On their third day of visiting the Flagons, they finally convinced Four to sit, but they could not get him to let go of his
battle-axe. They sat at a corner table of the tavern, with Four occupying the seat right in the corner. Cimozjen sat to the right of the warforged, keeping a good eye on the tavern, while Minrah sat across from them, comfortable that they would keep her safe.
“We’re not going to have an easy time getting to know these people if we keep sitting in the corner with an axe-carrying warrior,” said Minrah.
“That is true,” said Cimozjen, “but at least he no longer comes across as actively looking for a fight. And if you and I were to sit in the middle of the room away from him … well, I’d rather we stuck close by each other. Especially here.”
They picked at the bones of half of a poorly cooked chicken. Not only did it have no seasoning, but the skin was burnt and the deepest meat barely cooked.
“It appears that I am impeding your progress,” said Four. “You should have talked to that person you recognized yesterday, instead of staying with me.”
“Pomindras from the
Silver Cygnet?”
said Cimozjen. “No, I still think it would not have been a good idea.”
“Absolutely,” said Minrah. “Whatever is going on with all this, he knows about it. He’s probably hoping we’re still ignorant. If we’d shown that we remembered him from the ship, he might abandon any pretense of secrecy and take more direct measures to preserve his little diversion, and that would be bad for us.”
“Because he’d want to put me back in my home.”
“That’s right,” said Cimozjen.
“So instead, we watch and wait,” added Minrah. “If he comes back tonight, maybe we can find out what they’re up to.”
Four continued to scan the crowd, as was a habit for him. “But he has not returned,” he said.
“Not yet, no,” said Cimozjen. “But the night is not over. He may return. Or better yet, some other people from the ship, who’d be less inclined to recognize us. So pray that we may yet spot someone through whom we can unravel this knot.”
“And cross your fingers,” said Minrah.
“What good would that do?” asked Four. “It would lessen the strength of my grip on my weapon.”
Minrah patted his arm. “That’s right, my warforged warrior Four, it would. I’ll take care of the finger crossing for all of us, right?”
“Ho there,” said Cimozjen. “That friend of Jolieni just walked in, and he’s coming over.”
“Here?” asked Minrah.
“That’s right. Walked in, took a look around, and here he is.”
The Aundairian walked up, grasped the empty chair at the table, turned it around, and sat, draping his arms across the backrest. “Evening,” he said. He extended a hand to Cimozjen. “They call me Boniam.”
“Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service,” he said, gripping the proffered hand firmly.
Boniam turned to Minrah. “And you are …?”
“Minrah the Drover,” she said. “Pleased to meet you … in a more congenial manner.” She batted her eyes.
“Well. Yes. That’s uh, that’s quite a warforged you have there, Hellekanus,” said Boniam.
“Friend Boniam,” said Cimozjen, “he is not mine. He is his own person, per the Accords of Thronehold.”
Boniam shook his head as if to clear it. “Of course. I am sorry. Fifteen years in the army gave me some bad habits regarding the ’forged, I’m afraid. And what is your name?” he asked, extending one hand. “Fighter, was it?”
“Yes, it was,” said the construct without moving.
“Be kind, and shake the man’s hand,” said Minrah. “It’s a greeting custom among equals. And introduce yourself.”
Four looked at her, then at Boniam’s hand. He took one hand off his axe, reached out, and shook. “My name now is Four. It may change again if it is shown to be troublesome.”
Boniam clenched his jaw, and his face slowly turned red. “Four,” he grunted. “Right. You can let go now.” As soon as his hand was freed, Boniam exhaled explosively. He took it back to
his lap and massaged and flexed it. “That’s quite a grip.”
“It is my hand,” said Four. “It grips things.”
“Yes, yes it does.” He nodded to signal the serving girl, and ordered a loaf of bread, some butter and salt, and a round of drinks. He gave his hand one final spidery flex and leaned on the chair’s backrest again. “So tell me, what brought you three here?”
“The lightning rail,” said Four.
Boniam laughed. “That’s not what I meant. What I mean to ask is: this is hardly a place that people seek out, especially fair young women.
Why
are you here?”
“To—” started Four, but Minrah put her hand over his mouth and he silenced himself.
