The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (20 page)

Cimozjen shoved his way—with excuses made and pardons begged—to the ship’s crew who were taking the vouchers and
admitting people to be boarded. “Begging your pardon,” he began.

“My apologies, good man,” said the crewman by way of reply, “but the
Fire Flight
’s billets are already filled. You’ll have to await the next vessel.”

“Already?” said Cimozjen. “But she seems such a large ship.”

“Not as large as she looks from here, I assure you,” said the crewman as he checked someone’s paper and voucher. “We just made a brief stop to engage supplies and drop some parcels. And to let our passengers off for a short respite. We only had a half dozen billets free, and those have long since been sold.”

Cimozjen considered. “Perchance was one of those billets sold to a man by name of Rophis, Raanel’s son? I had hoped to see him ere he left Throneport.”

The crewman shook his head. “No, I recall no such name. We sold four to various house members, and two to nobles.” He checked another passenger for voucher and papers. “Ah, yes, Lady d’Medani, any luck finding suitable earrings? No? I’m sorry to hear that, although I did warn that your chances would be slim in a small town like this. You’ll have better fortune in Fairhaven. It’s full of the finest artisans, and the Queen keeps them well employed, I assure you. Now if you please, we will be departing as soon as everyone is aboard.” He turned back to face Cimozjen. “If you please, good man, I have passengers and luggage to attend to.”

“Of course,” said Cimozjen. “Forgive the intrusion.” He turned around to depart, and saw that his companion had vanished. “Minrah?” He looked about briefly, calling her name, and finally spotted her on the second floor of a guesthouse, leaning over the balcony railing and staring intently at the airship’s activity. “Minrah!” he called.

Without turning her head, she pointed. “There he is, Cimmo. There’s no mistaking that frame.”

Cimozjen followed her arm to where the airship’s curious red tendril—by all appearances, a huge silken ribbon—was raising
another disk’s worth of passengers and cargo to the ship. A small cluster of people stood on the wooden disk, some waving to those below. And at one side stood a large man, both tall and wide, with a rich red surcoat that near trailed the ground.

Cimozjen walked up to the aged half-elf and shook his hand firmly. “I thank you for your timely note, Theyedir,” he said. “It gave us the information we needed.”

“Thanks to the note? How about thanks to me?” interjected Minrah. “While you were diddling about in that crowd, I was actually looking.”

Theyedir chuckled. “I did nothing, friends, that any right-hearted person would not have done. So you found something?”

“In truth, we did,” said Cimozjen. “We also found a transport. Our ship leaves with the morning tide for Daskaran, and thence we take the rail to Fairhaven to see what else we might find. But before we left, I wanted to convey our gratitude.”

“Those are indeed excellent tidings. But if you truly wish to thank me, send me a message with news of your progress. It would be good to see that my trifling help might make a difference for the better in the world.”

“Would that not be dangerous for you?” asked Cimozjen. “Might not your officers read your post?”

Theyedir shook his head. “I am an old gaffer, considered an odd goblin amongst those of my House. I have been here my whole life, thus getting letters from afar is one of my eccentricities. They expect such quirks from me with my age, and leave me well enough alone so long as I guard this door when I am told.”

“As you wish,” said Cimozjen, and he clasped Theyedir’s hand. “Fare well, and thank you for affirming my beliefs in House Deneith’s standards.”

Minrah stepped forward and gave him a hug. “You’re cute.”

The two turned for the dock, inadvertently leaving Fighter
standing there. The warforged shifted for a moment, then said, “Thank you for not attacking me.”

Theyedir laughed. “It was the least I could do. Literally.”

“It’s not like he knows anything,” said Minrah. “He’s a warforged. He doesn’t know anything about it at all. But if his presence bothers you, we can always send him out into the hall.”

Cimozjen stepped over to the window. Grasping the top of the frame with one hand, he leaned his head against the glass and stared out at the Aundairian countryside as it flew past the window of the lightning rail. “That’s not the point, Minrah,” he said.

“Then why couldn’t we get a nice stateroom with a big soft bed, instead of two separate cubby holes?” she asked, patting the cots that were built into wall of the sleeper cabin. “The rail has staterooms like that, right?”

“Minrah,” said Cimozjen, “I am a married man.”

“So? I’m not asking you to marry me, Cimmo. I just want to bunk you.”

Cimozjen looked toward the heavens and growled. “That’s not the point.”

“Don’t you find me attractive?”

Cimozjen closed his eyes and sighed. “I do find you attractive, Minrah, quite so. Your zeal and your energy are as beautiful as your smile. At times, you confound me greatly, which is annoying and yet also compelling. But I have sworn a vow to my wife before the Sovereign Host, and that vow is binding. Thus, no matter how attractive I find you, what you suggest cannot be.” He turned away from the window to look her in the eye. “On top of that, Minrah, you should look to yourself. You sell your dearest touch too cheaply if you would yield it up freely to a broken-down old soldier like myself.”

Minrah giggled. “I just want to see what you’re like under the blankets. You’ve got to be better than those young boys who are
always trying to loose their arrows. So it’s not like I don’t know what I’m asking.”

Cimozjen kept his face a mask. “It is said that the act creates a bond between the souls forever, and I must wonder what impact it will have on you to find your soul stretched between men scattered across Khorvaire.”

Minrah shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“I think, Minrah, that
that
is the point.” He paused. “They say that a fruit that has been squeezed too often is garbage.”

“I’ll wager that if you give me a squeeze you’ll find out otherwise.”

