Murder on the Baker farm.

[channe]

There is only so much you can take, before whatever heart is left in you bursts, having taken too much, having cared too much, having seen too much --

"Learning! Freedom! Look into the eyes of Zayken Perfect, stranger, and show him a *book!* What happened? Myrken happened. If you can't handle it, Ariane is wasting her time on you!"

... when you hear the news tomorrow, Ignas Demonsbane, what will you think of first? A girl's tears? A sister's heart, a brother's desire to help? Noble sacrifice? Brutal murder? Too much, just too much, after years and years? Your own involvement in this horrific loss of life? Or will you not make the connection at all, knowing nothing, as it will, about Jan Baker or even where Agnieszka Kaczmarek lived?

"You all are just so angry, you listen to nothing!"

"Peasants."

"You are Myrken? Myrken! MYRKEN! You are none of those!"

"I was born here. I have starved here. And when you learn respect for th' pain we've gone through, I'll talk to you again. You - *you* are just like the rest of them, just like -- all of them, who treat us like dirt, who grind us into *dust*, you refuse to see us as *human beings* --"

Jan Baker didn't have a chance. He was taken from behind, stabbed with a knife next to his spine; spun around, then, and slashed across the throat. Any good Constable could figure it out; this was the work of someone who knew human movement and knew the power of a blade. That's really the only evidence, here, a kitchen knife used and discarded to the side. He stumbled back, then, probably saw the face of his attacker; because, then, there'd be a nasty gut-wound, where the knife hit and twisted, and that, you see, was the end of farmer Baker, owner of thirty-eight indentured foreigners, minor lord, food-hoarder, despot --

"So we're supposed to slaver for charity! --"

They'll find him in the kitchen next morning. Blood everywhere. A man without an enemy, they'd say, as the Constables take him out. A good man, a good farmer.

A good man.

A good man?

"You could kill the farmer that owns your family. You have the skill. You do not. In fact, you once took offense when I said you'd make a good criminal. Therefore, you must value yourself...or God, or your honor above your family's freedom. That is your decision. Live with it. Now leave. This argument sets a bad example for the children."

"There is nothing above my family's freedom --"

A dead man.

"Take care of your own brats..."

[Glenn]

"Hey. Hey! Hoi! Calm down, you mutt. We know it's a blasted murder scene. You don't need to lose your head OR your stomach before we get in. That's for Junior, here." Detective Constable Lentham, a man well into his thirties with premature grey hair and a slightly sour look upon his face, pulled back on the leash of Mortimer, the black-furred and poorly named tracker dog.

'Junior,' in this case, was Constable McCoy, a much younger man with pale blond hair, and pale everything else. He looked at his superior with his usual, uncertain frown. "Kurt, I understand that we've been assigned to this case, that we're here to figure out what happeed, and that the dogs are going to help us, but what I CAN'T figure out is... you know."

"Aha." Lentham had finally gotten poor Morty under control. Despite having a very calm and controlled personality most of the time (ever since Haberdasher's Row, mind you), he seemed to have no control over the beasts. Horses didn't like him much either. It was debatable whether people did. "I do think that our sharp, young officer of the law is about to stumble upon his second interesting question in as many days. Of course, I'm likely wrong about this, so let me finish for you, right. You're wondering why you and I, quite possibly the least finest of Myrken's finest (though I would argue that, no doubt) are dealing with a verifiable (for that's what we're here to do, mind) murder case. It's a good question. Here's the answer. The orphanage was destroyed in the process of being built. The High Constable, hold, duty and respect." The somewhat grizzled man took out a flask and toasted Calomel, taking a healthy drink of well, something. "As I said, the High Constable," here, another sip, "accosted by monsters. Well, I AM a Detective and you are promising, in a completely uninteresting sort of way, so we, and intrepid Mortimer, are here now, assigned to get to the bottom of all of this. Any more questions, or can we head on to yonder house and do our job?"

McCoy had no questions, just a sigh and a nod as he started walking towards the door, Lentham (and Mortimer) training a step behind.

[Lent]

"Hey. Hey! Hoi! Calm down, you mutt. We know it's a blasted murder scene. You don't need to lose your head OR your stomach before we get in. That's for Junior, here." Detective Constable Lentham, a man well into his thirties with premature grey hair and a slightly sour look upon his face, pulled back on the leash of Mortimer, the black-furred and poorly named tracker dog.

'Junior,' in this case, was Constable McCoy, a much younger man with pale blond hair, and pale everything else. He looked at his superior with his usual, uncertain frown. "Kurt, I understand that we've been assigned to this case, that we're here to figure out what happeed, and that the dogs are going to help us, but what I CAN'T figure out is... you know."

