The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (7 page)

Cimozjen leaned back and laughed, a genuine, warm laugh that resounded in the otherwise quiet room. He swiped his knuckle across the bottom of his nose. “If it brings Torval justice,” he said with a wry smile, “who am I to complain if all of Khorvaire knows his story? Very well, Minrah of no family name, we have ourselves an understanding, and a deal.”

“Here now, what’s all this?” said a guard, stepping closer and squashing the mood that had developed.

“It’s nothing, White Lion,” said Cimozjen, “simply—”

“I’m just telling him the story about the ogress, the duckling, and the justicar of the Silver Flame,” said Minrah, nudging Cimozjen surreptitiously with her foot. She turned back to Cimozjen. “Here’s another one for you. What did King Kaius the First say when he executed his court jester?”

“Truly I cannot say,” said Cimozjen, caught unprepared by Minrah’s ploy.

“I’m at my wit’s end!”

Cimozjen laughed as realistically as he could.

“Or this. How many Darguun halberdiers would you need to take Cyre?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” said Cimozjen.

“We’ll never know,” said Minrah, starting to laugh. “Even they don’t want it anymore.”

Cimozjen tried to laugh again, but found he couldn’t force out much more than a wheeze, so instead he doubled over and thumped the table to conceal his mediocre emoting.

The guard rolled his eyes and walked away.

“My apologies, Cimozjen,” said Minrah, leaning in close, “if you loiter here long enough, you’ll learn every tired and terrible joke in town. I can’t tell you how many new recruits I’ve seen try to impress the old hands with that last one.”

Cimozjen laughed, and this time it was genuine, for there were many such painful jokes from his time in the military, as well.

She leaned forward. “So let’s begin. I’m curious. Why didn’t you just tell the captain that you were of the Iron Band? Wouldn’t that make him want to help you?”

“How do you know I’m of the Iron Band?”

Minrah grinned. “By the way you treated your friend, you had to have served in the Last War together. I made a guess, and you’ve just confirmed it. So why not tell him?”

Cimozjen rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen enough of his kind. Garrison gargoyles. I wanted to know if he would help me because it was right. If not, then by revealing my service, all I could truly garner would be the illusion of help as he tried to curry favor.”

“You’re absolutely right on that one.”

Cimozjen cocked his head. “You seem to know these people rather well,” he said. “Do you come here often?”

Minrah shrugged. “Whenever I’m in town, yes.”

“And our preening cockerel puts up with you?”

Minrah held up her palms helplessly. “I wrote a work once that cast young Thauram in a good light—I make things up when I have to, no surprise—and as a result, he tolerates my presence. This is the worst of the White Lion troops, the most pathetic soldiers guarding the least desirable location, so this is where the best stories come.” She punched him playfully on the arm. “And you’re my proof of that tonight!”

At that reminder, Cimozjen’s heart became somber again. He felt his face fall, and a part of him was sad to see what was left of the jovial mood pass away as had his friend. “Tell me how you can help me find justice, Minrah.”

“Simple,” said Minrah, picking up the conversation with a businesslike tone. “I’d start now, but your friend—Torval was it? He’s much too big for me to drag around by myself, so we’ll have to leave him in the street for the moment.” Minrah pulled her knees up and hugged them to her, a strangely girlish act for such a mature conversation. “We just wait here until the rider gets back. When he does, Yorin Thauram the Second-Rate will let you go, and you can take me somewhere private.” She smiled knowingly. “Where I can find out what your friend has to say, that is.”

“I fear he has little to say anymore,” said Cimozjen.

“Not to the casual acquaintance, no. But I’ll get him to talk to me. See, I look for things. And when I look, I find them. Little things—threads, marks … clues. Then I—well, this time you and I together, we piece together what we know from those clues, and then we look for more clues based on that. It’s kind of like untying a tangled spool of thread. And at times, it’s just as frustrating.” She reached out and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I believe we can do it. You and me, together.”