“We’re not exactly sure, I suppose,” said Cimozjen. “The standard diversions of the city, they … they’re just lacking. At least here you see real life being played out. So I guess you could say we’re here looking for excitement. Visceral excitement.”
The serving girl arrived with the bread and drinks, placing her tray on the table and distributing the food. Boniam reached for his leather pouch, but Cimozjen blithely tossed a few crowns on the serving girl’s tray.
“Allow me, Boniam,” he said, “in gratitude for your company this evening.”
Boniam picked up one of the coins. “Now what’s this?” he said.
“It’s from Karrnath,” said Cimozjen.
Boniam tossed it back onto the tray. “Things are so different now that the war’s ended. It used to be that all you saw were the Galifar-style coins, but now we’ve got our own style, you Karrns have your own …” he shook his head.
“I assume that once no one could claim the throne, every nation chose to assert its own independence,” said Cimozjen.
“So you’re from Karrnath, then?”
Cimozjen nodded.
“He is,” said Minrah. “I’m from Cragwar originally, but I travel a lot.”
“Then well met, Hellekanus of Karrnath and the Drover from Cragwar,” said Boniam. He raised his drink. “Here’s to the peace, that we can spill each other’s beer instead of blood.”
“I’ll rise to that toast,” said Cimozjen, clanking their tankards and taking a pull. He set his drink down. “Still …”
Boniam laughed. “I know what you mean,” he said. “You can’t get soldiering out of the blood, can you?” He shook his head. “I still wake up an hour before dawn, every morning. And I’ve got my armor and my sword, but no commanders to follow and no enemies to slay. I miss it, especially the big battles. Those were something.” He sighed. “Still, I have a good life.”
He took a piece of bread, buttered and salted it, and took a big bite. “So,” he said, pushing the bread into his cheek. “You came in on the rail? Did you take the long way around?”
“No,” said Cimozjen, settling into his chair. He considered for half a breath, then added, “We came across the Sound.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then, as Boniam was about to ask another question, he interjected one of his own. “How’s your friend doing? Jolieni, I believe her name was.”
“Jolieni,” said Boniam. “It’s hard to tell. Either she’s wrestling her sadness into submission, or she’s just hiding it in her breast. Killien was the only person she truly talked to about matters of her heart. And it was so sudden, they couldn’t do anything …” He took another bite of his bread and chewed it slowly, staring at the tabletop. “We’ve taken her in, of course, but … well, I think that’s just as hard for her. She’s pretty fierce about doing things her own way, and … well, it’s probably her part to tell you the whole of it. But there it is. Thank you for asking after her.”
He looked up. “Listen, things start at eight bells, so I have to go. But I just wanted to take a little time to find you folks, get to know you a bit, and to say thank you once more for not allowing that whole situation to get out of control the other night. She was letting her temper get the better of her, and I am thankful that you chose the peaceable path, this time, at least. A fight in a tavern is not the right way to do things.” He shoved the last of his piece
of bread in his mouth and stood. “Well, I have to go meet some people, but thank you for breaking bread with me.” He started to salute, thought better of it, and waved in farewell as he turned and left.
The three of them watched him depart.
“That was odd,” said Cimozjen. “He seemed genuinely friendly, yet …”
“Yet much of what he said, and more importantly what he asked, seemed forced,” said Minrah.
Four stirred. “Do you mean someone was forcing him to talk, as I was forced to fight?”
“No,” said Minrah, “it was more like he had someone’s list in his head.”
“That must have hurt,” said Four.
Another Coincidence
Zol, the 24th day of Sypheros, 998
A
t the tenth bell, they decided to call it an evening. Outside the Flagons, the moons shone brightly in a clear sky, and a mist lurked upon the waters of the Aundair River, glowing eerily in the moons’ light.
Breath misting in the air—with the exception of Four, who had no need to breathe—the trio wended their way in tired silence through the nighttime streets to their lodgings. The only noise they made was the steady tread of their footsteps and the regular clack of Cimozjen’s metal-shod staff on the cobbles.
“I admit that I have not spent much time outside of my home,” said Four as they made their way through Whiteroof, “but I thought that the mist usually congregated at the river. How is it that some has made its way up here?”
