The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (9 page)

“If that will make you happy,” said Minrah with an understanding smile. Then she looked at Torval once more. “Listen, not to be cruel, because I don’t want to, but aren’t you concerned about the smell if we just leave him here until morning?”

Cimozjen laughed darkly. “I’m a soldier.” He looked at her pointedly. “There is nothing worse than the smell of a battlefield, with the blood, and the filth, and the slaughterhouse smell of savaged bodies. And all through it is the stink of fear. One small corpse will bother me not at all. Over so many years, I’ve grown used to the smell.”

“Sure, but his chest is opened up, and I don’t want anyone else to think maybe we’re butchering chickens up here.”

Cimozjen took a deep breath and sucked on his lips. “Open the window. The cold and the fresh air will help in that respect.”

“I’ll burn a candle,” said Minrah, and she turned to fish through her bag.

Cimozjen looked around. “Er, Minrah, you can have the bed if you wish a comfortable seat tonight; I’ll just—”

“I don’t need the padding to meditate,” said Minrah. She crossed her legs, settled her back against the wall, and folded her hands in her lap. “No, please, you go ahead. I’ll be just fine right here.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Because the bed would be more comfortable than the floor, and—”

Minrah gave him an odd sideways look and smiled. “Now’s not the time. If we’re to work things out together, I need you at your best. Lie down. Sleep.” So saying, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“As you wish,” said Cimozjen uncertainly. “If you’d rather I moved to a separate room, I—”

“Sleep,” Minrah insisted.

“Aye,” said Cimozjen. Flapping his hands on his thighs uncomfortably, he stepped over to the mattress, sat down, and kicked off his boots. He left all his other clothes on and wrapped himself in a blanket. Then he drew his dagger and, holding it in one hand, curled up to go to sleep.

He prayed that if he dreamt of Torval, that it would be Torval alive.

Farewell to Torval
Wir, the 11th day of Sypheros, 998

B
y the time the slanting rays of the morning sun reached into the room, Minrah was already gone. She’d roused herself from her meditations, stretched, and broken her fast with some dried fruit from her bag.

She walked through the streets of Korth, which were just starting to fill with the day’s industry. The aroma of a bread shop caught her nose, and she stopped in and purchased a loaf of hot wheat bread. The bread steamed as she tore it apart and ate it.

She passed by Crownhome, the massive fortified palace of King Kaius III, just as one of the royal trumpeters of the Conqueror’s Host sounded the hour. Turning north, she soon reached the top of the bluff that separated Crownhome and the South Gate from the so-called bottom districts—the Low District and the Community Ward, where the poorest and hardest-working Karrns made their homes. She paused for a moment to look at the serene cityscape of the morning.

From this vantage it was clear why Korth was also known as “the Crucible of Karrnath.” Aside from being the largest settlement in the nation, the city looked rather like a vast shallow bowl, with
the dross collected at the bottom. Tall bluffs, cut by only a handful of steep roads, divided the poorest sections of town that existed by the river’s edge from the merchant and noble areas of town that rested atop the fertile landscape.

With the morning sun at such a low angle, the bluffs and towers still cast their long shadows west and north across several neighborhoods. Crownhome itself carved a large swath of gloom all the way to King’s Bay. The bay lay still and dark. A number of merchant and transport craft moored at the city’s docks. Two rocky stacks separated the bay from the Karrn River, where mists peeled from the water’s surface, coaxed away by the sun’s rays.

Minrah smiled. She always smiled when she was working on a mystery. Writing snippets of her story in her head, she walked down to the docks. She spent over an hour watching the sailors and tossing chips of wood into the bay, and even tried her hand dangling a line from a pier for a short while. Then she sauntered back to the Walking Wounded to see if Cimozjen had yet risen.

She rapped twice on the door to the room. Hearing nothing but an indeterminate grumble, she opened it up and peered inside. Cimozjen lay on his side, facing the wall.

“Hoy, look at that,” said Minrah, softly but with exaggerated cheerfulness. “The sunlight is reflecting off your bald spot! That must mean it’s a new day! Time to rise, soldier boy!”

