The Lord of Misrule

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Fallaces sunt rerum species" - The appearances of things are deceptive

Mikael had always hated his boots.

They were torn, scuffed, unbelievably uncomfortable, and there was this slight indentation in the sole that irritated his heel to no end. Again he stopped on the dirt path and tried to readjust how his foot sat within this travesty of leather. He had been walking for an eternity, and his sore feet gave off a persistent wail of protest with every step.

Irritated, and forced to limp awkwardly, Mikael continued his steady plod towards the coast. The morning sun scorched his tanned skin and the sword he had earned from his first real job -- complete with a garish and roughed up looking scabbard -- felt heavier than it should.

He had earned the sword as a reward for helping solve the mysterious disappearance of a Baron's heir. It was his first real investigation. Unfortunately for Mikael, it turned out that the noble runt had fallen in love with his knightly bodyguard and had made a break for freedom to the neighboring Roman Empire. Instead of receiving a proper reward, he had the dreadful luck of finding a Baron with an empty coinpurse.

Begrudgingly, Mikael continued his trek, praying that his destination, a seaport called Totnes, was closer than his map was telling him. The wily, rat-like face of the innkeeper that sold him the map flashed before his eyes. Mikael sighed. There was a good chance that his map was actually some random child's doodle and Totnes was actually on the other side of the coast....

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After half a day's walk, Mikael heard the bells, plangent and sonorous, their deep cry slipping across the forest. It signaled that there was a settlement up ahead. Mikael's dour mood lightened and his slow trudge picked up to a purposed walk.

A smirk of anticipation crept onto his face, soon accompanied by a manic twitch, his excitement at escaping the drudgery of his journey. He knew that he was a two-bit detective, plugging away at a menial occupation for miserable wages and the public's contempt. It's times like these that had him thinking about switching to a more reputable profession -- like being a seedy lamp oil salesman.

He wanted to take a respite from the endless boredom of this goddamned countryside, with nobody to keep him company but the occasional stray dog. Even the dogs tried to gnaw at his legs before coming to the disappointing realization that he was not ashamed to run up trees and cower there all night.

But most of all, he wanted to fulfill his destiny by becoming the world's foremost investigative mind, solving cases that would baffle the most astute of lawmen. He would be the greatest detective the world has ever seen. But before he climbed upon his mantle, he needed to get to the town gates before nightfall or risk getting his breeches robbed.

A quick glance at the scrawl that claimed to be a map confirmed that the town was most probably Totnes. As was typical in the Northern Isles, the city was barricaded by a solid stone wall that towered 15 feet above the ground and looked like it had withstood a couple of sieges in its lifetime. A well-trodden path led up to an arching gateway, flanked on both sides with shoddy, neglected looking parapets. A crumbling top of stone cast a shadow across the entrance where two bored-looking, poorly-equipped guards quipped insults at each other.

Inside the arched gateway, a crowd bustled fitfully, almost chaotically, within a square court that served as the marketplace. The crowd was dense, the early afternoon inspiring a spurt in commerce. Merchants and shopkeepers yelled their pitches, and chapmen and hawkers tried to coerce sales of pies, spices and useless trinkets.