"Aha." Lentham had finally gotten poor Morty under control. Despite having a very calm and controlled personality most of the time (ever since Haberdasher's Row, mind you), he seemed to have no control over the beasts. Horses didn't like him much either. It was debatable whether people did. "I do think that our sharp, young officer of the law is about to stumble upon his second interesting question in as many days. Of course, I'm likely wrong about this, so let me finish for you, right. You're wondering why you and I, quite possibly the least finest of Myrken's finest (though I would argue that, no doubt) are dealing with a verifiable (for that's what we're here to do, mind) murder case. It's a good question. Here's the answer. The orphanage was destroyed in the process of being built. The High Constable, hold: duty and respect." The somewhat grizzled man took out a flask and toasted Calomel, taking a healthy drink of well, something. "As I said, the High Constable," here, another sip, "accosted by monsters. Well, I AM a Detective and you are promising, in a completely uninteresting sort of way, so we, and intrepid Mortimer, are here now, assigned to get to the bottom of all of this. Any more questions, or can we head on to yonder house and do our job?"

McCoy had no questions, just a sigh and a nod as he started walking towards the door, Lentham (and Mortimer) trailing a step behind.

[Lent]

"Well, what did you see here, McCoy?" Lentham was standing there, arms crossed as he watched the younger man try to keep his last meal down. Mortimer, the tracker dog, was resting down on the ground beside him, occasionally giving himself a scratch. It was rather... well absurd. Kurt Lentham was hardly experienced at detective work. He had a sharp mind, life experience he could barely remember, and an attitude that would prevent people from questioning him, but he was almost as much of a rookie as McCoy. The man just happened to be one with the strangest sort of luck. It was, despite appearances, a case of the blind leading the blind.

"I saw that I really don't like murder scenes, Lent!" Too familiar by far, young Archer McCoy. Only a precious few to call Kurt by that name. It was only a quite quesy stomach that made the young Constable slip.

Dark eyes looked fell him. "'ey, now." An uncharacteristically cold voice eminated from Lentham's mouth. "Try. Again. Son."

McCoy shifted uncomfortably before leaning back in to look at the body once more. "Wasn't an accident, no matter who did it. It was intentional. Right in the back, yeah? Probably doesn't mean a lover's quarrel either."

"Yeah, well, he was a widower, McCoy." Lentham mumbled. There had some time for the Detective Constable to look into this a bit more as the scene was being examined by rookie, time for some questions to be asked.

"Doesn't mean much, Kurt." He looked at his partner and frowned, knowing full well that Lentham was think thinking of his own past.

"Means what it means." A grunt. Don't push that subject much further. That's what THAT meant. "What do you think we should do next then?" He made the question sound like a test, quite a skill.

A response formed at his lips. "Well, either it was a thief..."

Lentham shook his head. "I find it doubtful. Way out here, and on top of that, all the valuables are where, son?"

"Right where they should be, Kurt." The house was not full of extravagant items by any means but there were ones of some value scattered throughout. "Question then, I guess, would be who gains?" There was quite the hesitant tone to McCoy's voice.

"Maybe not the best question to follow up with, but an interesting one nonetheless." Lentham uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. Mortimer made a mighty yawn. "Biggest thing of value on this farm is the farm itself, the land, see. That was left his son, his late son. Will was never changed."

"So who gets the land?" McCoy frowned, with the feeling that this was not going to be so cut and dry after all.

"There's a good follow-up question. You are starting to frighten me with all these signs of life, McCoy. It's almost enough to drive a man to drink." A slight cough as he pondered just that, but no, not in a place like this, not while he was on duty in front of a dead body. Even Kurt Lentham had some limits. "And the second we leave here, that's just what we're going to follow up on. A couple of our mates," and surely he pitied those who were in worse off regard with the Constabulary than the two of them, "are coming for the body as we speak. As much as I love the sound of your precocious speculating, it's a bit more prudent to see if we can find some actual clues before that happens."

"And the interviews, Kurt?" Well, that was the most useful skill (past public appreciation and family money, respectively) that these two had, a very solid handle on how to read and write.

"Yeah, interviews. All the usual suspects. Servants, neighbors, even the peasants." Endlessly pleasant, that part of the job, the interviews. Lentham thought about going for his flask once more. "Think late Mr. Baker here had an interesting group under him, but then, you weren't at that Council meeting, were you?"

McCoy blew hard through his teeth, half chortling. "Oh come on, Kurt. Stop pulling my leg. Said it yourself, this person KNEW what they were doing. Almost professional right? What sort of peasant could manage that? Especially out here on a farm like this."

Lentham just looked at the younger man, shrugged his shoulders slightly and pulled out his flask. Hey, any Port in a storm.

[channe]

Any port in a storm.

