The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (24 page)

One of them looked her up and down, a potential sneer of contempt shading his features, just waiting to erupt on the surface of his expression. He turned to his friends. “Bar whore,” he said.

“I most certainly am not!” snapped Minrah. “I just thought you were rather—”

“Don’t see them around here much,” said the man’s friend.

“That’s because there’s no reason to treat them as well as we treated the camp followers,” said a third. “At least they’d wash the blood out of your clothes.”

“And sew up the rips,” agreed the second.

“If I’m intruding—” said Minrah.

“I’d say that those that eavesdropped on private conversations of the Regent’s Halberdiers would have to be a spy, wouldn’t you agree?”

The third nodded. “Aye, preparing to renew the war for one of the other kingdoms, I’d say.”

“Spies are killed, aren’t they?” asked the second. “Drawn and quartered?”

“We ain’t got horses,” said the fourth, the biggest of the group, with a heavy gravelly voice to match. “We’d have to do it ourselves, after we were done, of course.”

By the time he had finished his sentence, Minrah was already making her way back to Cimozjen, her nose in the air and trying to carry herself in such a manner that she did not appear to be afraid. She reclaimed her stool, safely sited between Cimozjen and Four’s ever-watchful glare. “They’re not my type,” she said.

Cimozjen tried to suppress a laugh, and failed.

“They’re tight as a flock of cannibal stirges,” she said, “all feeding on each other. They might as well be one foul man with eight armpits.”

“Brothers in arms,” Cimozjen said. “No woman can draw them apart.”

“You mean they’re …?”

Cimozjen shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean.” “But then—”

“Forget it. You’ll never understand.”

They looked up as another assortment of rowdies entered the tavern, grinning widely. They talked quietly amongst each other, their conversation punctuated by shoves, punches, and head butts.

“This looks like it may turn out to be an interesting night,” said Cimozjen.

“But why now?” asked Minrah as the door opened yet again to admit another half dozen locals. “Why suddenly now?” She leaned forward to get a better look around Cimozjen. “Hoy there,” she said in quiet but urgent tone. “That’s the one from the ship. The commander, what’s his name? Pomindras. That’s him, Cimozjen, isn’t that him?”

Cimozjen turned to look, hiding his face by pretending to take
a deep draw on his drink. “Sovereigns, it is,” said Cimozjen. “Those wide-set eyes are a giveaway. Now we know that some of them are here in town. Do you see him, Four?”

“Yes. Do you wish me to kill him?”

“No, do not kill him.”

“But that is the goal of our adventure, is it not?”

“I want justice, not revenge,” said Cimozjen. “Also, if we kill him now, we probably lose any chance of running down any of the others who might be involved in this. Given how he was let free, we have to assume Rophis and maybe some of the other crew could be involved, too. Just keep an eye on him for us, will you? All things considered, you’ll be the least conspicuous doing it.”

Minrah adjusted herself so that her back faced the room. “Let’s just cross our fingers that he doesn’t recognize us.”

Minrah and Cimozjen nursed their drinks and resisted the agonizing urge to turn around and check up on their quarry. Finally, Minrah turned and sat sideways at the bar, leaning back against Four.

Cimozjen glanced at her, and saw that her eyes were elsewhere. “Careful, Minrah,” said Cimozjen. “Let him not catch you staring.”

“I’m looking at his reflection in the window over there,” said Minrah, her face aimed at her companion, but her eyes turned away. “He’ll think I’m talking to you. He’s speaking with those stirges. He’s handing them something, leaning over their table. Hoy, and look who just walked in.”

“Who?” asked Cimozjen, not wanting to turn around.

Minrah never answered his question, although she didn’t need to. Cimozjen heard someone stomp across the floor and slap the bar so hard he felt the tremor at the other end. “Bottle of Orla-un brandy, barkeep,” snarled an unmistakably bitter voice.

“But that’ll cost your whole take,” said a second, gentler voice.

“I don’t care,” came the clipped answer. Then her voice rose to a shout. “Death beware, for Aundair dares!”

Cimozjen turned around. The woman was demanding attention, and it would be conspicuous not to give it to her. He turned slowly on his stool to see the angry, truncated face of Jolieni snarling across the tavern floor.

“The unholy Cannith beast is dead,” she said, fist in the air. “Vengeance is mine.”

The proprietor set a bottle of brandy on the bar beside her and walked down the bar to fetch some glassware. She slid her hand across the wood and let fly a gold coin, sending it scooting across the stained wood to the bartender. She grabbed the brandy by the neck, ignoring his offer of glasses. She started to stalk across the floor to her table, but her eye caught Four standing in the corner with Cimozjen and Minrah. Slowly she raised the hand holding the brandy, to point menacingly at Four.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t you,” she called. She held the gesture and didn’t break eye contact with Four until after she had seated herself and taken her first pull at the bottle.

Minrah turned away. “She’s awfully excited for winning a bet over a warforged.”

“It did kill her friend,” said Cimozjen, “and she is a woman of great anger. Still.…” As Cimozjen tore his gaze away from her, he saw Pomindras saunter out of the establishment. “And there he goes.”

“Who?” asked Minrah.

“Pomindras.”

“Should we follow him?” asked Four.

“No. If we do, we increase the chance he’ll recognize us. We dare not make him nervy, or we might be facing down a whole tavern full of his friends.”

Within a half bell of the commander’s departure, the Dragon’s Flagons was galloping full tilt, every table packed with rowdy and violent people, most of whom Cimozjen noted bore the marks of those who’d fought in the War.

As the number of Aundairian veterans grew, the quantity of alcohol remaining in the establishment shrank and the atmosphere became more and more unstable. Minrah edged closer to Cimozjen, intimidated by the raucous noise and coarse language. For his part, Cimozjen tried to ignore the vulnerable feminine bundle pressed to his side so he could keep his attention on the potential threat of everyone else in the tavern. Beside him, Four raised the battle-axe slowly to an ever more threatening position.

