Griffin's Walk: Inconvenience

The Pilgrim's Cask, near West Hill

Warden Commander Attryne Cousland -

Mouser hung his head and I comforted him with some head-scratches. Anyone he'd met before that was suicidal, tried to die in bloody battle. “It's not your fault, boy. You couldn't stop him.”

Alistair found something on the table. “Barr left an apology.”

“Did he say why?”

“Something about abuse and deserving to die.” Alistair sounded angrier.

“Nothing else?” That was a paltry excuse of an explanation. I was convinced that was deliberate.

He scanned the paper again. “Nothing. It's only a dozen words and the apology. Here.”

My pity for Barr increased. The strained writing was nearly illegible. “She deserved to die. She made others her playthings. No way out. I'm sorry.”

Alistair's voice was grim. “He knew something, but he didn't know the body was here.”

“He was protecting someone else.”

No one bothered us yet, a testament to the Grey Warden reputation, or the lateness of the hour. I took another look at the dried out corpse. I knew charnel stench from battle and darkspawn, but this seemed unnaturally mild now.

Both bodies should be given to Andraste's flames. The Maker already judged them, but anyone who cared for them deserved that mercy. The murderer, though, might be another story.

Locking the door seemed enough to prevent interference, so I brought Mouser with us. A massive mabari with full collar and kaddis could make any brash over-confidence plummet into silence.

Most of the guests slept through events so far, or they were hiding in warm beds like I wished we were. I'd sent Alistair to keep watch in the common room.

The Vigil taught me all about logistics so I went to Barr's work area in the cellar between the casks of ale and stacked apples. I went through the locked desk and quickly stripped it of ledgers, inventories, and a few letters. After squinting for too long, I gathered the stack of material and climbed the stairs.

The storm was still blowing, and it looked like few decided to leave the warmth of their beds. I found Alistair examining the guest book while the common guests broke their fast.

Alistair made room at the corner table for me. He'd ordered no food; our Warden appetites might be a problem soon. “There are eleven rooms with guests, aside from ours, which doesn't get guests very often. Actually, the first time it did, was a year or so after the Blight. Rarely are more than six of the rooms in use. Most of the names in tonight's list haven't repeated in the last nine months or so that I've studied.” He paused. “How far back should I go?”

I leaned closer to kiss his brow. “That should be enough, my fine turtle. Who repeated?”

“Room four. Hamund Nelly passes through every week or two on unspecified business. Others do too, but they aren't here. No other customers have been here before, like us.”

That name rang a bell from some old lesson, but the other twenty or thirty guests couldn't have killed the woman. “That narrows it to Nelly and the staff.”

Alistair's stomach rumbled and he made a face as he snapped the book shut. “Twenty-nine cleared and five to go, but not the cook.”

I touched his arm. I was hungry too. “If you think this is too paranoid...”

“No, pet. Zevran's advice about poison is much easier to follow when he's not present and flirting.”

“Barr and his wife purchased this fine establishment almost ten years before the Blight. Their daughter was heir, until her name just disappeared around Ostagar, and the ledger changed hands for a while. Her well worn letter doesn't say much, other than another's addition that she died.”

“Who inherits?” Alistair's ambivalence was clear.

“There is a younger son and a niece or cousin, both work here. Barr was hoping they might make a match of it and keep the inn going, but the boy's interested in the other maid. The cook was hired this summer before Barr's wife died.” Then my stomach growled.

We visited the kitchen, and Pyley was the oldest of the staff, maybe twenty-five. I didn't want to think about how greasy he was. We took him to a storage room, leaving the red-head in charge of the kitchen.

Even with two Wardens standing over him, he lounged on the bench spread out on display, the cocky little bastard. He must not have been old enough or close enough to the Blight to be afraid. Some ale-head 'general' taught him well... or ill.

I needed his attention and respect. “We're investigating two deaths, show some respect! I don't give a shit about how your Teyrn thinks about how I do it.”

He swallowed that exaggeration without a whimper. The staff didn't know which Warden I was.

Time to scare the little prick. I reached down and lifted him up by the neck, his feet dangling and arms flailing without any force. “I kill demons and darkspawn. I'm hunting a murderer. Do not stand in my way.”

He hiccuped and looked at Alistair as if for help. Alistair just stood there with the slightest of smiles.

I held him up, much easier with the best runes.

He tried to sound tough. “I didn't do it. You want Marget, she practically runs the inn. Heard Barr's wife was cook, but she was sick when I was hired.”

Pyley said more, but not much useful. He didn't think much of the other maid or the stableboy, other than a touch of jealousy. He wasn't close to Barr and thought he was the victim. Pyley didn't think beyond food and his crotch, and he tried to shield himself when I set him down.

I heard a choking sound of a smothered laugh from Alistair before he left. When he came back with a stewpot, Pyley'd told me all I thought I'd get, for now.

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A/N: Challenge words are paltry, paranoid, and plummet. Thanks to my beta reader who has been kind enough to read this and point out stupid flubs. Any typos that remain are not intentional... Reviews or a PM to let me know what you think would be very appreciated.