The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (33 page)

Four said nothing, but the rest of the way back to their suite he pondered how much her attitude differed from that of her companion, who remained behind in the building, facing the unknown.

As Cimozjen considered his options, Jolieni leapt to the attack. With her left hand, she flung an object at the ground, which burst with a flash of fire and a loud crack that cut through the crowd noise. Flustered, Cimozjen blinked rapidly and backpedaled, but felt her thrusting sword strike his abdomen.

Jolieni’s sword broke a link of his chain and cut through his skin, but the iron held otherwise, turning what could have been a lethal blow into a sharp jab that sent him stumbling. She struck again, a glancing thrust that ran along the links of his chain and tore the side out of his tunic.

Eyes still dazzled by the flash, Cimozjen swung a desperate overhand blow while still backpedaling, his staff hand held high to protect his face. He felt it strike something, so he struck again, but missed her entirely. Just to be safe, he swung upward with the inside edge of his sword, again catching nothing but air. Then at the last moment, he saw her thrusting again. He ducked his head to the side, and her blade traced a deep cut across his left cheekbone and took a cut through the curl of his ear.

Years of training and experience kicked in. Knowing that the thrust had left her extended and open, Cimozjen swung his left arm wide, placing the staff in a position to keep her sword arm out of the battle as long as possible. He stepped in and swung his sword low, striking her a solid blow on the ribs with the hilt of his sword, then swept his staff in, fetching her a blow on the side of the head. He pressed forward, pushing into her to knock her to the ground, but as she fell, she managed to trip him up. He stumbled over her and she kicked at him, sending him to the ground. His sword caught the clay awkwardly and, off balance as he was, he lost his grip as he fell.

He rolled away, clutching his staff, and rose to his feet as fluidly as his aging joints allowed. He blinked several times rapidly, glad that the lingering glare from the flash was fading. He considered unleashing his staff to the fullest, but decided against it, confident that he could still defeat Jolieni without killing her.

Jolieni stood opposite, still holding her sword, but not in the same martial stance she’d been in earlier. She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand, and then the other with the back of her wrist. Cimozjen wondered whether she was daubing at sweat or tears.

He charged, swinging his staff overhand. She raised her sword to parry, deflecting the swing to her left, but Cimozjen used the
shift in momentum to swing the staff around and strike again with the other end. She blocked that swing, and the impact jarred Cimozjen’s hands as it drove the sword down. He swung again and again, sweeping the staff around to strike overhand with either end in turn, beating down her defense.

At the last, she abandoned her attempt at defense and lashed at Cimozjen as the metal-shod staff came down. He struck her squarely atop her shoulder, and her blade caught the heel of his hand where it held the staff. Between the wound and the impact, Cimozjen lost his grip on the staff, but his powerful blow drove Jolieni to the ground. With a flick of her sword she spun the staff off her, and it landed close enough to her that any attempt to recover it could be lethal.

Instead, he stepped back and recovered his sword, for he had planned his angle of attack to drive her away from his primary weapon for just that purpose.

She started to rise as he grabbed his sword, so he lunged in and slashed at her ankle. The impact knocked her foot out from under her and set her down, supine. She started to rise again, but he stepped over her, planting one leg firmly on the blade of her sword. He inverted his grip on his sword and held it to her throat, one hand on the hilt and the other flat against the blade to steady it.

The yells and whistles of the crowd, which had been a fairly steady roar, began to pulse.

Cimozjen saw that Jolieni’s face was indeed spattered with tears. His heart hesitated with compassion, but then he disciplined himself to end the combat. It was truly the most merciful thing to do. “Yield!” he demanded.

She squeezed her eyes, trying to blink away her tears. “Give me Killien back!”

Cimozjen shook his head.

The pulsing noise became gradually comprehensible. “Kill her!” chanted the crowd. “Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”

“Rotting bastard!” She kicked at him to free herself, but he pressed the blade to the skin at the base of her neck.

“Yield, for the Host’s sake,” he shouted. “You fought well, but you’ve lost! Yield with honor!”

Her mouth worked for a moment, the noise of the crowd sounding like nothing so much as a vile, monstrous heartbeat. She gritted her teeth. “I’m sick of this,” she spat, and she shoved at Cimozjen’s foot where it stood on her sword. His foot slid down her blade, throwing him off balance.

His sword plunged into her naked neck.

The crowd roared so loudly that Cimozjen couldn’t even hear himself scream.

The Sharper Weapon
Zor, the 26th day of Sypheros, 998

M
inrah awoke from her meditation before dawn. She rose, stretched like a spoiled cat, and sauntered over to the window, her bare feet making no noise as she walked. She pulled the curtain back and gazed at the sky, and her keen elf eyes noted the faintest lightening in the east—a slight warmth that crept beneath the cloud cover, the subtle promise of the coming dawn.

She turned and padded quietly over to Cimozjen’s bed, then drew up with a gasp. “Four?” she whispered. She heard the construct shift slightly. “Where is Cimozjen?”

“I presume he is still in the building where we left him.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” she said weakly, “because I more or less figured that the fights between folks would, I don’t know, just be fights or something. Like wrestling match with swords. He was supposed to teach Jolieni a lesson about swords. No one was supposed to get killed …”

“Why would you think that?” asked Four. “I killed countless people in the arena.”

“Sure, but you were a prisoner. They didn’t care if you lived or died, so having prisoners fight to the death was fine.”

“As a prisoner, they owned me. Would they not wish their property to remain undamaged?”

