The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (19 page)

“Have you come to question us, now?” asked Cimozjen.

Theyedir slowed his pace, a look of timid concern on his face. He leaned his spear against the wall and held up his hands peacefully. “I am sorry if I have disconcerted you. It was not my intent.”

“Then what is your intent?” asked Cimozjen.

“I have heard some disturbing rumors about my beloved Marshals,” he said. An apologetic smile reorganized the wrinkles on his face into a more pleasant arrangement. “May I sit, please? I would hear what you have to say about the matter, in hopes that you might shed some light.”

Cimozjen nodded. Theyedir sat. Cimozjen and Minrah followed his lead, and Fighter moved back into the corner, keeping a wary eye on the old half-elf.

Theyedir laced his fingers together and leaned forward. “I have loyally served the Sentinel Marshals all of my years,” he said. “As a boy, in the early stages of the Last War, I cleaned their offices and ran errands. I became a guard as soon as they let me hold a weapon. I even got myself adopted into their house when I came of age. All this I did because I believed in their ideals, trusted that they would uphold the Code of Galifar and strive to preserve the Kingdom of Galifar even as the fighting over the succession became more intense. I find it gravely unsettling, given such an incident as this, that the Marshals seem intent on sidestepping justice.” He paused then leaned his head into one hand, his thumb at his chin and two fingers extended to his temple. “Please, tell me everything.”

“How do we know you’re not just trying to spy on us, pry out our knowledge to carry back to your superiors back at the castle?” asked Minrah.

“You are bitter and suspicious, young woman, for those you entrusted with justice have, from what I have heard, betrayed their duty,” said Theyedir. “I cannot offer you any proof beyond my own word and honor that I am being forthright with you, and the actions of those I serve have baffled me as much as you.”

“We trusted the Marshals once, and look where it got us,” said Minrah. “Nowhere. So I don’t trust you, either.”

Cimozjen reached for the hand that Theyedir had left on the table. He gripped it firmly and stared hard into Theyedir’s eyes. The old Marshal stared back at him, moving nothing but his eyes. After several long moments, Cimozjen released his grip.

“I do.”

“You trust him? After all this? Cimmo, you can’t be serious.”

“I am. And remember, I’m chasing blood here. You’re chasing ink.”

“That’s why I’m the only one keeping a clear head.”

Cimozjen started to say something but held his tongue.

“What?” asked Minrah.

“Being oathbound, I will not allow what so regretfully crossed my mind to cross my tongue. Therefore I will simply beg you to indulge me here, Minrah. He did support our case to the Marshals, and I will not hold him accountable for what they did with it.”

Cimozjen proceeded to tell his entire tale, starting from his encounter with the dwarf thief and continuing to the events of the morning. Theyedir stared at him, never moving, never letting his eyes wander. Minrah, at first reluctant even to acknowledge the aging guard’s presence at their table, could not restrain herself from embellishing those points at which she had firsthand knowledge. Even Fighter shifted closer as the tale unfolded, although the warforged still kept his back to the wall.

Cimozjen told his tale with the succinct clarity that comes with extensive military service. At the end of his narrative, Theyedir nodded. “That’s a fascinating tale, Cimozjen. And you’re doing all this …”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he said.

“Do you still carry Torval’s armband?”

“No, I do not,” said Cimozjen. “I entrusted it to an acquaintance, an old veteran like myself. He swore that he would see it delivered to his family. It’s a tradition. But I do have my own, if you’d like to see it.”

“I would,” said Theyedir, holding out his hand.

Cimozjen rolled up his sleeve to bare the ornate armband. However, instead of taking it off and handing it over, he simply leaned forward. “It cannot be removed,” he said. “Not until I’m dead.”

Theyedir peered at the graven armband, then recoiled. “The Iron Band.” He put his hand to his forehead. “What—what was your purpose there?”

