The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (36 page)

Tholog looked at him funny. “Yes. Why, did you get shorted?” He chuckled. “If so, you need a pounding for being a buffoon.”

Cimozjen planted his staff on the clay, but did not draw his sword. Instead, he placed his hand on his hip. “You know that I’m being held against my will.”

“Quit talking.” Tholog shifted his grip and moved his weapon into an attack position. “The crowd’s getting restless.”

“I’ve not left this building since I fought Jolieni. They’ve kept me in a cage.”

“They what?”

“They imprisoned a friend of mine since the end of the War, making him fight,” said Cimozjen. “Wore peasant’s garb and an iron armband. He died two weeks ago. That’s why I’m here. Now they have me.” He studied Tholog’s reaction. “Minrah. Remember that name. Minrah. She’s at the guesthouse on Chandlers Street near the lightning rail station. Find her and tell her I’m here.”

Tholog shook his head. “No … no. You can’t be telling the truth.”

The crowd’s displeasure grew louder, more insistent.

“Minrah! Remember it! She knows not where I am!”

“Don’t lie. This is all volunteer. You knew what we were getting into just as much as I did.”

“Do you distrust me? Look at my right boot. Look at the marks the shackles made.”

Tholog glanced down.

Cimozjen struck, whipping the dagger from the small of his back, flipping it in his hand, and plunging it with a back-handed stab into the nape of Tholog’s neck.

Tholog’s eyes bulged. He dropped his hammer and clawed at the wound as blood spurted forth.

Cimozjen forced him to the ground, not a difficult proposition as the hobgoblin was quickly bleeding to death. Eyes glaring, Cimozjen leaned his face right into the hobgoblin’s. Tholog’s eyes rolled back in his head.

Cimozjen hunkered over the body for a few moments. The crowd went silent, wondering if he were smothering the hobgoblin or possibly working other atrocities with his dagger. At last he straightened up and shoved Tholog away. He wiped off his dagger, stropping it several times on Tholog’s sleeve, then wiped the blood from his fingers on the material as well.

He stood and raised his arms to the crowd in acknowledgement of his victory, holding his red-stained hands aloft. He took a bow, his bloody holy symbol swinging like a pendulum and his dagger glinting in the light. He retired to his cage to the hissing and catcalls of hundreds of angry spectators.

Rophis the Winemonger wrenched a leg from the magebred turkey that sat steaming in the center of the table. He tore some of the meat from the bone with his teeth, breathed in and out to cool it a little with the passing air, then gobbled it like an alligator.

The Blinking Hippo was an experiment, a Ghallanda eatery supplied with magebred animals of every sort from the best breeders of House Vadalis. Odd animals they were, like this turkey with four fat legs, but very tasty indeed. They promised to deliver a six-foot long rack of ribs for him next week.

He was looking forward to it. Life had turned very, very good.

The door to the private dining room opened, and a familiar figure stepped in.

“Pomindras!” said Rophis around the half-chewed chunk of turkey that was still in his mouth. “Come! Sit!”

He patted the back of the empty chair at his right hand. Rophis had held the chair open for him, a gesture of appreciation for his assistance in capturing the damnable paladin who’d disrupted the operation of the
Silver Cygnet
in Thronehold and just as swiftly had galvanized the house’s clientele as the most hated man in the arena. After they’d debarked from the
Fire Flight
, Pomindras had been excluded from the table as punishment for allowing the troublesome Karrn to board the
Silver Cygnet
in the first place, but Rophis was a forgiving man, happy to reward those who overcame their own failures. Rebuke and reward. It was a powerful combination to bend people to his will.

Pomindras came around the table and sat down, his pleasure evident. He placed a sheaf of high-quality Karrn paper to the side.

Rophis gestured with his mangled turkey leg. “Try some.” He bit off another large, greasy mouthful and chewed, rolling his eyes back in pleasure. He followed with a hearty swill from his large mug of stout. “Mm. Wonderful.”

Pomindras did as he’d been bidden, cutting off a large chunk of breast, though truly it required no measure of loyalty or obedience to sample the savory bird.

Rophis smacked his lips and waved one hand vaguely. “Glad to have you here at last, Pomindras. You may begin.”

Pomindras set down his knife, wiped his hands and took up the papers. “Attendance continues to grow, lord, at roughly the same pace. Wagers have risen more rapidly, as have participants, and despite a few setbacks, we are profiting well.” He switched to another page. “I’ve been keeping my eye on several potential candidates who may be valuable additions. However, Alain—you remember him, the albino lad?—we’ve confirmed that he’s in touch with the gnomes, so I’ve arranged a special event for his benefit.”

Rophis chuckled. “Excellent. Monsters are always a good draw. Tell me, what sort is it?”

Pomindras smiled. “I’d rather it remained a surprise, lord. Trust me, though, it’s a good one.”

Rophis looked aslant at Pomindras, then laughed. “A surprise, eh? Pomindras, that sounds like—”

The door to the private dining room opened, and an unfamiliar figure stepped in.

“You have the wrong room,” growled Pomindras.

“Oh, no, I do not,” said the small elf gaily. She winked at Pomindras. “In fact, as soon as I saw your bald little head bobbing on in, I knew I’d find myself in the absolute right room.” She blew a kiss to Rophis. “How are you faring, O winemonger son of Raanel?”

Rophis leaned to his right, an incredulous twist to his lip. “I know that face. Who is she, Pomindras?”

