The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (37 page)

He looked up, at the three weapons that lay in the corner, just out of his reach.

No wonder.

Minrah and Four walked across town to the outpost of the Sentinel Marshals, located in a corner tower of one of the Aundairian government buildings along with the speaking stone station operated by House Sivis and the Kundarak Banking Guild—an above-ground service desk for their subterranean operations.

Inside, the Sentinel Marshal outpost was actually welcoming. While well furnished, it had neither the pomp of royalty nor the ostentatious hubris of the dragonmarked houses. The power it projected was quiet, much like, it was told, had been the case with the early kings of Galifar. The dark wood had been warmly polished to have a deep luster reminiscent of coals burning on a winter night. Papers were posted about containing splendid renditions of wanted criminals, some of them created with magical glamers that seemed as true to life as one could possibly want. A map of Khorvaire dominated one wall, peppered with tiny flags
and pins, and opposite that hung a detailed map of the streets of Fairhaven, likewise peppered with little colored flags and notes.

A clerk sat at a high desk, scribing gear all about him. He looked at Minrah as she and Four entered the room, his fingers laced at the edge of his desk.

“Good morning to the both of you. Do you have a criminal complaint, or are you seeking some other service?”

Minrah smiled as she walked over. The desk was just a tad too high for her to peer over, so she slipped to the side. It also helped her flirting to stand closer to her target. “It’s rather more complicated than that,” she said, gazing at him from the corner of her eye as she feigned timidity.

“Indeed? How may I be of service?”

“My name’s Minrah Hunter,” she said with just a trace of coyness. “And you are …?”

“Sorn d’Deneith, at your service.”

Minrah’s fluttered her eyes and faced him more fully. “I’m sorry, Sorn …?”

“Of House Deneith,” he said. “My apologies if it wasn’t clear. Sometimes that double ‘D’ comes out sounding like a stutter.”

“Deneith. Right,” said Minrah. She tried to force her smile back, but her furrowed brow smothered it as a thunderhead stops the sunshine. “House Deneith. But I thought … aren’t the Sentinel Marshals an … independent … force?”

“Of course we are. It’s part of our charter, just like the Blademarks Guild and the—”

“And the Defender’s Guild. Right.” Her expression went from anxious to vacuously sunny in an instant. “That’s why I’m here. I was looking to hire a bodyguard. Would that be possible?”

“I’m sorry, miss,” said the clerk. “That’s not what we do in this office. We only handle criminal investigations here. Contracts for the Defenders Guild are handled through the main House Deneith enclave.”

“Was I mistaken?” gasped Minrah. “I am so sorry.”

“Not a worry. It can be a little confusing sometimes. We
Marshals keep ourselves physically separate from the rest of the house to help maintain our neutrality. If you’d like, I can give you directions.”

“That won’t be necessary. I know where I’m going.”

“No problem, young miss,” said the clerk with a respectful nod of the head. “Happens all the time. Truly.”

Minrah left quickly, grabbing Four’s arm as she departed. She dragged him behind her until they had exited the tower, walked half a block, and then ducked in an alley. No sooner were they out of sight than Minrah leaned against the wall, trembling, squealed a high-pitched cry and grabbed at her hair with clawed hands.

“Are you ailing?” asked Four.

“Yes!” said Minrah. “I am so stupid!”

“Ah. Your brain is damaged, then?”

“Four,” said Minrah, “don’t you see? All this time we’ve been looking at who might have sway over the Marshals, but who has more sway than
their own people?
House Orien isn’t behind this! It’s House Deneith!”

“But you said they were rigidly neutral and true to their pledge, and would not want to risk their reputation.”

“Obviously, I didn’t think it through all the way. But it all makes sense now. Who’s better to take control of soldiers than soldiers, who’s more likely to promote fighting than mercenaries, and who’s less likely to hold to the law than sellswords? No wonder Rophis was so unruffled when I threatened him with the Marshals raiding his gambling arena. Just think about it. The Sentinel Marshals are one arm of the house, and they always uphold the law and vanquish the wrongdoer … unless doing so crosses their own! They can’t very well cut the purse that pays them, can they? That’s why the Marshals let Pomindras and Rophis go free on Thronehold, Four. They were letting members of their own house off the hook.” She snorted. “Meanwhile, the people they hired or duped—the passengers, and that Kundarak moneycounter—they get arrested and prosecuted for their part in the slave trade.”

“Great!”

Minrah looked up at him, confused and disgusted. “What?”

“That is great. Great as in large, ominous, and far-reaching.”

Minrah placed her face in her hands. “We really need to work on your language skills.”

“You have said that before,” said Four, “but you never follow up with lessons.” He paused, and seeing no response was forthcoming, asked, “So what is our next step?”

Minrah rubbed her face, then looked to the steely autumn sky. “Since we can’t go to the law, we go to the power.” She stood erect, brushed her hair back, and regained her composure. “We go to the crown. Queen Aurala will be ill-pleased to hear that people are being enslaved in her fair land.”

Striding out the other end of the alley, she spoke to Four over her shoulder. “Let me be realistic,” she said. “We’re not going to see her. We’ll see some low-ranking administrators that will be ill-pleased on her behalf. But on the bright side, maybe they’ll have some magic for us, something we can use to our advantage.”