Cimozjen tilted his head defensively. “A recruiter came to Tanar Rath while we were garrisoned there, holed up for winter. I was selected for training, and I managed to pass. Later I learned
that the Iron Band was being created as an elite unit. I eventually came to command a talon, until, well, until the course of the War turned in other directions.” He paused. “It’s nothing to concern yourself over, Marshal. The Last War is over, and I’ve no grievances held against those who fought for the other side, let alone those who stood aside to guard the ancient seat of Galifar.”

Theyedir calmed himself. “I suppose you’re right. The Last War is over, and the Iron Band fights on only in tales told by the fireside.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “But—well. Never mind. As for your problem, I am afraid I know nothing at the moment, but I will see if I can uncover anything to help you. Rophis Raanel’s son, you said, and Commander Pomindras—those were the only ones who were not in chains?”

“As near as we can tell, that is the truth of it,” said Cimozjen.

“I don’t make mistakes,” said Minrah.

The conversation hung silent for a long moment, until Minrah spoke up again. “Might the commander have bribed his way out of trouble? With Rophis’s wealth and his station, he—”

“No,” said Theyedir. “The Sentinel Marshals have the honor and reputation of a dragonmarked house to uphold. For a Sentinel Marshal to accept a bribe for any reason, no matter how small the crime, is punishable by public execution.”

“Oh,” said Minrah. “Well, that’s about the only idea I had.”

“Very well,” said Theyedir, rising. “I suggest you stay at the Crownshadow. It’s a good guesthouse. I’ll send word to you there if I manage to uncover anything about this.” He turned to go.

“So what’s your stake in this?” asked Minrah. “What reason do you have to do anything to help us when your fellow Marshals would just as soon spit in our eye?”

He looked back over his shoulder at the recalcitrant elf. “My reason is the same as Cimozjen’s,” he said, “and the same as the Marshals’ should be.”

Fire in Flight
Zol, the 17th day of Sypheros, 998

T
hey boarded at the Crownshadow as Theyedir had suggested. Cimozjen booked a suite. He stayed in one room, and insisted that Minrah take the other. Fighter stepped into the freestanding wardrobe in the common area, even though it was easily too small for his frame. However, he didn’t like the feeling of dread that returned to him when he was inside with the door closed, so he opted to sit inside the open wardrobe, facing the suite’s door.

The
Silver Cygnet
remained docked at the pier, her helm chained hard over to immobilize her. The trio waited helplessly for a way off the island and searched for any sign of Rophis or Pomindras, or any of the prisoners. Each day, two or three ships docked at Throneport, though most were simple fishing boats, and the rest were headed for destinations other than Aundair.

It was their third day of waiting. Minrah slouched against the wall of the common area, while Cimozjen paced back and forth, pausing to look out the window of his room and scowl at the hobbled ship. Fighter remained as still as a statue, both hands gripping his axe.

“Cimmo,” said Minrah, “we need to find Rophis. He’s hiding something.”

Cimozjen gave a noncommittal grunt. “Many people have secrets. Some because they scheme, others because they’re embarrassed about their vices. I pray he’s just a down-on-his-fortunes merchant who got on the wrong vessel.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Rophis tries to pass himself off as an Aundairian, and he’s no such thing. He’s spent a lot of time in Karrnath, was probably even raised there, but when I pointed that out, he tried to tell me I was wrong. Why?”

Cimozjen shrugged. “Why do you think he’s Karrn?”

“He has a slight accent he tries to hide. And he uses Karrn phrases. He said, ‘I’m in a good company,’ as in ‘I am in a good military unit.’ That’s a distinctly Karrn turn of phrase.” She paused. “In case you don’t know, the rest of the continent says, ‘I’m in good company,’ like folks have come over to visit. He also called it Nightwood Pale, not Nightwood Ale. Again, that’s a very Karrn label. And with the soldier’s gruel, when he talked about how the casks get reused for that earthy flavor, he talked about how ‘they’ did it, not about how ‘we’ did it, and it’s a deeply rooted Aundairian tradition. Even isolated farmers do that for their home brew.”

