“Are you from Aundair? You sound like you are. You have a lovely accent.”
“Aundair,” he echoed, and a genuine warm smile crossed his face.
Minrah looked over her shoulder. “This could be too good to be true, Cimmer. An Aundairian monk? Grouped with the other elites, like Torval? If he’s a member of that secret society, why, the gnomes would—”
“What secret society?” asked Cimozjen quietly.
“I told you about it before, Cimmer,” said Minrah. “Some sort of secret assassin’s cult or something that the gnomes wanted to know more about. They said it was called the Quiet Touch, and they—”
“The Quiet Touch,” said Ripfist. His brow furrowed. He leaned forward and gripped Minrah’s knee.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Minrah. “The Quiet Touch. You know about it?” She placed her hand gently over his. “Were you one of the Quiet Touch?”
“The Quiet Touch,” said Ripfist, pride and confidence making an appearance in his tone even as his eyes darted about. He squeezed Minrah’s knee warmly.
“That’s right,” she said. “The Quiet Touch. Can you tell me anything, anything at all? What do you remember?”
Confusion clouded Ripfist’s face. He dropped his hand from her knee and looked around. “Wh—where …”
“You’ve been a prisoner,” said Minrah. “Do you understand? You were captured, but we—”
Ripfist shook his head, scared. “No capture.”
“Easy, everything’s fine now,” said Minrah compassionately. “You were captured, they held you prisoner, but—”
Comprehension flooded his eyes, and he speared Minrah with the intensity of his gaze. “Death before capture,” he said urgently. In one fluid motion he reached his right arm behind his head, looked left, grabbed his chin, and yanked his head around, breaking his neck with a grotesque snap. His body flailed once and he flopped to the floor, his right arm pumping through the same yanking motion over and over.
Minrah shrieked, scooting herself backward on hands and feet, unable to tear her eyes from the terrible spectacle. Cimozjen moved to intercept her, grab her, hold her, but she kept trying to crawl away. At last he turned his body to shield her eyes, and pressed her to his chest, holding her tightly, and her screams dissolved into sobs.
He found himself kissing her head in an effort to calm her and stopped himself, relieved that she seemed not to notice.
With one last look at the twitching body, he picked her up and carried her from the room.
Parting
Zor, the 5th day of Aryth, 998
W
here’s your shield, Cimmer?”
“It had ‘Pomindras Lasker d’Deneith’ carved on the inside. I thought it particularly foolish to bring it along.”
Minrah, Four, and Cimozjen walked through the streets of Aundair, heading for the House Deneith enclave. The winds of the previous day had blown through, driving away the last of the rain clouds, and the cobbles glistened in the morning sun.
Four had replaced his battle-axe with a nearly identical one from the Deneith armory. He carried his weapon slung over one shoulder, a relaxed posture that both of the others noted but refrained from mentioning.
Cimozjen had Pomindras’s sword at his waist and his family dagger at his back, but had not worn his chain mail, for fear that the swishing sound of the links would cause them difficulties.
“So what is this about?” asked Four.
“I really don’t know,” said Minrah. “But it seemed best to take Rophis up on his invitation if we’re going to get any real answers.”
“I hope we are not making a mistake,” said the warforged.
“So do I,” said Cimozjen. “Unfortunately, there is only one way
to find out. If we hide ourselves away, I’ll always feel Torval peering over my shoulder.”
The Deneith compound was a small city block of buildings that enclosed a gated courtyard. Each of the buildings was built with the solid architecture of a fortification, made of square-cut stone so keenly carved and fitted that no mortar had been necessary. The monolithic walls were broken only by narrow windows ideal for defensive archery fire, and crenellations ran along the rooftop. Thick wrought-iron fencing stretched from building to building, each vertical bar capped by a vicious dragonshard-embedded spearhead that continually gave off wisps of smoke, hinting at cruel magical enhancement.
“Well,” said Minrah, “we’re here. Let’s get this over with.”
They walked up to a smaller structure at one end of the compound. It was the only building they could see that had an exterior door in it, a heavy double door easily tall and wide enough to fit a covered wagon. A large statue of a chimera stood watch over the gate, its heads turned in each direction. Two guards stood outside, armed and armored. They wore the livery of House Deneith—yellow and green tabards with sharply cut angles—as well as very bored expressions.
