The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (6 page)

“Hold there—” interjected Cimozjen.

“Note also that this thread leads in a new and entirely different direction from everything else he has mentioned!”

“Captain, that is because that’s all you asked me about!” snapped Cimozjen.

Yorin turned back to face Cimozjen, a supercilious smirk twisting his youthful face. “You try to foist your error on me? Ha!
It’s everything you talked about! And now what do we have? The only thread connecting this whole sorry account is the
would-be
thief.” He chortled. “Indeed, gone are the robbery, the maiden and, with them, civilian, your credulity.”

Cimozjen stared at him in disbelief for a moment. “The word,” he said at last, “is credibility.”

Several of the guards snickered.

“Silence!” barked the captain. He looked back at Cimozjen and snapped his fingers. “Papers.”

Cimozjen pulled a small hinged brass folder dulled with tarnish from his haversack. Opening it, he removed a neatly folded parchment, opened it, and handed it to the White Lion.

Captain Thauram raised his eyebrows and pushed out his lower lip. “Provisional papers?” he said. “I see.”

“It’s a complicated story,” said Cimozjen, “and one that has no bearing on Torval’s murder.”

“Of course,” said Yorin. “All manner of vagrants and deserters have gotten provisional papers since the war.” He looked at the papers again. “You claim a home a few leagues east of … where in the depths is Vurgenslye? Lads? Anyone?”

There were shrugs all around.

“So a person whose home and citizenship that cannot be proved, hailing from somewhere near a hamlet no one has ever heard of. Indeed.” He tossed the paper back at Cimozjen, and it fluttered to the floor. He took a few steps, turned, and sat on the corner of a table to address his guards, completely ignoring Cimozjen. “What I see here is simple. This man is a stranger in town. Possibly a blacksmith by trade, or more likely a deserter, either of which explains his musculature, his lack of scars, and his rather subservient bearing.

“So tonight this timid, if robust, old man is wandering the streets of a strange city, whereupon he gets set upon by a vagrant, who, wracked by hunger and soaked by the afternoon’s rain, was in dire need of food and fresh clothing to survive the night. By some stroke of luck, or perhaps because the vagrant was too weakened
by starvation to be able to strike a telling blow, this old man manages to overcome the vagrant, and, in a moment of panicked frenzy, actually slays him. Now, those who have never known the bravery or discipline of the army can be undone by the act of taking a life. This being the case, he brings the body here with a carefully woven tapestry of events that accentuates his own heroism in the matter. It is a simple case of self-protection on one hand and fear of discovery on the other.”

He looked over at Cimozjen and drummed his fingers on his knee. “Still, I could be wrong. This may indeed be an actual murder. Hold him here, and send a rider to the other wards to see if there are any reports of trouble that might involve this man. And toss that … thing out in the street. I don’t want to see it any more. Let the corpse collectors fetch it in the morning.”

Two guards grabbed Torval by the ankles and started dragging him to the door.

Cimozjen shook his head in disbelief. “You …” he began, but managed to hold his tongue before he shared any more of his thoughts.

The half-elf slid off the table and glided over to where Cimozjen stood. He placed his hands on his hips, looked at Cimozjen and said, “You hate me now that I’ve uncovered your fear, don’t you?”

Cimozjen noted that although the half-elf looked
at
Cimozjen’s eyes, he didn’t actually look
in
them, hence he saw only what he wished to see.

“I tell you the truth, you know not what I think,” said Cimozjen.

“Oooh,” said Yorin, in a sing-song taunt. “I’ll bet I do. Right now you wish you had the courage to strike me, don’t you? But you’re too unsettled by the blood on your hands, and you’re too afraid of what will happen to your precious skin. But you’d love to fight me.”

Cimozjen smiled. “I cannot harm you, captain,” he said, so quietly that only he and the half-elf could hear, “for I am sworn to
protect
the weak and the foolish.”