Cimozjen growled something unintelligible, then rolled onto his back. “I feel terrible,” he said. He winced in pain and reached his right hand to his left side. “Bother, I think it’s stuck to my skin.” He started to roll out of bed. “I need some hot water to—” He suddenly grunted in pain and flopped back onto the mattress, a grimace twisting his face.

“Hoy, are you ill?” asked Minrah, rushing over to his side.

“No,” gasped Cimozjen. “My muscles are all knotted up. In truth, I doubt I can move my neck.” He started to reach for his head, but when his hand had only gotten two thirds of the way there, he
winced again and let it flop. “And it’s beyond my reach. Oh my.”

“Has this ever happened before?” asked Minrah, panic edging her voice. “Do I need to call a healer?”

“It’s a mix of age and overexertion,” said Cimozjen wearily, his eyes squeezed shut. “I tell you, I’m not as young as I once was. I strained my muscles during the fight last night … was that only last night? By the Host, it seems like it’s been days. And carrying Torval around, I tried to ignore the pain. I used to be able to do it. Persevere through the hurt, that is. But my body’s simply unable to take the abuse any more, and my mind’s not willing to accept that fact.” He chuckled. “Look at me. I’m out of the fight, and yet even talking about it, I still refuse to believe it’s the truth.”

“So what can I do?” asked Minrah, gently placing her hand over his heart.

Cimozjen paused before answering, breathing heavily as he tried to will the pain from his body. “Were you Torval, you’d lift me out of bed and set me in the biggest hottest bath we could find in the city. Or maybe a steam bath or a hot stone massage. After my body was thoroughly boiled, you’d stretch me out mercilessly until my muscles surrendered and loosened up. Unfortunately, you’re not as big as Torval, nor as strong.”

“But fortunately,” countered Minrah, “I am a lot more alive, and a far sight prettier too.”

Cimozjen laughed. “Right you are, and a true joy that is.” He sighed. “Gods, would that I had neither my stubbornness nor my selfishness. Sadly, Minrah, there’s only one way I’m getting off this bed today.” Cimozjen snorted. “Although I should count my blessings, for I have one more option for rising than Torval does.

“Would you kindly move my left hand to rest on my neck? It shall hurt, thanks to my strains and the blood that has stuck my tunic to my ribs, but do not let that stop you, do you understand? Keep my hand there until I tell you otherwise.” He moved his right fist to rest over his heart. “If you’re ready, you may proceed.”

Minrah nodded, despite the fact that he couldn’t see her with his eyes closed. Gently she took his hand and started to raise it
up. Halfway up, she started to feel resistance; she saw the material of his tunic pulling taut across his arm and down his side. Holding her breath, she pushed harder, forcing his arm up. It started to tremble. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the injuries or a reflex action of his strained muscles. Then, in the quiet of the room, she heard the moist sound of his tunic peeling away from his injuries.

Cimozjen grunted deep in his throat, and Minrah immediately eased off. “Keep moving,” he said through his clenched teeth.

She pushed harder, and his muscles resisted more. She forced her weight on his arm and guided his left hand to the base of his neck. She saw his fingers almost convulsively spread open to grip his own flesh.

“Faithful Arawai and Fortunate Olladra,” he said, forcing the words through clenched teeth, “by the courage imbued in me by Dol Dorn, I dare to implore you humbly, divine ladies, to infuse this your servant with health, wholeness, and vigor.”

A warm aura began to coalesce from between his fingers, almost as if the source of light were the tense muscles themselves. Minrah stared in amazement as the glow intensified, then slowly it began to fade again. She realized when it had all but gone that she was no longer holding Cimozjen’s arm in place. He was moving it himself and massaging his neck and shoulders.

With a pained grunt, Cimozjen maneuvered his left hand to rest over his injured ribs. He repeated his murmured prayer, and the glow appeared once more, this time illuminating his bloodstained tunic from behind. Once that glow had also faded, he let himself flop limply and drew a long deep breath.