Cimozjen glanced at the door that led outside. “I do hope you are right, else my heart will never be settled again.” He blew out a heavy sigh, puffing his cheeks. Memories stung his eyes. “Would that you had known him the way I knew him. He—” Cimozjen stopped for fear his voice might crack, and roughly rubbed his free hand across his mouth and chin to regain control.

“I know,” said Minrah, gripping his hand tighter. “Believe me, I know.”

It was nearing midnight before Yorin Thauram II, with a mix of reluctance and relief, let Cimozjen leave. Cimozjen tenderly rewrapped his friend’s body, gathered it up, and hoisted it over his right shoulder. Minrah picked up a small pack, a bag, and Cimozjen’s staff, and then, without asking, slipped her hand into the crook of his left elbow and snuggled into his arm. Together, the two of them walked through the darkened streets of Korth.

A heavy autumn mist had set in, making the world seem ethereal. The few other pedestrians they passed in the cold night were but shades in the hazy dreamscape. The only color in the gray-on-gray nighttime city came from the rainbow halos that surrounded the magical lanterns that illuminated the intersections of major streets.

“Let’s talk about our first step, then,” said Minrah. “Shall we start by finding a necromancer that might be able to get Torval to talk?”

“No,” said Cimozjen flatly.

“Why not? I know it’s pricey, but a veteran like you should be able to—”

“I’ll not entrust Torval to the mercies of the Cult of Vol,” spat Cimozjen with startling vehemence, “nor to anyone else who practices their vile rites. I’ve had … poor experiences with their ilk in times past, and I’d trust their assistance even less than I’d trust Thauram and his kind.”

In response to his outburst, Minrah just gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. They walked in silence together for a dozen blocks or so before she spoke again.

“They still amaze me, after all these years,” she said.

“The White Lions?”

“These lights.” Minrah pointed to one of the lanterns as they
passed. “They never stop shining. Ever. I think it’s amazing that magewrights can do that, spend a relatively short amount of time on a project and leave an indelible mark on the world like that. That’s what I want to do. Write a story that will be read over and over again for a thousand years. It’s a kind of immortality to have your name remembered forever.”

They walked in silence for another block. At the next intersection, she spoke again. “Did you know that the name ‘everbright lanterns’ originated in Thrane?” she asked.

“No, I did not. I thought that’s just what most people call them.”

“A lot of them do, I think, especially in the cities, but the nickname is most prevalent in Thrane over every other nation in Khorvaire. It spread everywhere with their missionaries, I suppose, so now it’s more of a Khorvairian word than anything. Kind of lost its roots. I think the phrase originally had to do with their obsession with the Silver Flame, their holy eternal fire, burning all the time in its cathedral. A true believer is always supposed to have the light of the Silver Flame burning bright in their souls, or so they say. So I’ve always thought that they used that name as kind of a reminder to themselves of what they ought to be doing. Bringing their light to the world.”

Cimozjen mulled the idea over for a moment. “Sounds reasonable.”

“And the Brelish often as not call them cold fire lanterns,” she said. “I think that’s because they appreciate the irony of the phrase ‘cold fire,’ the inherent magical implications of the name. I mean, their capital, Sharn, is replete with magic, built as it is right there on a manifest zone with all those huge towers. If the magic faded from the area, the whole city would collapse. But in the meantime, they revel in it.”

“I see,” said Cimozjen. “And in a like manner Karrns call them wisplights because they’re so faint compared to the sun. Wispy sunlight—wisplight. It seems the most realistic label.”

“No, silly man,” said Minrah. “I’d wager it’s because of the
Karrnathi obsession with mystery, death, and undeath. You’re a superstitious and moody people, probably because you grew up with all these large, dark pine forests encroaching on your towns. I think they’re named because they’re faint and round and can only be seen at night, like will-o’-wisps. That’s why in the small towns, folks only call them ‘wisplights.’ They’re closer to their superstitions than city folk.”