The captain’s countenance flared into a snarl, and he swung a
backhanded slap at Cimozjen face. It was a slow-developing strike as Yorin cranked his arm back for maximum force, and Cimozjen saw the blow coming. He ducked his head and turned into the blow, so that the back of the elf’s hand landed on the heaviest portion of Cimozjen’s skull.

Cimozjen looked at the captain. The young soldier’s face twisted as he contained the pain without a sound, but his left hand massaged the back of his right.

He’ll be wearing gloves for a week to cover that bruise, thought Cimozjen.

After a few quiet moments, Yorin pointed to a corner. “Hold him there,” he commanded. “If he tries to escape before the rider returns, kill him.” Then he quickly exited the common room.

“Move it,” said one of the guards with a gesture, and Cimozjen complied.

As he walked over to the corner where he would spend the next hour or more, Cimozjen passed a small person swathed in a dark cloak and apparently napping. As he passed, the figure stirred, and he heard a short but welcome whisper.

“I believe you.”

Dealings
Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998

M
inrah studied the human as the guards escorted him over to the corner of the common room. He bore, as the captain had pointed out, a trickle of blood running from his scalp down to his cheekbone where it had been smeared away, and the left side of his tunic was torn and stained with small patches of blood. His boots and trousers were wet and smeared with dirt or mud. Yet he moved with more dignity and bearing than did the two guards that ushered him along. And his face …

Humans did not age nearly as elegantly as elves did. Neither did they age as slowly, lasting barely a century at best. Yet when they aged, their looks became so much more compelling. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt her heart thrilled by the narrow wrinkles that spread above his cheeks, the strands of silver that had overrun his temples, the rugged set to his jaw. It was like humans combined the right parts of a dwarf’s durability and an elf’s elegance. And she had no idea how their eyes could be so deep. Maybe it was because they lived each day facing their own imminent death, knowing from birth that their heart was inexorably slowing.

She studied him as he sat there. He looked to be an experienced warrior, for he walked with his left shoulder held slightly forward, a habit common to those who’d carried a shield into combat for years. His eyes scanned the room, never idling at the ceiling or floor. In this way, he remained aware of all potential threats. And he never placed his hands in a position where they would be constrained, as if he expected he might have to use the weapons that should have been at his side.

She traced one fingernail along her jaw line as she studied him, her face concealed beneath an overhanging black hood. His eyes looked over at her, trying to penetrate the shadows of her hood. She saw a twinkle of curiosity in his eyes, wondering why she had spoken to him. Then he looked away again, gauging her to be no threat.

Oh, how wrong he was.

The captain of the watch re-entered the room, and the human’s eyes flared. His predatory gaze followed the pathetic young Thauram around the room, but the White Lion did not acknowledge his existence. Then Minrah saw a slight flush suddenly color the captain’s cheeks, and she realized that he was afraid of the human. In that moment, Minrah made her decision.

She waited until the captain left the room, then she uncurled herself from her chair and walked over to one of the soldiers who leaned against the wall near the fire. Stepping close and touching one hand to his chest, she softly asked, “Would you mind overmuch were I to speak with the prisoner?”

The cloaked figure walked over to Cimozjen, pulled over a chair, and sat, tucking one foot under the other knee.

“You believe me, do you?” said Cimozjen, never taking his eyes off the guards.

“Yes, I do,” said a decidedly feminine voice.

Cimozjen inclined his head with renewed curiosity.

“Any fool can see that the death-blow was several bells old at the soonest. A fresher wound would still have been oozing, and his skin had lost all color.”

“I fear that our Watch Captain Thauram is not just any fool,” said Cimozjen. He turned to look at her. “My name is—”

“Cimozjen Hellekanus. I heard. I’m Minrah.”

“That’s it? No family name?”

“Never had one.” She pulled back her hood and shook out her hair.

Cimozjen blinked several times. “You’re an elf!” he said, taken aback.