Minrah put her fingers through the largest hole in his tunic and ran her fingers across his flesh. It was healed, whole. “That’s amazing!” she said. “Here I thought you were just a soldier, but you can work magic too!”

“I am an oathbound, sworn to the service of Dol Dorn, my nation, and my king. By virtue of my obedience and honor, the Master of Swords favors me with the gift of healing wounds by
laying my left hand upon them. I hope someday to merit more of his favor.”

“So if you’ve got the good fortune to have a gift like that, why didn’t you use it last night, and save yourself the trouble?”

“I have my reasons.” Cimozjen took a few more deep breaths, then sat up, facing away from Minrah. “I need another tunic,” he said. “And Torval needs a suitable outfit.”

“What are you going to do with him?” asked Minrah. “We can’t exactly carry him along with us.”

“I’ll make arrangements with the innkeeper. Beginning with telling him the truth of last night,” he added, looking pointedly at Minrah, who refused to show the slightest shame. “He’ll see to it that Torval is quietly buried and his armband returned to his kin.”

“Wouldn’t you rather put him back in the service of the king?” asked Minrah. “I thought that was the Karrnathi tradition. Don’t they use alchemy and magic to make your dead into—”

“An animate warrior?” Cimozjen snorted. “No, I have no stomach for seeing false honor draped on walking carcasses. Nor am I at peace with the concept of having the dead fight for the nation, able to receive neither honor, nor glory, nor even the satisfaction of a battle well fought.” He sighed darkly. “We—especially us in the Iron Band, but all the Karrn soldiers—we knew no rest during the war, and it seems he’s had none since. I wish him to have some peace while it is mine to give him.”

Minrah rose and gave Cimozjen a hug from behind. “As you wish,” she said.

After a pause, Cimozjen extricated himself from her arms. “I must go.”

“Here,” said Minrah, “here’s half a loaf that I saved for you. Go get what you need. I’ll stay here and watch over him.”

Cimozjen looked at her and smiled. “I thank you,” he said, then he grabbed his tattered longcoat and left.

When Cimozjen returned to the room, Minrah was pacing the floor. “Hoy!” she said with a bright smile and a bounce. “Zjennie’s back at last!”

Cimozjen scowled and held up one admonishing finger. “Do
not
call me by that name.”

“Why not?”

“Because you sound like my mother,” he said.

“Eww, don’t want that. I’ll call you Cimmo instead.”

“Must you?” asked Cimozjen. “I don’t like that any more than Zjennie.”

“My, so formal from someone who just spent the night with me.”

Cimozjen fumbled for words, then said, “Only in a purely literal sense!”

“So far,” grinned Minrah.

“Minrah—”

“No time for that now, Cimmo” she said. “We’ve got lots to do today. Did you get what you needed?”

Cimozjen’s shoulders sagged as he resigned himself to his fate. “Yes, new tunic for me, a decent outfit for him,” he said. “Got a tailormage to repair my coat.” He walked over to Torval. Folding his arms, he stared down at the dead man and nodded to himself. “The proprietor understands my situation. He promised he’d see to Torval’s disposition without the collectors finding out. So that gives us our own rein, I suppose.”

Minrah went over and sat on the windowsill. She hugged her knees and looked at Cimozjen, rocking back and forth in eagerness. “So how much are you willing to pay to see your friend find justice?”

“Whatever it takes,” said Cimozjen. Then his brow darkened and he looked up. “You’re not demanding payment now, are you? We had an agreement—”

Minrah laughed. “Of course not! But I don’t have a lot of coin, and I needed to know if you had enough to pay for me while we pursue this.”

“I can make good on your expenses,” he said, “so long as they are not lavish.” He paused and scratched his scalp self-consciously. “Nonetheless, I must ask you to leave while I change his clothes.”

“That’s fine,” said Minrah. “But do it quickly. We have a boat to catch.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took a look at Torval’s shoe while you were gone,” she said, holding it aloft. “I figured that wouldn’t count as undressing him, right? I mean, one was already off. And if you look right here, there’s a craftsman’s mark. See it?”