The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (14 page)

“Did you kill any—anyone this evening?”

“Commander, upon my honor, my sword has spilled no blood upon this vessel, nor has it done so upon this evening. My soul be forfeit if I lie.” Inside he winced at how quickly he had adopted Minrah’s method of misdirection.

“Did you enter the cargo hold tonight?”

Cimozjen spread his hands. “I have no cargo beyond my bags, commander. Why would I enter the hold? And besides, I would have thought it to be locked.”

“Yes it is,” said the commander, leaning forward. “Did you open the lock?”

“No, commander. I did not, and I would not.”

“But what of magic?”

“I have no magic to see me past a secured door, commander.”

The commander exhaled. “One other item. The, um, deceased has had an ear severed. Did you do that?”

“Surely the commander can see that such an act would draw blood, and I swore my sword free of it.” Inside, his stomach curdled.

“Answer my question! Do you have the severed ear?”

“No, commander. I possess no one’s ear, nor would I wish to own such a trophy. You are free to search my person and my billet.”

“So I shall,” said the commander, “Strip off your tunic.”

Cimozjen complied without hesitation, shaking out his tunic once it was off. Pomindras looked the man over. He was built like an old soldier. The powerful muscles were still apparent, though now they labored beneath a veneer of age—a slight paunch about the middle, a sag to the once-taunt skin. Cimozjen turned in place, arms held out to the side.

There was not a fresh mark on him. Scars, certainly, but no wounds, nothing that would spatter blood on his ship.

“You may go,” said Pomindras, “but mark that my eye will be upon you.” He growled. “Erami, fetch me Rophis Raanel’s Son.”

Cimozjen leaned against the railing at the stern of the boat, his hands folded and drooping. He stared at the water, gazing sightlessly at the crescent reflections of several of Eberron’s moons as his brain retraced the events of the past two days.

He had not besmirched his honor by avowing a lie. But he had made statements out of context, arranged facts out of chronological order, claimed his worn weapon as the sum of his threat, and presented questions as answers. All this with the intent to deceive. He had abetted someone in breaking into a locked area, and killed a creature that had been held harmless in
a cage. He had selfishly looked after his own safety, abusing the blessing of the Host and spurning their promise of deliverance. And yet …

And yet his friend still lay dead, murdered and unavenged, calling to his soul. He had gathered information that might lead to Torval’s murderer, and thence to justice. And if he had not been deceitful, then would he not have broken his vows to his blood brothers, to his fellow soldiers of the Iron Band? They had sworn eternal vigilance and loyalty.

He could no longer think, which was a blessing, as he had no idea what to think. His mind had circled the same thoughts for hours, dodging between guilt and vindication so many times that it was dizzy, exhausted, curled up upon itself like a dog, ready to sleep.

He heard a soft step padding up behind, then a slender hand reached out of the darkness and gently touched his arm just below the elbow.

“What troubles you, Cimmo?” asked Minrah, her lyric voice seeming to be the moons’ wavering reflections given life.

Cimozjen did not answer.

“I was worried.”

“Then why did you run?”

“Fight that thing?” asked Minrah. “Me?” She pulled him around to face her, reached out one soft hand and placed it on his unshaven face. “Are you insane? We didn’t have to fight it, and I sure as spit didn’t want to. That wasn’t our problem. All you had to do was get to the door, and we could have locked it in the hold and run back to bed.” She paused, giggling uncertainly. “That’s as sure as rain. Running was the only smart thing to do. So why didn’t you?”

Cimozjen nodded, deciding to speak. “I stayed to protect you.”

“Well, that’s just—you—hoy now, you did?” Her face split in a wide smile, visible even in the faint moonlight. “You love me,” she said happily.

“I have sworn to protect the weak and the foolish,” said Cimozjen. “Down there, you were both.”

Minrah sobered up, but her eyes were still alight. “That’s what chance dealt me,” she said. “I’m no fighter. But I also don’t have all these oaths. They nigh killed you, Cimmo.”

He turned back to the railing and lowered his gaze. “At least my motives would have been clear.”

“That’s a fine reason to die.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

She watched him for a moment, then slid her arm into his and looked at the water as well. “What’s eating at you?”

Cimozjen sighed. “This whole situation. It’s … unclean.”

“Murder is not a pleasant subject.”

“I find my oaths and vows at odds with my conscience, and my desires at odds with the laws. I fear that if I spend too much time in this situation, that it may consume me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Minrah.

Cimozjen drew a deep breath in through his nose, his lips pressed tightly together. “Consider the dwarf, the one who led me to Torval. Would that I had healed him, but bitterness clouded my vision. I could have given him the gift of forgiveness, shown him a better path, been the reflection of Dol Dorn, the illustration of restraint and honor to inspire him. I could perhaps have turned him from his base path to a higher one. Yet I did not. And I know not his name, so it may well be impossible for me to rectify my error.”

“You think a thief is so easily turned into a day laborer?” Minrah said. “You’re deluded.”