After a moment’s hesitation to gather her composure, Minrah walked up to the guards with a businesslike stride, Cimozjen and Four just behind her. She flipped her hand in a supercilious gesture, snapping her paper open at one of the guards. He started slightly at the suddenness of the gesture, then reached out and took the proffered parchment.
“Appointment to see Lord Rophis d’Deneith, have you?” he said.
“Yes, we have,” said Minrah, stressing the word
we
ever so slightly.
“This says nothing of additional guests,” said the guard. “You may proceed. Alone.”
“It says nothing against additional guests, either,” said Minrah. “These are my bodyguards.”
“They are not allowed in.”
Minrah scoffed. “Is your mighty house afraid of them?”
“Not at all. I assure you that our compound is the safest area in all of Fairhaven.”
“And that just fills me to the brim with confidence,” said Minrah. “I mean, House Deneith looks veritably under siege here. She picked up a rock and threw it through the fence.
“Hey, watch it!” yelled a house servant walking across the court with a load of foodstuffs.
“Your courtyard isn’t even properly warded,” said Minrah, “and there are those who would see me murdered.” Her voice continued to rise in volume as her rant gained momentum. “Does House Deneith guarantee my safety against sling stones, missiles, and bolts of lightning while my bodyguards idle outside? And what if your house has been infiltrated, as has been recently suggested by the whispers on the street? What then? I demand my noble right to have my bodyguards accompany me, or by the gods you yourself can escort me and explain your actions to Lord Rophis personally,” she finished with a shout.
“My lady, I will be more than happy to escort you personally to your appointment,” said the guard, stiffening. He adjusted his scabbard and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Then he nodded politely. “Along with your bodyguards, of course. I’ve no wish to offend the guests of the family.”
He led the trio through the gatehouse, across the flagstone courtyard, and into the grandest of the compound’s buildings.
“This is some lobby,” whispered Minrah as they entered.
Cimozjen glanced about at the polished marble floors, veined with gold. The exquisite magewrought illustrations of famous Deneith generals, animated and ensconced in free-floating gem-studded frames. And the massive chandelier, wrought of platinum and boasting well over a hundred magical glowlamps. “You speak the truth,” he said choking back his anger. “It is almost blindingly so. And it has been paid for by the blood of a hundred years of mercenaries that the house has sent to battle.”
They walked up a grand staircase to a short but elegant hall, carpeted in plush gold trimmed with green. The guard escorted them to a pair of doors artistically carved with the crest of House Deneith. Two more guards flanked the door, unarmored, but wearing extravagant silken uniforms with a herringbone patterns of swords embroidered in silver thread.
Their escort displayed the paper, and the two guards each rapped on their door in perfect unison, then unlatched the doors and swung them open, revealing an opulent room with six chairs and two end tables. The back wall was well stocked with a bewildering variety of wines, brandies, cognacs, and other spirits, as well as an extensive supply of glasses in all shapes and sizes.
“Wait here,” said their escort. “Lord Rophis will be with you in a moment. I trust your bodyguards know not to touch anything.”
The doors closed behind them with a nearly inaudible click.
“You heard the man,” said Minrah, imperiously flitting her hand. “Behave yourselves.” She walked briskly over the liquor board, grabbed a big glass, opened the first bottle that came to hand, and dumped it into the glass until it was nearly full. “Luckily, he didn’t include me in that sentiment.” She took a deep swig while pacing the room, and Cimozjen noticed that her nerves were causing the surface of the liquid to tremble.
A few minutes later, another door in the room opened, and Rophis d’Deneith walked in. “It’s grossly uncultured to fill a snifter that full, Minrah,” he said. As he crossed the room, he stuttered slightly in his walk. “Well. I most certainly did not expect my guest to have brought anyone else … let alone you, Cimozjen Hellekanus.” He smacked his lips in annoyance. “No matter. I will deal with you presently.”
Rophis walked over to the bar, took down a tall, thin glass, and poured himself a drink of something slightly bubbly, pale lavender in color. He swirled it in his glass, turning it at an angle to inspect it, then swirled it some more and held it to his nose. “You have to dispense with roughly half of the bubbles before drinking,” he said to no one in particular. “Otherwise it’s a little
too full of bite.” He swirled it a little longer, then took a sip, and smiled broadly. “Perfect.”