Were they at that Council meeting? Perhaps they'd made the connection; the stand-up man, the peasant Altias Bromn had invited up -- he was standing there with his wife and kids and extended family, his eyes wide as saucers. The rest of the peasants on the farm -- including the lookalike Kaczmareks, the shifty-eyed family, from top to bottom -- almost uniformly shake their heads at it, seeming absolutely unsurprised, if a little shaken up.

One might say: "... he bumped up our contracts on a technicality, meant to keep us on forever, slaves if ye like..."

Another: "... he had my poor Baxter workin' from sunup to sundown wi'out a single water break, jus' cause he took a day off to go visit pore ol' Millie at the Rem'dium..."

A third: "... he weren't the saint he looked like at St. Iona's -- did you *hear* the way he treated his wife? Pore ol gel, I bet she's glad she died in the Flux, oh, we're always bitchin' about 'im down at the Bucket or the Dagger..."

The clues are blessedly few: the murder weapon was a Baker kitchen knife, and left at the scene. The door hadn't been forced -- either that, or it had been left unlocked or he'd opened it for someone he knew. Nothing had been taken.

As for the will -- that remains in a very interesting abeyance. Who gets the land? The government? Long-lost relatives in western Amasynia, if they even exist, or can be found?

That would be an interesting question for the Government, especially in the wake of the Council's seizing of Pritchite property...

[Lent]

"Well?" Lent had his feet kicked up upon a table in a pub that was most certainly not the Broken Dagger. Best to keep a bit low profile when it came to a case like this, especially when you were about to talk about it in a public place.

McCoy nodded to the man, having just entered into the pub. It had been a bit tricky, going to all the neighbors. Once word got out, some of them had taken some rather extreme methods to ensure their own safety. This was Myrken. "They painted a different picture of the man than the workers did, not too surprising there. Mostly, though, they all seemed worried about themselves. A few suspected the Fiend, if you can believe it. Oh and they were ALL curious what happens to the land."

"It's not the Fiend's style, and they well know that, even with fear-mongering posters and what have you. There's the question of him letting the person in, either that or being damn foolish for these parts." A deep drink from the bottle in front of him and a shake of his head. "What do you think, son?"

"The land is the big question, Kurt. Maybe the Council..." McCoy was a good cog in the machine, coming from the merchant class and a staunch believer in the system. It meant that he would hold a bit of regard for the Councilors that allowed Myrken to run smoothly.

Kurt Lentham on the other hand had seen the wrong side of a great deal in Myrken Wood. "Oh ho, young McCoy. You wish to go straight to the Council on this one? High ambitions, son. High Ambitions." He waved off the man's attempt to reply. "No, I still think there's something downright unusual about this family of peasants that we need to look into a bit further, but that's the longshot here. First, let's follow the age old question of 'Who Benefits?' You'll enjoy this, McCoy. It's perfect for you. We're going to visit a Toystore."

[Lent]

"Hey Kurt." McCoy waved his partner down. Surprisingly enough, he had been the one to enter the Dagger first this time. Maybe it wasn't surprising the way this case was going.

"McCoy." A gruff nod from the older man. He did not look particularly pleased, which was a sort of strange look for the Detective Constable. Usually nothing in the world could get to him, not ever since the incident back during the coup.

McCoy waved him over to the table. "Come on. Tell me how bad it is. You finally had a meeting right?"

"I'll tell you something, I will. I know why the High Constable..." He almost hesitated, but no. Flask was out of pocket, up to mouth and then down, with a toast to Cinnabar. "I know why he drinks so blasted much here. I spent all week just trying to get a meeting with one of the Council. Nothing. Finally, I knocked on our beloved Councilor of taxation and toy soldier's door last night and got to talk to the man."

That didn't sound good, did it. "And?"

Lentham all but collapsed into a chair. "And nothing. We've got nothing, son. The land's going to go to the Council. Everything and everyone on it goes to the Council. I don't think they're going to go looking for the family. It's not immediate and this is both easier and more lucrative. From there, it'll probably be to auction (once we close this case one way or another) and one of the larger landowners will snatch it up. Now if one of his neighbors go to the Council before that and show an inordinate amount of interest, that might be a motive right there. Past that, no dice."

"So, it's not about who benefits, Kurt?"

A nice, long drink from the flask. "Doesn't look it, McCoy, doesn't look it. That brings us back to a crime of passion or of hate. Let's start with who hated him then. Easier than passion in this case." There was no sign that he was bringing in prostitutes from the town or anything else. "Time to have another talk with the peasants. This likely won't end for them very well regardless, but if we don't get an answer soon, well, then it could be even worse." Depending on how much money could be involved, there could be some pressure to put SOMEONE's head on the line for this. For all Lent knew, this whole thing could be a way to discredit Dominik Kaczmarek, and through him, Bromn himself. It meant that they would have to be very careful here on in. Why couldn't this have been nice and simple, anyhow?