“Whether or not my efforts would have been in vain, the very fact that I did not try reflects badly upon my heart. I find my soul clouded.” He turned around and leaned back upon the railing, head turned to the sky to gaze at Siberys’s ring. “During the Last War, I found myself in a similar bind,” he said. “I prayed for the Sovereigns’ intercession. And they gave it, though in a way I would never have foreseen.” He snorted in black humor. “I fear to
ask them again, for their answer might stand athwart the path to Torval’s justice.”

“Then don’t. We’ll do it ourselves. We don’t need them.” She shrugged. “So I guess you killed the thing that murdered Torval, hm? It had the build and the axe.”

“Not here,” murmured Cimozjen, “the night and the water may carry our words to unwanted ears.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Minrah. “I started about five or six different rumors among the passengers and crew. People all over the ship are talking.”

At that, Cimozjen bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had had enough dishonesty for one night.

The undercurrent of discussion rose anew with the dawn, and most of the people on the ship spoke of the events of the previous night while breaking their fast. The crew generally tried to disprove any wild theories that were presented to them—or, at times, within earshot—and this activity itself incited the passengers to even wilder theories.

Based on Cimozjen’s interview with commander Pomindras, Minrah insisted they make the opportunity to chat with Rophis, to see how his questioning had gone. By virtue of Minrah’s unquestioned talent at flirting, they managed to sit alone with the large merchant.

“You were questioned, too?” asked Rophis. “Then at least I am in a good company. I spoke with the commander. It seems there was some sort of fight in the cargo hold. A slaughter of some sort. The commander asked if I were involved. He seems to think I’ve the size and temper to risk my life in such a manner.” He chuckled. “For my part, I feared it might have been someone out to thieve my goods, but I am assured that everything remains in good order. I understand someone’s hunting hound got loose, and one of the crew was forced to put it down, as the mad disease had seized it.”

“The mad disease?” asked Minrah.

“A distemper of the blood. It makes the brain go savage, and the corruption foams up from the animal’s bowels and out of the mouth.”

“That’s what the crew are all saying,” said Minrah, “though I daresay that the howling was like no cur I’ve ever heard. Do you believe them, or do you think they’re covering something up?”

“Why should I not believe them?” asked Rophis. “They’ve nothing to hide, do they? Had it been a savage beast, they’d be crowing their bravery for all the passengers to hear.”

“If it were someone’s hound, then where is the body?” asked Cimozjen.

“They weighted it with a stone and cast it overboard last night,” said Rophis. “Didn’t you hear the splash? To leave it to lie would risk spoiling the foodstuffs and perhaps even turning the rats mad. However, it is all done and done with, so there’s no need to speak any more of it. Continued talk of dead curs and foaming rats will put me off my appetite.” Rophis patted his ample belly and rose. Bowing genteelly, he took his bread and cup to a different table.

Minrah watched him as he struck up a conversation with another group of passengers, a smile jumping quickly to his face.

“Fascinating,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Merchants lie to each other for a living,” said Minrah, “and no merchant I’ve ever met would pull the crew’s wagon so readily. Chances are the sailors have something on him.” She sipped from her cup. “Or he on them.”

The
Silver Cygnet
sailed down the Karrn River through the day. A cold northerly wind blew without respite, and the crew used both sail and oars to make excellent speed. Cimozjen stood near the bow, wrapped in his longcoat and watching the banks for any
sign that the horrid thing from the cargo hold might have floated downstream and hung up on a snag or rock.

The day passed slowly and uneventfully, and the rumors of the morning faded into nothing as the story of a foaming wolfhound gradually won the field.

That evening, as Cimozjen and Minrah dined again on cabbage stew and hardbread, Rophis came and seated himself next to them, plunking a dark bottle and three tin cups in the center of the table.

“Allow me to apologize, my friends,” he said. “I imagine that the manner in which I ended our conversation this morning was on the wrong side of abrupt. It was plainly rude. In recompense, I’ve brought you a gift that we might share a drink together.”

Cimozjen turned the bottle to look at the label. “Soldier’s Gruel, eh?”

“What’s that?” asked Minrah.

“Stout that’s been distilled,” said Rophis, “then aged in oak casks. They’ve reused the same casks for centuries, so it has a slight earthy taste. But it’s thick with a kick, a meal in a tankard. Not that we have a tankard, of course, so these cups will have to suffice.”

“I’ve made do with far worse,” said Minrah, “and with far less savory gentlemen. I’ll pour!”

As she busied herself with serving, Rophis asked, “So tell me, young woman—”

“Minrah is her name,” said Cimozjen, taking his cup.

“Of course it is. My apologies; I am not the best with names.” He took a healthy swig from his cup. “Tell me, Minrah, what do you do when not sailing with valiant warriors?”

“I write. And I sell my work to the chronicles.”

“Is that so?” Rophis said, leaning forward. “And you earn your keep just writing? You must be very good.”