He walked over to one of the chairs and sat, took another sip from his drink, then set his glass on the end table. “Sit,” he said with a gesture. “We’ve supped together, no need to be so stiffly formal. Although I would appreciate it if you sent your Cannith conscript out of the room.”
“His name is Four,” said Cimozjen.
“Ah.” Rophis picked up his glass and took another sip. “How quaint.”
“I remember you,” said Four.
“Do you? Well, I’ll have to take your word for it.” He looked back at Cimozjen and held up his empty hand in resigned apology. “They all look the same to me.” He took another sip. “But if you’ve gone and named it, that means you’re attached, and not likely to send it out.” He sucked on his teeth for a moment. Then he looked at Minrah and patted the back of the chair next to him. “Sit,” he said again.
“I’ll stand, thank you,” said Minrah. But she did walk closer and rest her arms on the back of the chair opposite Rophis.
Rophis set his glass back down. “I have been following your serial with quite some interest,” he said. “ ‘Bound by Iron,’ I believe you titled it? It’s quite good. You have talent, Minrah.”
“Thank you,” said Minrah. “It’s almost completed. But as a surety against anything ill befalling me before the morrow—I hope you’ll understand that I’ve lost much of my confidence in your sense of justice—I have the final installments in the hands of a reliable messenger, who will deliver them to the
Korranberg Chronicle
in the morning if I do not return.”
“Why, Minrah, whatever have I done to lose your trust?” said Rophis.
“Lied about your Karrn roots, for starters,” said Minrah. She took a deep draw from her snifter. “On the
Silver Cygnet
, you swore to be Aundairian in order to hide your heritage, and with it your ties to House Deneith. Or how about using Boniam to find out
about us, and then having Pomindras ambush us? Kidnapping sweet old Cimmer and making him fight? Keeping Four in a cage for two years? And if that’s not enough, I’ll bet I can come up with a few others.”
Rophis held up his hands. “I must grant you those points as valid,” he said, “but if you had not boarded the wrong ship, I would have not had to resort to dissimulation. You were allowed to board because he was a warrior, and he looked as if he’d come to participate. Initially, I was excited to have such a grizzled, capable veteran aboard our ship. I quickly found out that that was not the case, but it was too late. You had paid your fare, and we of the Deneith are raised never, ever to break a covenant. We were wrong to have allowed you aboard. If I could have one mistake to undo, it would have been that one. I would have left you on the dock.”
“Don’t feign such charity,” said Minrah. “You only wish that because then your secrets would still be safe.”
“Indeed, that is true,” said Rophis, “and I wish them still to remain unrevealed, which is why I invited you here today.”
“What do you mean?” asked Minrah.
“As I said, I’ve been reading your work. It’s a story that needs a thrilling ending. Thus, while I could have you assassinated to protect my secrets, doing so would be wasteful of your talent, cruel to your readers, and ultimately would cause your publisher gnomes to start sniffing around your trail, which would make me most disconcerted. So rather than take that course, I have a mutually beneficial proposal.”
He reached inside his surcoat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment from a hidden pocket. He leaned forward and handed it to Minrah, who took it suspiciously.
“I have had some of my best minds working on this since the day you stopped in at the Blinking Hippo,” he said. “May I present to you an alternate ending for your story, one that suits your needs as a scribe, and my needs as a leader of this house.”
He leaned back and picked up his glass again. “You’ll find the
salient points there. Naturally, we want you to rewrite it in your own particular style.”
Minrah opened the parchment and scanned it. She blinked several times. “This is good,” she said. She took another healthy sip from her glass.
“And I think the use of bitter Cyrans as the villains will evoke a better response from your readership.”
“Minrah,” said Cimozjen, “you’re not seriously considering this, are you?”
“Of course she is,” said Rophis wearily. “It’s a better ending than the truth, and instead of angering a dragonmarked house, she gains favor in one.” He turned to speak to Minrah again. “Such favor that we would be pleased to forward any suitable new stories for you to immortalize. Naturally, such assignments would be for pay—wages that we would remit in addition to your monthly stipend.”