“Yes …”

“So if destruction of their own property was acceptable, why would it be unacceptable for non-prisoners to fight to the death?”

“Just … because! It’s not the way they’re supposed to do it!”

“If they had skilled warriors as prisoners, why would they waste them fighting each other, and not free people? And if they wished their slavery to remain unknown, why would they treat any duel differently from any other?”

Minrah tugged at the hem of her jersey, face flustered. “Because that’s not what I thought the challenges were all about!” she wailed.

“What evidence or experience did you base your conclusions on?”

Minrah rounded on her companion. “Quiet, Four! We can’t waste time thinking about that sort of stuff now! Don’t you understand that? There are more important things. We have to find out what happened to Cimmer. If he hasn’t come back, then something really dreadful happened, like he got badly injured.” Her fury spent, she turned and paced helplessly, twisting her fingers around each other. “Or maybe he’s dead. We need to go back and see.”

“We cannot do that,” said Four. “They will not allow me in the building, so that is a part of the adventuring that I cannot participate in. But we can go back to the door together, if that is your wish, and then you can explore inside some more.”

“Without you?” whined Minrah.

“They will not admit me,” he said. Then, with his voice altered to imitate the doorman, he added, “ ‘We do not allow their kind in here. You will have to leave it outside.’ ”

“Fine,” said Minrah. “Let’s go.”

They wended their way back to the entrance to the arena. The rain had stopped some hours before, and only an occasional drip fell from the eaves overhead. Four concealed himself in the alley, while Minrah hesitantly stepped up and knocked. She waited.

And waited.

With a nervous glance in Four’s direction, she knocked again. Waited. Paced, her fingers writhing with impatience and dread. Finally she stopped and turned in Four’s direction. “Why won’t they answer?”

Four stepped out of the shadows. “Perhaps you are too timid in your knock,” he said. “Your muscles and bones are not particularly robust, and are thus ill-suited to making enough noise to attract the attention of the occupants. Permit me to demonstrate.”

The construct walked up to the door, battle-axe in hand. He hefted the weapon and slammed the butt end of the weapon hard into the door.
Wham! … Wham! … Crack!
And with the last blow, the wood of the door partially buckled under the impact. The warforged inspected the dent and the small split on the wood, nodded in satisfaction, then stalked back over to his hiding place, leaving Minrah staring agog after him.

The view slit in the door slammed open. “Hey!” barked a voice. “What in the ashes do you think you’re doing?”

Minrah whirled back around, and the eyes in the view slit grew wide. She gathered her frazzled wits and smiled as sweetly as she could, given her mental state. “I’m sorry, what was your question?” she asked, stalling for time.

“You—uh … you?” asked the doorman. “Um … 
you
knocked?”

“Why yes, yes, I did. I … had to leave early last night. I wanted to follow up on how things developed.”

“Well, um … almost everyone’s gone, but … um … wait just a moment.” The view slit closed much more gently than it had opened, and after a short time, the door swung wide to admit her.

Minrah stepped in hesitantly, faking a smile that shone bright
and warm in contrast to her chilled and fearful heart.

“Ah, Minrah Teamaker,” said a gentle voice, “it is you after all.” She turned and saw the purser from the betting window. He snapped his fingers once, sending an aide running down the hall, then he reached one hand out to her. She extended her hand and he took it and kissed it gallantly.

He smiled and bobbed his head. “I was beginning to fret about your absence,” he said. “The audience departed many bells ago, and you are the only one not to collect her winnings.”

“Winnings?”

“Indeed. You fared quite well this day. Your sole wager bore fruit, and I am pleased to give you your harvest. Quite a crop, if I do say so myself.” Just as he finished his words with a smarmy smile the aide returned, bearing a pouch and a small piece of paper curled tightly and tied with ribbon. The man turned, took the two items from the aide, and presented them to Minrah.

Amazed, Minrah reached out and took the bag. It sagged over her slender hands, heavy with coin. Her fingers clenched, gripping some of the coins through the coarse cloth. She shifted the bag to one hand and took the proffered curled paper. “What’s this?”

“A certificate for the balance of your winnings,” came the reply. “We’ve found that most of our clients like to have the security of a Kundarak-notarized promissory note, but still retain a portion of their winnings in ready coin for various means of immediate celebration.” He chuckled.

“Why … thank you,” said Minrah.

“No, we thank you, dear one, for patronizing our establishment. We do hope that you will choose to return soon.”

“How is Cimozjen?”

“Who?”

“The, uh, the person whom I was lucky enough to bet on. The fighter.”

“Ah. Obviously, he won, but beyond that I am afraid I do not know.”

“But he lived?”

The man shrugged, still wearing his insincere smile. “It is likely, although in fairness I must advance the possibility that he suffered what we call a ‘simultaneous finish.’ In those rare events, the house pays to the side that the judges deem to have prevailed, the actual results notwithstanding. And I find I must also add that even if I did know his status, it is against house policy for family members or employees to discuss or theorize about the health of any competitors. We must maintain our propriety and neutrality, and cannot be thought to be tampering with the odds by means of idle speculation. I suggest you watch the boards; if his name appears, you may draw your own conclusions.”

Minrah nodded, trying not to let her disappointment cross her features. “I see. So … when might I be able to come back? I’m not fully acquainted with your schedule.”

“The second night hence,” said the man with an eager bob of the head. “It’s a smaller event, but should provide quality amusement nonetheless. I’ll be sure to hold an excellent seat for you.”

Minrah smiled as best she could and clutched her winnings to her breast. “I thank you. I shall see you then.”