Cimozjen pursed his lips. “I’d not thought of it that way,” he said, “but I do suppose you could be right.”

“There’s no ‘could be’ about it,” said Minrah with a confident laugh.

“Up there,” said Cimozjen, “that’s where I’m staying. The Walking Wounded.”

“I see it. Charming picture of a one-armed zombie on the sign. Do you have a private room?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I find them a needless indulgence,” said Cimozjen.

“I should have expected a veteran to say as much. You’ve probably spent most of your life bunking with other solders, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and trust me, one learns to sleep lightly.”

Minrah paused in her step, her hand slipping from Cimozjen’s elbow. “Do soldiers actually steal from each other? That’s pathetic!”

Cimozjen chuckled. “No, they do not. At least not in the Karrnathi army. Well, maybe once in a great while one will try, though I dare say that losing a right hand in the center of camp tends to discourage such activities. Yet soldiers will play pranks.”

Minrah giggled as she caught back up and took his arm again. “Do they?”

“Oh yes. Snoring, that’s the killer. It shows you’re heavily asleep. Plus at night, it can give away the location of your camp to an enemy scout, so no one ever truly regrets taking advantage of a snoring man while in the field. I remember one night w—uh, one or two soldiers shaved a general bald as he lay snoring in his
bed. Head and beard, cut to stubble. Left him with nothing but an X for his forelock.”

“Did you ever get found out?”

“Minrah, whatever makes you think it was me?”

She laughed and tilted her head on his arm. “You said you remembered, not that someone told you. And I heard your little stutter. It was you and Torval, wasn’t it?”

Cimozjen grinned. “In truth, it was. And, according to the general’s orderly, every night afterward he tied a strip of cloth around his head to hold his jaw closed.” He stopped and turned to impel her subtly toward the front door of the inn. “Here we are.”

Minrah walked up to open the door but paused with her hand on the latch. “You understand that we’ll need a private room tonight. We shouldn’t have others poking around our affairs.” She drew in a breath through her nose. “Don’t carry him like a cord of wood, all right? Cradle him in your arms, and let his head rest on your shoulder. So which side of the door is the owner’s desk on?”

“I do not remember,” said Cimozjen. “Does it matter?”

“Of course,” said Minrah. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” She looked at Cimozjen, and he waited patiently for her to explain. “Look, we don’t want the innkeeper to see Torval’s face. Even a stone-cold drunk has more life in his face than he does. Hmm. Just hold him whichever way is more comfortable, and I’ll square him away. Whatever you do, don’t let him shift, or his head might flop down.”

Cimozjen maneuvered Torval’s body into position, wincing as his wounds and knotted muscles protested the additional abuse. Minrah arranged Cimozjen’s longcoat about Torval’s body, unveiling his head, smoothing his hair somewhat but leaving his dead face concealed.

“Right,” she said, “just head in and keep walking. Don’t stop. I’ll handle the rest, and I’ll be right behind you.”

Minrah opened the door and Cimozjen stepped through. She scooted in right behind him, walking straight up to the owner. “I don’t mean to be rude, but our friend here pickled himself in a jug
and decided he wanted to drink the river as a chaser. We’ll need a private room, a basin of hot water, and a pail as quickly as you can.” Even as she finished, she pressed a coin into the flustering innkeeper’s palm. “Let’s be quick about it, now, unless you want him to share what he’s been eating and drinking all evening!”

She grabbed the lantern that sat on the desk with one hand and the innkeeper’s wrist with the other, pulling him along, following Cimozjen to the staircase that led to the rooms. “Quick, quick, which is the closest private room? The longer he’s carried around doubled up like that, the more likely it is that we’ll be squeezing everything out of him. Drunk as he is, that might mean both ends!”

“The, uh, th-th-the, um, second door—third door! Third door on the left!”

“Thank you!” said Minrah. She quickly ducked beneath Cimozjen’s elbow to the door and opened it for him. “A pail then!” she said. “Quickly! Maybe two!”