Chương 31: Chapter 30: Tragedy of the Gaudins

Micheal crossed his right leg over his left and reclined into the cushioned fittings of his seat. He reached for a red mottled book on his desk, titled The Forgotten Tribes of Southendell. He flipped to the page where he last left his pen and began reading again. The book was about the old cultures and societies of Southendell, before they assimilated into the Norden Empire. There was a lot of interesting information, but he was mainly focused on one thing: the god called Orlan.

He licked his fingers and flipped to the next page, where a short summary of the Southendell gods greeted him. Marian, the Goddess of Birth—no, that's not it. Harun, the God of War. Not him either. I don't see an Orlan here. Did those nobles lie to me? Wait… what about this? Oryn. The God of Harvest. Oryn's title was deceiving, but as he gave it a quick skim, he hummed in understanding. Oryn was a God of Harvest, Funerals, and Power. In fact, the other gods also had minor titles, some more confusing than others.

It says here, the tribes often sacrificed animals to their gods for blessings. Not just any animals, but rare and exotic ones. Black-headed serpents, four-tailed foxes, giant worms, and the like. But there was one god that accepted human sacrifices. It was Oryn, the God of Harvest and Funerals. The tribesmen sacrificed criminals and the condemned for good harvests, or even strength in times of need. Strange… it's rare to see gods with so many domains. These aren't even real gods.

Right now, Orion is the Angel of Funerals. What happened to being an Angel of Harvest and Power? I've never heard of anyone praying to Orion for those things. He sighed and tucked the book inside a drawer. It's an old book anyway. Probably bastardized over and over again. Who knows if it's telling the truth? I'd go to Southendell myself, if it wasn't on the other side of the country. The bell by the front door rang.

Micheal straightened his back and flattened the creases of his shirt as he awaited the customer's arrival. Jaime strode into his office, his steps as silent as the dead, and his silver eyes as cold and piercing as ever.

"Do you have what I need?" Jaime pulled the chair back and sat down.

"All right here, Sir Valentine." Micheal tapped the long brown envelope on the desk. Jaime pulled out a smaller white envelope, the size of a letter, and placed it beside the brown one. Micheal gulped, his eyes drawn to the unsealed tip. He could almost taste the Leons right on his tongue.

"Tell me what you discovered," Jaime said. Micheal cleared his throat and retold everything he saw and did, down to the last detail.

"I don't think I missed anything, but if I did, it's in here." He tapped the brown envelope again.

"I trust your word." Jaime crossed his arms and frowned for a moment.

"So pagan gods… that's interesting."

"I know of a few books on the Southendell gods, if you want to read up on them," Micheal said, already reaching for the drawer beneath his desk.

"That won't be necessary." Jaime shook his head.

"If you say so." Micheal reclined back into his chair.

"Both of the Baruchs and the Austigs have… connections to certain blasphemies. Even if one of them was truer than the other. Witchcraft, pagans, ritualism. But I can't be sure if that's consistent with every family; I've only seen two."

"Hopefully a third will give you a better idea."

"Oh? Pray tell, Sir Valentine." Micheal clasped his hands together and leaned forward.

"I want you to look for Jack Gaudin's family. They live in West Wall, and they own a small bakery. Look for people that are very tall and pale. I've heard they have very prominent bloodlines. They should be easy to find," Jaime said.

"Is the pay the same?" Micheal said.

"Indeed so," Jaime said.

"I can do with that." Micheal reached into his pockets and pulled out another runic paper slip.

"I'll call for you when I'm done." Jaime grabbed the paper slip and stood up.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Micheal." But just as Jaime turned to leave, Micheal called out, "Sir Valentine. Does your family… also have a history of blasphemy?" Jaime stopped in his tracks and looked back, his lips curling upward.

"I think you already know the answer." He strode out of the office and departed from the front door without saying another word. I shouldn't have asked that. He makes me nervous. Goddess, at least he pays well. I'd have stopped after the Baruchs if it weren't for that.

"Marco! Get your coat and get over here!" Micheal yelled.

"What is it?!" Marco yelled back.

"Just get over here, boy!" Soon enough Marco hurried into his office, wearing a long winter coat.

"We're going to West Wall again." Micheal sprang to his feet and donned his curved leather hat.

"What? Visiting the Baruchs?" Marco chuckled.

"No, we have another investigation. The Gaudin family. You ready, boy?" You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"Aye, let's go," Marco replied. The two of them walked out of the house, Marco locking the door behind him. The boy hurried to Micheal's side, his breath drawing bursts of warm air.

"So what's the deal this time?"

"They own a bakery."

"A bakery? How are we gonna find that?"

"Well, I already have an idea." Micheal stopped at the end of the block and raised his arm, calling for a cab with the emblem of a two-headed lion. The coach—a young man in his thirties—stopped in front of them, and he said with a light lisp, "Where to, sirs?"

"Take us to West Wall. Rottie Avenue." Micheal flicked ten pence over to the coach. The coach caught it midair and grinned right back.

"Hop right in. We'll be there in no time." The two of them climbed into the back of the carriage, settling on the cold cushioned seats. The coach whistled, and the undead steeds sped off, carrying the cabin along. The ride was quick, and it hardly took ten minutes before they arrived at Rottie Avenue. Micheal stepped out of the cabin, gesturing for the boy to follow after him. Rottie Avenue was a large stretch of road, surrounded by tall apartments and small shops.

There was a line of carriages at the other side of the road, but Micheal wasn't interested in that.

"So you planning on telling me anything?" Marco raised his brows.

