



"Good morning, Doctor Rammstein," said a woman in blue wool and brass buttons. She offered a suede-gloved hand as the Doctor undertook the threshold.





"Good morning, Sergeant," replied Rammstein, shaking it. He sniffed as he entered, waved away a fluttering cloud of dusty doxbells descended from the lintel. There was a yellow musk of aged cigarettes in the air, about the ceiling.





"And good morning to you Master L inpell. Deepest, ah, condolences." He nodded to a teary-eyed young man who sat on a chest across the oak-paneled parlor, Blystle County Coroners Office. removed a battered black hat, held it respectfully over a pin on his coat which read The man sniffled, smiled sadly in greeting.





"I hope you've brought arms, Doctor," addressed the Sergeant, also waving away doxbells. She nodded to the clanking, sloshing bag the Coroner carried under one arm.





that way for any length of time, Perkins. Was I misinformed?" Rammstein frowned. "I wasn't told the honored departed had been, ah,for any length of time, Perkins. Was I misinformed?"





"No, you see, there's–"









At that moment, there was a terrific crash elsewhere in the house. There followed an undulating tumble, as of falling books. Something shattered. Linpell jumped, sobbed suddenly.





"Oh dear," said Rammstein, blinking up at the yellowed paint of the ceiling. It had cracked, shed dust and further minute, drifting doxbells.





"A rather bad bunch of topples about," finished the Sergeant. "The old man was a copious smoker of pepperelle."





Rammstein sniffed, frowned at the deeply sour, ashen odor of cigarettes. "I might have, ah, suspected."





Sergeant Perkins leaned close, and, glancing to the weepy Linpell, whispered behind a hand. "They did him in, see?"





"Did him in?" said Rammstein, turning, incredulous, at full volume. Linpell sobbed, buried his face in a handkerchief.





"Shh."





"Ah. Sorry." He, too, whispered. "What did it, ah, do? Push a lamp on him?"





"You'll see," she turned to a short hallway. Its arched ceiling swarmed with little black puffs: swarming doxbells. "Do follow."



On her way out, she turned to Linpell, who had started to rise, said sweetly: "Do stay here, young Master. You've had enough of a shock for one day."



"I've my service pistol, if need be," said the Sergeant. "We should be fine, if it shows up."





"I did bring my, ah, aspergillum," * frowned Rammstein, following. Ahead, the Sergeant opened a door, passed through. The Coroner took the knob, said as he entered: "But what topple's so bad you need a gun t –"





He quieted abruptly. They had entered a library, lit by tall, leaded windows clouded by yellow stain. In the room's middle, near a desk covered in books and ashtrays, was an immense hickory bookshelf knocked on its front. Rammstein had shut up, for neath it, surrounded by fallen books, emerged a pair of veiny feet clad in slippers.





"Ah."





"That bad," said the Sergeant, nodding to the feet.





Rammstein approached the corpse, frowned at the pool of dried blood midst the crumpled books. "I've heard a toke is bad for the lungs, but not, ah, for your everything," he joked, kneeling. "Eh, Sergeant?"





The Sergeant didn't respond.





"Perkins?" Rammstein stood, jumped. Something like a spindly bear made of toenail clippings and cat hair had sped, quite large, behind a nearby shelf. Its footfalls pattered like a dog's on hard tile.





There was a creak behind him. "Perkins?"





The Coroner turned just in time to see a toppled bookcase descend atop him.





Pepperelle

From the volcanic slopes of Illa Sicáda hails an herb of some concern: Pepperelle. A plant, comprised of scentful and leathery stands of wide leaves that some centuries ago turned the collected heads of civilization.



Near the turn of the Fourth Millennium, explorer Lastimo Corero Enscenza Nicocera,

on a voyage to prospect exploitable resources mongst the Trackless Isles, first encountered on rainy Sicáda that curious weed. His published journal recounts how the native folk of that island, who wore stone for their clothing, habitually put to their lips and inhaled the smoke of a particular herb burned in stemmed, granite bowls and seashells. Nicocera's men, fond of cultural exchange with the hospitable Sicádeens, quickly adopted the habit, found the peppery smoke apt to brighten the mind and temper the nerves. They enjoyed it immensely, returned several specimens of the plant, which they dubbed pimienterello, for its pepper flavor, to their sunny homeland.



Typical of Alagóran expeditionary ventures, later visits to Sicáda were less cordial. Pimienterello had proven extremely popular on the Coast, where folk

smoked it through wooden pipes and tubes rolled of whole leaves.

The island was quickly annexed, the islanders abused, plagued by diseases carried by the later wave of

Alagórans, and forced to flee on stone canoes to lands deeper in the Isles.

**