Minrah looked around. Mist swirled around the everbright lanterns that cast scattered patches of light down the street they walked. “That is odd,” she said. She stopped. “More than that, the air is still. The fog shouldn’t be swirling like that.”
Cimozjen gripped his walking staff all the tighter. “Trouble’s brewing.”
“Around us?” asked Minrah.
“Probably.”
“We should leave the area quickly,” said Four, turning in a circle to scout the street. The mist grew ever thicker, encroaching upon their vision and smoothly wiping away distant noises.
“No,” said Cimozjen. “If someone is stalking us, they’ve set up an ambush. Running will send us into their arms.”
“By which you mean weapons,” said Four.
“Not intentionally, but yes,” said Cimozjen. “And if this strange mist is meant for someone else, we may cause ourselves grief by stumbling into the midst of it.”
Minrah grabbed Cimozjen’s arm and pulled herself close, glancing at every shadow she could. “So what do we do?”
“Best to keep our heads and stay here. The fog hides us just as much as anyone else.”
“Keeping our heads is a sound goal,” said Four.
“Also, Minrah,” said Cimozjen, “let go of my arm so I can swing a weapon.”
“Cimmerrr …”
He shrugged her off none too gently. “Finally, we choose our ground.” He pointed with his staff. “Fighter—”
“Four.”
“Apologies. Let’s move over there. It looks a sturdy storefront, and it has no wisplight. With our backs to the wall, they’ll be unable to surround us, and we’ll be less visible in the dark.”
The trio quickly moved toward the wall, a rough-hewn but solid affair that boasted a large painted sign that none took the time to read. Cimozjen drew his sword in his right hand, holding his staff in the left to work as a shield. Minrah pressed close behind Cimozjen, to his annoyance, for her huddling forced him to adjust his balance to compensate. Four stood at Cimozjen’s left shoulder, his battle-axe at the ready.
“Keep an eye looking up, Minrah,” whispered Cimozjen.
“How thick do you think this fog will get?”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” said Cimozjen.
They waited, ready. The unnatural fog slowly erased the world around them until all that lingered was a swath of misty cobbled street some thirty feet across. Whatever had caused the effect seemed to content itself, and if the fog grew thicker from that point, it did not do so visibly.
“Do you hear anything?” Minrah asked.
“No,” said the warforged. “Nothing other than your breathing.”
They waited.
A low, chuckling laugh rolled out of the mist, and a shadowy form paced up to the very edge of visibility, a gray shadow against the lantern-lit fog. “So you noticed, did you? I told him that his spell wasn’t subtle enough.” His accent was Aundairian, his tone cocky.
He paced closer, slowly resolving into a three-dimensional person. He carried a dark shield on one arm, but no weapon in his free hand. Five more vague shadows appeared on both sides of the trio, cutting off any potential escape.
“But we noticed you, too,” said the man. “And now it’s time for you to pay the full fare for everyone on the
Silver Cygnet
.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go, people.”
Brandishing weapons, the five shapes closed on their victims, two next to the speaker at Cimozjen’s right, three from Four’s left.
Cimozjen planted the butt of his staff next to the outside edge of his left foot, and held his sword raised in his right hand as it if were also holding the haft of his staff. He trusted the darkness to make the juxtaposition of his weapons look like a heavy-bladed pole arm. He noted with no small relief that the attackers each carried different weapons, and that they moved as individuals, not as a unit. He doubted very much that Four and he would be able to withstand a concerted attack by veteran troopers, but a group of hooligans, even if they were seasoned fighters, could be defeated in detail.
“Get your body away from mine if you want both of them to stay in one piece,” Cimozjen growled to Minrah. He heard her
whimper, but thankfully she did pull away from him.
He smiled when he saw that one of the thugs that accompanied the mysterious enemy swung a flail—back and forth, not in a gentle circle. Cimozjen stepped closer to him and again planted the butt of his staff against his foot. He turned his torso away slightly, angling the staff. “Do you think you know how to handle that thing, son?” he asked.
The man rattled the chains. “You watch as I tear you apart.”
“Are you sure you said that right?” asked Cimozjen. “Your face looks like you’ve hit yourself more often than your target.”
The flail-wielding man twitched, but held his composure.