Minrah looked at him, her large, almond-shaped eyes twinkling with bemusement. Long ears, the longest Cimozjen had ever seen on an elf, swept elegantly back, hinting at a crown by their shape. “Yes,” she said, eyeing him curiously, “what did you expect?”

“I—to be honest, I know not precisely what I expected, but in truth, an attr—er, supportive elf-maiden was not even on the roster.”

She giggled, a sound like water trickling over rocks in the sunshine, a sound far removed from the cold, dark, and painful night of the last two hours. “Well, Cimozjen, I’d say your luck is a far cry better than your imagination.”

Cimozjen looked away to study the guards again. “I see. And what is it that I can do for you this evening, Minrah?” he asked.

Minrah leaned forward. “Now that’s an interesting question. I would have expected you to ask what I could do for you. After all, I said I believed your account of events. That itself implies that I am willing to help you out.”

Cimozjen took a deep breath and let it out. “It has been my experience that there are few in this world who will help a stranger without asking for something in return. As you have offered to help, you must see value for yourself in doing so. I object neither to your company nor to your assistance, for you have a pleasant voice, but I will not be held liable for a debt that I cannot repay.
So whatever your price may be for your assistance, let it be known, that we have no misunderstanding between us.”

Minrah giggled again, and the sound brought a smile to twitch at the corner of Cimozjen’s mouth. “You consider yourself one of those few selfless and generous people, do you?” she asked.

“No,” said Cimozjen after a brief pause, “but I try. And I aspire to be a far better man than I am.”

“I think you’re probably more kind than you care to admit,” said Minrah. “But as a matter of fact, my suspicious acquaintance, I do have a price. My price for helping you is simply this. That you let me help you. As in me, and not someone else.”

Cimozjen turned toward her fully, his curiosity piqued. He started to say something, then rethought and said, “I’m not entirely certain that that makes any sense.”

“Simple. I am an independent researcher. I look for interesting things. If possible I make those things more interesting or more intriguing, and then I write about them. That done, I bring them to the offices of the
Korranberg Chronicle
, the
Sharn Inquisitive
, or whichever chronicle I think might purchase the story from me. I guess you could call me a bard of the broadsheet.

“This story, your story, it intrigues me. A veteran soldier like you—you are a veteran soldier, right?”

Cimozjen nodded.

“I knew it. A veteran soldier finds an old compatriot dead on the streets, murdered. He seeks justice in his native land, but the keepers of the law betray the respect that he and his friend should have earned through their years of service. That is a compelling tale of woe, and done properly I could sell it for ten, maybe fifteen crowns to the right buyer.

“But”—she reached out and gripped his forearm for emphasis—“what if that soldier were able to unravel the secrets that his dead friend had to tell? What if, despite being spurned by those whom his society entrusted for their safety, what if that man were able to overcome the difficulties, find his friend’s murderer, and bring that craven brigand to justice? Now that, my good man,
would be a story! I’d write it in sections, sell each of the sections for a sovereign or two each, then, just as we approach the heroic climax, the final chapter, the desperate final act that everyone awaits … I hold out for a galifar or more! I could easily make ten, twenty times as much with a story like that! That’s why I am willing to help you. I want that story to have a bloody, vengeful climax every bit as much as you do. And, I might add, by being a voice in the narrative I would make a name for myself, a name known to the common people.”

Cimozjen furrowed his brow. “The common folk? I mean no disrespect, for they are the bone and muscle of the land, but I think you would find the ear of a noble to be far more valuable than the fawning of a farmer.”

“For one such as you, a great warrior, that is surely true,” said Minrah. “But for us bards, who live by our wit—more or less honestly, that is—the acclaim of the crowd is a golden sound. A noble may gift you with gold, but a crowd can shower you with a cloudburst of copper, and they are far less fickle a patron. The day that the people look through a chronicle for a story written by me, or dare I say that they even demand one, that, ohhh,
that
my friend, is the day I become a true bard of the pen!”