“Did he say those things? I’d not noticed.”

“Of course not. You’re a Karrn. You don’t hear Karrn phrases.”

Cimozjen chuckled. “So what’s your blind spot?”

“I don’t have one. I’m a child of the continent.”

Footsteps ran up the hall outside the door, and the door to their room burst open. Fighter lunged to his feet and took a long stride to cross the floor, bringing his huge battle-axe around in an arc, the blade whistling as it cleft the air. A small boy ran into the room, breathless. At the last moment his eyes went wide as a full moon. He tried to stop, but his momentum tripped him up. He flopped to the floor just as Fighter’s axe whooshed over his scalp, slicing a swath of black hair from the back of his head and lodging firmly into the doorframe with a heavy thunk.

Minrah shrieked.

The boy screamed and scampered away on all fours, leaving a crumpled roll of parchment wobbling back and forth on the floor.

“Fighter!” snapped Cimozjen. “Hold!”

The warforged yanked his axe out of the woodwork and rounded on the Karrn, raising the axe for a deadly blow. Cimozjen stood still and folded his hands in front of him.

Fighter took a step and swung, but the movement slowed to a stop in mid-strike, then Fighter lowered his axe to the floor. “That was great,” he said.

Minrah tittered nervously.

Cimozjen thought about it for a moment, and said, “Well, Fighter, it seems that your definition of ‘home’ has expanded somewhat over the last few days. I think that’s probably a good thing. Now if you’ll excuse me”—Cimozjen bent down to pick up the parchment the boy had abandoned and gave it a quick read. “Hmm. Right, people, let’s go. Now!”

Minrah hopped to her feet. “What does it say?” She snatched the paper from Cimozjen. “ ‘N
ORTH
D
OCK
N
OW
F
IRE
F
LIGHT
—T.’ What does that mean?”

“The answer’s at the docks,” said Cimozjen as he ushered his companions out the door. Then he paused, one hand tugging on the door’s latch. “Um, Fighter? The door cannot close, um, any more. Could you wait here, inside, just for a short while, and make sure no one but us enters the rooms?”

“Waiting is what I know best,” said Fighter.

“Many thanks.”

“Back in a trice!” said Minrah as she and Cimozjen dashed down the hall.

The two made their way quickly to the quays, thence to cut north along the docks. As they ran down the central thoroughfare, they sensed an excitement humming in the populace, and when
they left the streets for the open waterfront, they discovered why. A large airship hung in the sky over the outcropping that demarked the north end of the docks, hovering near the airship tower. She had sleek lines, curved and graceful as a swan. Her hull shone with a fresh coat of ivory paint, and the ship’s rails and other trim were colored a royal blue. Delicate spars curled out from amidships to twine like ivy around a horizontal oval of fire that encircled the hull. Though the fires of the ring burned low, they still reflected in the seawater of Throneport, adding a splash of color to the otherwise steely sea.

“That’s the north dock,” said Cimozjen, “and we’re seeing fire in flight right now.”

As they gazed at the beautiful ship, they saw a scarlet tendril reach down from the deck to the airship tower that stood atop the rocky promontory. The end of the tendril held a wide wooden disk, and the fluid motion and image combined to remind Cimozjen of a servant offering a plate of sweetmeats at a posh function.

Minrah pointed. “Looks like they’re boarding passengers. We need to see who’s going on that ship.” She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. “Hansom!”

A small two-wheeled open carriage rattled over to them, and as Minrah sprang aboard, she cried out, “To the airship, and quickly! They’re loading the first batch now!”

Cimozjen swung himself on as the driver swatted the single horse with his crop.

As the hansom rattled across the cobbles of the waterfront, Minrah leaned over and said, “I hope you brought your coin, Cimmo.”

Fortunately for Cimozjen’s self-respect, he had, and he paid the driver generously for the speedy trip to the airship dock. Only one more diskload of passengers had boarded by the time they arrived. Cimozjen and Minrah ran to the end of the queue that led to the magnificent vessel.