back the hood, revealing a face covered with deep wrinkles and a long, crooked nose. Bearing a mouth full of rotten teeth and blinding eyes that hid behind thick spectacles, Bishop Bael.

Nestor made sure to flash as grand a false smile as possible for the Bishop.

To what do I owe the honor of our fortuitous reunion? Nestor asked the two men