“I think higher of you than that, Minrah, and you should too. I am my wife’s, and she is mine. That is the way of it, and that is the end of it.” He turned to look back out the window.

Fighter, standing in the corner, looked back and forth between the two, as a long silence hung in the air.

Finally a smile crossed Minrah’s face. “Cimmoooo …” she said liltingly.

He turned to find her slowly untying the knot at the top of her blouse. “Enough!” he barked with a chop of his hand.

“Look at that, the old man’s a pot ready to boil over,” Minrah pouted. Then she giggled. “I think I’ll call you Cimmer.”

“I have a question,” said Fighter. “Minrah said we were on a grand adventure, but all we have done is wait and argue. Is that what an adventure is, sitting and bickering?”

Cimozjen sighed. “There has been a lot of that, but there always is among people. We are imperfect, after all, but do not let these minor troubles divert you from the greater issues.”

“Issues like what?” asked the warforged.

“Vengeance, Fighter. That’s what it’s all about,” said Minrah. “A lone soldier hunting down those who killed his friend. Quite a story, and we’re all a part of it.”

“And bringing them before the proper authorities,” said Cimozjen. “Unfortunately, we lack all the pertinent facts. We’re hunting down clues, which takes time, as does all this travel. And
while traveling, that is when there can be friction, because we have nothing to do and—”

“I had an idea of something we could do,” grumped Minrah.

“
—and
there’s no way to know how long we’ll have to wait before we get results,” concluded Cimozjen with a sharp look at his companion.

Fighter nodded, then inspected the blade of his battle-axe. “I can wait,” he said. “Even with the time we have spent waiting, I have done more adventuring with you than I had known could be possible.”

“And as you’ll recall, Fighter, I said we were not adventurers,” said Cimozjen. “We’re just people.”

“That is true. You said we were seeking people to bring them to justice,” said Fighter. “Justice means equitable treatment for the crimes committed. Do you therefore mean to kill them for their murder?”

Cimozjen shook his head. “Not if I have a choice,” he said. “It’s never easy just to kill someone.”

“Actually, it is,” said Fighter. “A solid blow to the top or side of the head crushes the skull, destroying the brain. Strikes at the neck, armpit, or inner thigh cause unstoppable bleeding. Eviscerating the bowels causes them to—”

“Ewww!” said Minrah, plugging her ears. “Stop!”

The Foul Airs of Fairhaven
Sul, the 22nd day of Sypheros, 998

W
ell, Cimozjen, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Fairhaven,” said Minrah as they stepped off the lightning rail.

Cimozjen looked up at the clouds that covered the sky, heavy with the promise of rain. “I’ve been here before,” he said.

“Have you?” she asked. “I didn’t think the Karrn armies pressed this far into the country.”

Cimozjen clenched his jaw. “You’re right. I was a prisoner.”

“You were? How come you didn’t end up like Torval?”

“I could better answer if I knew what had happened to him. As for me, when the Aundairians found out that I was sworn by oath to Dol Dorn, they put me to work in one of their temples, healing those in need.”

“They let you tend their sick and wounded? Weren’t they afraid you’d secretly kill them?”

“Of course not. I am sworn to do no harm to the helpless.”

“But surely you were doing harm by helping the enemy, weren’t you?” asked Minrah.

“I told them I’d heal women, children, and those too badly injured to return to the field of battle. Those who’d lost a limb,
for example, or were too old.” He sniffed sharply. “They plied on my vows, though, for they brought their own oathbound to me. I am bound by honor to help those of my calling, and I had to do my duty to my brethren even though I knew they’d be returning to fight against my own people. I have long tried to forgive them for abusing my oaths in that fashion.” He nodded with the grim memories. “Be careful what you ask for,” he added, “because there’s more than one way to answer a prayer.”

“Consider yourself lucky that your prayer was answered with a surprise rather than not answered at all.”

“The Host answers prayers,” said Cimozjen.

“No they don’t,” said Minrah darkly. “Or if they do, it’s all capricious. They don’t care about us at all. They’re the gods and as long as we keep worshipping them, they’re fine just sitting around being gods. I mean, they completely abandoned us in the Last War. How else do you explain a hundred years of war, untold slaughter, and the complete destruction of one of the Five Kingdoms?”

“Explain?” Cimozjen snorted. “Do you think we need the gods’ permission to go to war? We did it ourselves.” He rubbed his chin. “We fought over a throne. We were divided by the very symbol of our unity. And we continued fighting for fifty, sixty years after the original claimants were all dead, instead of just putting an end to it and restoring order. The gods did not abandon us, Minrah. We abandoned them, prayed for them to destroy their other worshippers for our own selfish sakes. If they turned their backs on us, it’s because we first were insolent and threw their own ideals into their faces.”

“You think so?” asked Minrah, her dander raised. “Then why do they keep letting their priests perform miracles, no matter how corrupt the priests are?”

“Because the Sovereigns keep their promises, even when we break ours, just as a parent will continue to feed a child even when the child misbehaves.”

“I have been here before, as well,” said Fighter, his battle-axe, as always, at the ready.

Minrah and Cimozjen looked at him. “What was that?” said Minrah.

“Fairhaven. That is what you called this place, correct? I have been before. There is something in the air that is familiar. I think I did a lot of fighting here.” He looked around. “Not in this exact spot, but in this general area. Deep inside a building, or perhaps underground.” He looked around. “It is upsetting. It reminds me that someone may attack me at any time. This is a violent place.”