The view slit slammed shut. And, after a moment, the bland gray door opened to admit Tholog into the front rooms of the arena. He nodded to the door guard and went down the passageway to the right, thinking about how all door guards seemed to like to slam view slits.

He entered the booking area, walked up to one of the barred wickets, and rapped his knuckle on the wooden counter. “Seneschal!” he called, lisping the sibilants.

The only person within the booking room was an older human, checking ledgers. He looked up. “Ah, yes, may we help you …?”

“Tholog.”

“Yes, that’s right, Tholog.” The seneschal rose and walked slowly over, touching one finger to the side of his nose. “Didn’t we pay out against you last night?”

Tholog rubbed a hand self-consciously on the bandage over the base of his neck, where a wound, a good two fingers wide but merely skin-deep, marked the place where Cimozjen had stabbed him. “Uh, yes, you did,” he growled bitterly, “and that’s what I’m here for. I want to issue a challenge.”

“Looking for revenge, are we?”

“No,” said Tholog. “I’m still too weak for that. I lost a lot of blood. If I stand up too quickly, the darkness takes me.”

The seneschal leaned forward, hands clasped together over his heart. “Was the wound serious?”

“It should have been fatal. Cursed Karrn cheated me!” spat the hobgoblin. “Distracted me with talk of honor, then stabbed me in the neck as I was thinking. I cannot leave him unpunished. I want my vengeance now, but I don’t know when I’ll be strong enough to return.”

“That is a pity,” said the seneschal, looking truly compassionate. “You’ve been doing so well for us. And for yourself, of course. How is it then that we can help you?”

“I have someone I’d like to use as a stand-in for my revenge. I’ve found another fighter who’d be well suited to the arena, and I hope to make some money backing him with my wagers before everyone else figures out how good he is.”

“Do tell us of him.”

Tholog rubbed his wound again. “He’s a bugbear, mercenary from Darguun, and he’s a tough one, eager for a scrap.”

“Bugbear?” asked the seneschal. “I don’t believe we’ve ever seen one of them in our establishment.”

Tholog shrugged, then winced and clutched at his wound again. “I can’t speak for the whole race, but this one is pretty much the same height and build as a front-line warforged. Thank the Host for his fur, because he wears pretty much nothing but his armor. Saw him at a drunken brawl across town the other night. Took down several with nothing but his teeth and claws. When he was done, I hied off with him before the watch showed up. No sense in wasting a good warrior in the dungeons, right?”

The seneschal wrung his hands. “The creature sounds impressive indeed,” he said, “and the novelty could be good for business. You are aware that we do not normally allow third-party challenges, but since you were treated so unfairly in the previous fight, and since you’ve provided such good results for us over the last year, I suppose I will endorse your invitation. It’s too late to add anyone to the lists for tonight, but I can put your champion in for the morrow, if you’d like.”

“Thank you. Please pair him off against … grrh, I can’t remember his name. You know who I mean.”

The seneschal smiled. “Cimozjen, the Killer from Karrnath. I know him well. He’s already drawn quite a bit of betting activity for us. I am sure this match will do well for all of us.”

“Good.” Tholog put a small pouch on the counter. “Put this on Cimozjen … to die.”

“The man no one dares challenge, fighting by lot, Cimozjen Hellekanus, the Killer from Karrnath, defender!” boomed the voice.

Cimozjen ignored the boos and catcalls from the crowd. It was safe for cowards to berate a warrior when safely ensconced in the seats above the arena. He also tried to ignore the pangs of hunger that plagued his stomach, for the rations he’d been given since his capture were not quite enough to sate his appetite. No wonder Torval had looked so thin.

Instead of attending to distractions internal or external, Cimozjen prayed that Dol Dorn would allow him to prevail in this combat without taking a life.

Across the way, the door opened. Within was a shadowy shape, and, from his vantage point, Cimozjen could see that it had been contained within a large crate. He wondered how many others had watched Four step out of a crate just like that.

“And, by special request,” boomed the voice, “a new creature
enters the arena! We’ve managed to procure, at great expense and at the risk of losing our immortal souls in the Karrnathi bureaucracy, a real Karrnathi zombie!”

The crowd cheered.

“Who will it be, people? Which vile spawn will prevail, the living or the dead? Cimozjen favored, four to one!”

Four to one, thought Cimozjen, with no small sense of pride. Pretty good odds. I wonder what Four’s odds were like.

The zombie stalked out of its crate, and suddenly Cimozjen had the answer. The roaring crowd. The lone voice, cutting through the noise, calling the odds, dragging out the pronouncement to stoke the excitement. Four to one. Ffourrr-to-oooonne! It was the noise the warforged had imitated for them. How suitable that it had served as the seed for his name.

The zombie closed like a seasoned warrior, its legs in a wide, well balanced stance. It kept its center of gravity low, and held its shield and sword to the sides, ready for action. No mortal could maintain such an aggressive stance for long without tiring. It was one of the advantages the zombie had. That, and the zombie couldn’t bleed to death.