“This is what it sounded like when someone tried to kill me,” he said. “Only now I might not be able to tell when it starts. That was an advantage my home provided me. It opened whenever trouble arrived.”

“Let’s get ourselves out of here,” said Cimozjen, praying for an opportunity. And, shortly afterwards, one came. Jolieni’s friend, the one who had calmed her down from the fight only the night before, came to the bar to order another small cask of wine.

“Evening,” said Cimozjen over the noise of the crowd and showing a smile that said he was genuinely pleased to see the man.

The Aundairian looked at him. “It is a good evening indeed,” he said. “For you?”

“Always!” Cimozjen took a chug from his glass and leaned closer. “Tell me, I’m trying to remember this Aundairian drinking song. I’m hoping that you know it.”

“Most of the songs I know have to do with barmaids,” said the Aundairian.

“The words run something like: Fine wine, drink mine till I’m blind … but I’m unable to recall what might come next,” said Cimozjen, straining his voice against the background noise.

The man’s face brightened immediately. “Hey, yeah, that’s a fun one!” he started sing the song at a full, throaty shout.

Cimozjen joined in and the two belted out the rest of the verse together, very loudly.

As Cimozjen had hoped, the song quickly caught fire in the general atmosphere of inebriation, and when the chorus had taken hold of the collective attention, he and his companions exited the tavern into the chill autumn air and made their way by moonlight back to their boardinghouse.

Coincidence
Zol, the 24th day of Sypheros, 998

T
he morning dawned steely gray and dismal, with heavy clouds overhead dimming the light. After Minrah and Cimozjen had broken their fast, the three companions took an easy walk to the University of Wyrnarn to read the latest in the
Korranberg Chronicle
.

Afterwards, they worked their way from the upscale Distant Exchange markets to the merchants in Chalice Center and around the University, and then through the questionable Whiteroof ward all the way to the area known as Eastbank, asking tanners, leatherworkers, toolmakers, and traders of all sorts if they were familiar with the markings on Torval’s shoe.

“It’s not a good sign that no one knows it,” said Minrah. “That means his mark isn’t famous, and therefore neither is the cobbler.”

“In that case, we should look in the poorer sections of town,” said Cimozjen.

“We are, in case you hadn’t noticed,” said Minrah, casting a look at the houses and shacks jammed together on the streets, and the makeshift tents that filled the alleys.

“Of course I noticed. It was my way of pointing out to you that we are undertaking the right approach at this time.”

Minrah sighed in despair. “This might all be a rabid goblin chase, anyways. The cobbler might have been an apprentice that couldn’t earn enough, and went on to another line of work.”

“Pray that is not the case,” said Cimozjen.

“Not likely, I will,” said Minrah. “The gods’d kill the cobbler off just to spite me.”

“The Host bless you, miss, if’n you please,” came a tremulous voice from a nearby alley.

Minrah stopped and sneered at the beggar. “Pardon me?”

“The Host bless you,” the old man said, holding out a weather-beaten hat at the end of a skinny and underclad arm.

“Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?” she asked.

“No, miss, I just only asked for the Host to bless you, that’s all. I need me a new coat for the winter, afore it gets too cold, if’n you please, miss.”

“Well, you can keep your prayers and see if the gods’ blessings keep you warm this winter,” said Minrah. “See how much they care for your piety.”

Cimozjen stepped forward, fishing in his coin pouch. He took a pair of copper crowns but did not drop them in the man’s hat. Rather he kneeled, set the man’s hat back on his head and placed the coins in his open palm. “Winter’s coming soon, good man.”

“Yes it is. Host bless you.”

“Still, you’ve a decent enough hat and”—Cimozjen paused to draw in a sharp breath—“and you have a pair of good shoes.”

“They’ll do with the right stockings, yes they will, Host bless you.”

Cimozjen stood up, hands clasped behind his back. “Minrah, you agree that these are excellent shoes, right?”

“Mm. Beggars’ shoes.”

“Minrah,” said Cimozjen. “Look at these shoes. Are. They. Not. Excellent.”

Minrah rolled her eyes and moped her way over to the beggar.
Her eyes went wide, but only for a moment. “Yes, I guess I’d have to say they are,” she said, then turned and walked back to stand near Four, her back to Cimozjen.

“Tell me, old man,” said Cimozjen, kneeling down. He pulled a sovereign from his coin pouch and toyed with it idly. “Where did you get those shoes?”

“Outside of town, if you please. There’s a farmer’s family, the Valleaus, and his second son, he’s good with the leather, you see. Sometimes I do work for them, bring them things, or carry something into town for them, and one day he gave me these. He said he din’t need them.”

Cimozjen moved his hand toward the coin pouch, ready to drop the coin back in. “And how might I find the Valleau farm?”

“Easy, sir, biggest farm out the Galifar Gate, it is. Follow the road down the river for about two hours ’til you get to the burned stump of a giant oak tree. That marks the corner of his property, and you’ll see a rock wall. Take that road inland for about a half mile to the gate. It’s got two whitewashed pieces of wood on it that form a V when it’s closed. The path to the right gets to their house.”

Cimozjen flipped the coin to the old man. “Our thanks, old man. Stay warm this winter. And the Sovereign Host bless you, too.”

The man clutched the coin in both hands, rocking back and forth in glee. “They already have,” he said, “They already have!”

Cimozjen walked back over to Minrah and Four. He looked at each of them in turn and smiled with quiet satisfaction.

“Host bless you ag’in!” called the old man after him.

Cimozjen nodded at Minrah.

“Coincidence!” she snapped, and stomped off in the direction of the Dragon’s Flagons.