“You wound me,” said the elf, clutching her heart with melodramatic anguish. “On board the
Silver Cygnet
, you said I was a lovely creature with a radiant face, and now you don’t remember me?” She sighed and sagged against the doorframe. “But that’s fine, because I remember you, and now, thanks to the
Chronicle
, the whole of Khorvaire will soon know what you’re doing.”

“Now I remember you,” said Rophis. “You’re the Karrn’s bit of sleeve lace. And you’re our mysterious narrator, too?”

Minrah curtsied. “Indeed I am. And now you’re holding my friend. Cimozjen, in case you’ve forgotten. Let him go before nightfall, or I’m calling the Marshals down on you.”

Rophis stared at her blankly. “The Marshals.”

“That’s right,” said Minrah. “The Sentinel Marshals. So you might want to give me the answers I want before they wring them from your tortured body.”

“Pfft!” snorted Rophis. “Empty threats.” He waved a turkey leg. “Pomindras, deal with her.”

Pomindras stepped around the table. His hand went to his belt, but of course House Ghallanda had required him to surrender his sword upon entry into the Blinking Hippo. So instead he flexed his arms and cocked one meaty fist by his shoulder. “All right, youngster …” he said.

The elf slid back and pushed the door open a bit wider. A large warforged stepped through the door and adopted a protective stance.

“This is Four,” said the elf.

Pomindras swaggered a little as he approached. “It’s for … what?”

“This,” said the warforged. He threw a fast punch from the waist, catching Pomindras right below the ribs. Pomindras doubled over, gasping for breath, and he staggered and fell to the floor, pulling a chair over on top of himself.

“Seeing as you have markedly little hospitality,” said the elf, “we’ll be on your way. Free Cimozjen by sundown. I’m giving you one last chance.”

The two of them departed, and the warforged pulled the door closed behind them.

“More than I’ll give you,” muttered Pomindras. He rose and set the chair upright again. “I’ll fetch some others and we’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” said Rophis waving him off with the bone. “Not yet. Ambush her in the streets, and the chronicles will hear of it. That would be bad, because it makes her story all the more compelling. We need a way to eliminate her without adding to her influence, and—” He stopped in mid-gesture, then a jaded smile slowly spread across his face.

“Sit,” he said.

Pomindras sat. “What’s your plan, lord?”

“We’ll send her an invitation that she won’t be able to resist,” he said. Then he returned his attention to his turkey leg.

Lying to the Authorities
Mol, the 2nd day of Aryth, 998

D
o I know how to work a crowd, or don’t I?” Minrah smiled as she saw the people assembled around the latest edition of
The Korranberg Chronicle
, where it was plastered to a large, blank wall. The top of the broadsheet featured the fourth installment of her story, and was the subject of much animated discussion.

“If you wanted an angry crowd, you have succeeded,” said Four.

“Indeed I have. Now that we have the crowd behind us—or at least behind the thought of righteous revenge—we need to talk with the Sentinel Marshals.”

“I do not understand. If you are relying on the Sentinel Marshals, why do you want the crowd excited?”

“Two reasons. The first is so that the Marshals feel the pressure. If they know that every face they meet on the street wants to see Torval avenged, they’re more likely to help. That way they’re less likely to pull some limpid sort of trick like they did at Thronehold, leaving the guilty to go free.”

“And what is the second reason?”

“I want the crowd personally involved. There’s nothing like a
lynch mob to get a job done right. Once the crowd realizes they’re a part of the story, that they’re involved with history as it’s being written, they’ll get the revenge they all want, laws and Marshals notwithstanding.”

Four considered this. “Might not there be some casualties, if an angry mob were to attack the Marshals and House Orien?”

“Most assuredly,” said Minrah. “And that makes for an even more exciting story. We just have to make sure we keep ourselves safe. Come, Four. We’re off to see the Marshals.”

Cimozjen woke up with a groan. His head ached, an ugly taste had encamped in his mouth, and when he opened his eyes the world looked fuzzy.

He lay on his pallet bed, clothed and armored and very stiff. He’d been there for a while. He remembered defeating Tholog and, as he hadn’t wanted to face the guards with their electrified spears again, walking out of the arena with his weapons in hand. He’d gone back into his cage like a trained animal.

Cimozjen forced himself to sit up. There in the corner were his staff and his sword, just as he remembered leaving them, and just out of his reach. With a grunt, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. What had happened next?

Next he’d … woken up.

They had done something to him.

He put his hand to the small of his back. His dagger was gone.

He stood up and shuffled his way across his cell as far as the chain would let him. There, on the ground by his other weapons, was his dagger. That was why they had struck him unconscious. Somehow they’d known he hadn’t given up his third weapon, and some house wizard had felled him like a tree. He shuffled back over to his pallet bed and sat heavily. He turned his hands over and looked at them.

They wanted him unarmed.

But why? One obvious answer was that he could kill himself with his dagger. Still, he could probably commit suicide by hanging himself with his belt or ankle chain, or by starving himself, or even just by falling on his sword in the arena.

Then he remembered Torval. Torval had used a sharp object to cut into his skin and create a scar. Perhaps they didn’t want that to happen again.

Cimozjen pushed up his sleeve and looked at his bare forearm. What kind of message was Torval trying to send?

He traced his fingers along his skin. S … I … And then he realized: it’s wasn’t an I. It was an L. Torval had been writing Slave, but something had stopped him from completing it.