"If you'd half a brain, you'd be able to figure it out." Micheal chuckled and walked to the very edge of the avenue. Micheal tapped his foot against the pavement and waited and waited, until a smaller carriage emerged from down the block. One undead horse pulled the cabin along, adorned with the emblem of a white wolf on the door. Micheal raised his hand and called out for the coach, an old man with a receding hairline. The coach pulled on the reins and stopped a few steps away from them.

"Where are you lads going?" he said, his voice low and gravelly.

"Do you know a bakery owned by the Gaudin family?" Micheal said.

"I have no damned clue who that is," the coach said.

"Well, how about you take me to every local bakery in West Wall. Can you do that?" The old man frowned.

"Every bakery? One by one?"

"Aye. Is there a lot here?" Micheal said.

"Nay, I think five or six. What's going on here, mister? Are you alright in the head?" the old man said. Micheal reached into his wallet, pulling out five Leon bills.

"Does that answer your question?" The old man snatched the bills like a thief, stuffing them inside his pockets.

"It does. Get in, lads." Micheal chuckled.

"That's what I like to hear." He opened the cabin door and climbed inside. Marco followed after him, wearing a confused look on his face. The old man whipped the undead steeds, and they let out a loud neigh as they quickly sped down the road.

"Why didn't you just ask the driver from before?" Marco said.

"You see the carriages with the two-headed lion? They work for the Holden Corporation. They're the biggest coach liner in the city. This one right here, they just operate in West Wall. Ain't I right, Coach?" Micheal said.

"Just West Wall," the coach said.

"You get what I'm saying, boy?" Micheal raised his brows, waiting for Marco to answer.

"I… I think? The other carriages don't know about the bakeries here, while this one does," Marco said.

"That's right. Better to find someone that knows, than try finding out yourself. Life's easier that way." Micheal leaned into the cushions of the seat and let out a breath of relief. After a good while, the old coach stopped in front of a two-story building. Through the windows on the first floor, Micheal saw what seemed like a bustling bakery, with all sorts of pastries and bread on display. A sign hung by the front door, reading Maria's Cabin.

"Here's the first one," the old coach said.

"Stay here, Marco." Micheal stepped out of the carriage and walked right into the bakery. There was a short line inside, and behind the counter was an old woman wearing an apron and a baker's hat. Micheal went in line, glancing at the fresh stock of bread and other pastries on the shelves and open cabinets. It almost made him want to buy one for himself. When it was his turn, he gripped the end of the counter and said, "Is this place owned by the Gaudin family?"

"Gaudin? Who?" The old woman furrowed her brows.

"Gaudin. Tall, pale, all ghostly like. Do you know them?"

"Aren't you gonna buy something, lad? If not, get out." The old woman snarled. Micheal stepped back and held up both his open palms.

"Alright, I'll be right out then." He turned around and left the bakery, climbing back into the carriage.

"Is it them?" Marco said.

"No. Not them. Continue on, Coach." Micheal sighed.

"Alrighty." The coach whipped his steed and went off once more. Micheal visited two more bakeries, and both of them weren't owned by the Gaudins. The third one was a no-go as well, and the fourth was run by a bunch of Themorians that barely spoke Norden. All they knew were the words for their kinds of bread. Just as he had given up hope, the carriage stopped in front of an old building. The windows were barred with wood, and a half-broken sign dangled from the front door, reading Black's Bakery.

"What the hell happened here?" Micheal climbed off the carriage.

"It was open a week ago; I ain't sure," the coach said.

"Well, it's a bakery alright." Marco whistled as he looked up at the sign. Micheal tried to open the front door, but it wouldn't move an inch. He rapped his hand on the old wooden surface and yelled, "Hello! Anyone home in there!" The winds howled around him, nearly lifting his hat off.

"Doesn't look like anyone's in," Marco said.

"I can see that, boy." Micheal clicked his tongue and took a step back. An old croaking voice called out to them from the other side of the road.

"You two! Can I help you?!" Micheal turned around and saw a hunched, middle-aged man wearing a pair of fogged-up glasses.

"Good morning, sir. I think you can," Micheal said. The middle-aged man crossed the road and looked at Micheal up and down as if he was some sort of alien.

"What are you doing out here?"

"I'm a private investigator, looking for the Gaudin family. I'm aware they own a bakery around these parts," Micheal said.

"Well, you found their bakery." The middle-aged man walked up to the front door.

"But you're a little too late, friend."

"Why? What happened here?" Micheal said.

"They're dead," the middle-aged man said. Micheal's eyes widened in shock.

"What?"

"A few days back, the Inquisitors were suddenly all over the place. They went in that bakery, and there were gunshots. They sealed up the place and left without saying a word. Place has been empty ever since," the middle-aged man said.

"That's… that's a shame." Micheal felt his stomach churn.

"Do you know the Gaudins personally, sir?" The middle-aged man placed his hands inside his pockets.

"I wasn't close to them, but I knew them. I've been their neighbor for a couple of decades."

"Would you be willing to talk about them? I need to know more about the Gaudins. Tell you what." Micheal reached into his wallet and grabbed another five Leon bills.

"I just have a few questions, and I'll be right on my way."

"You young folk, always throwing money around. Keep it. Let's talk inside my house; the cold out here ain't good for my bones." The middle-aged man shook his head and sighed. Micheal's face lit up.

"Really? Thank you." He shoved the bills back into his pocket and turned back toward the old coach.

"We found it! You can go now!" The old coach shrugged and drove off into the distance.