“You find something amusing?” asked the captain, stopping several paces away from Cimozjen.
“No, not at all,” said Cimozjen. It was very true. He found the captain’s youth disappointing at best. He wiped his nose, adding, “It’s a hard night on the sinuses.”
Once he had mastered himself, he noted that the captain had the unmistakable features of one whose veins flowed with a blend of elf and human blood—smaller, slighter build, more angular face, and large eyes the color of the summer forest canopy. He was doubtless a decade or more older than he appeared, but nonetheless easily remained Cimozjen’s junior in years.
He wore a fine suit of leather armor, obviously tailor-made to his physique. Cimozjen noted that it looked like it could double as padding beneath a suit of chain mail, yet, judging by its immaculate polish, it never had.
And he had the elven arrogance. He wore it like a bull elk wore antlers. Despite the fact that Cimozjen stood a good eight inches taller, the captain somehow managed to look upon on him with an air of superiority.
Looking down while looking up, thought Cimozjen, that’s a good trick.
“I am Yorin Thauram II, Captain of the Watch. I am told you begged to see me?”
Cimozjen licked his lips. “I asked to see you, yes. Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service.”
“Does this have anything to do with that … thing sitting in the chair here?”
“You refer to my friend?” asked Cimozjen, stressing the word slightly to put the situation in its proper light. “Yes it does. His name is Torval Ellinger.” Cimozjen pulled Torval’s armband from his haversack and handed it to Yorin. “He was one of the Iron Band, and by the looks of it, he has been murdered. I bring him to you in hopes that you might be able to help me find his murderer.”
Yorin looked at the armband. “It appears authentic,” he said, after some inspection. “But why isn’t he wearing it?”
“Because he’s dead,” said Cimozjen, as if that should explain everything. He nodded his head toward Torval “See for yourself.”
The captain tossed the armband to the old guard by the fire then walked over to Torval’s body. He snapped his finger. “Unwrap it,” he said.
Another one of the guards rose, walked over to Torval, undid the buckles that held the leather around him, then held one end of the coat and pushed Torval out of the chair, sending him unceremoniously tumbling to the floor.
“Here now,” yelled Cimozjen, “have some respect!”
Seeing the sodden, unkempt mess that now lay sprawled on the floor at Cimozjen’s feet, a couple of the guards sniggered at Cimozjen’s outburst. Torval’s limbs lay splayed about, and his damp hair lay in a tattered veil across his face and shoulders.
“I’ll have some respect when he starts swinging a weapon again,” said Thauram. He held out one hand. “Spear,” he demanded.
“Spear, Captain Thauram,” said a guard, handing his weapon over.
The half-elf took the butt end of the spear and pushed Torval over to lie on his back. One arm remained trapped beneath him. The open wound on his chest looked vile and black against his death-blue skin.
“That,” said Yorin, poking at the dead man’s chin to turn his head, “was in the Iron Band?”
Cimozjen exhaled hard. “Yes, he was, captain.”
“And I’m King Kaius.”
Several guards chuckled at the captain’s wit.
Cimozjen shook his head and sniffed. He folded his arms across his chest. “Do you impugn my honesty, captain?”
Yorin turned and appraised Cimozjen anew. He stepped up to him, grasped Cimozjen’s chin, and turned his head side to side. “Looks like you’ve had an eventful evening as well, civilian. You’ve a trail of blood down your cheek. Where’d you get it?”
“It has nothing to do with Torval’s murder.”
The captain walked around Cimozjen, who stood fuming. “What’s this, more blood?” Yorin poked Cimozjen in the ribs with the butt of the spear, causing him to grunt involuntarily. “Yes indeed, you’ve had an active night, haven’t you? What have you been up to?”
“I defended a young woman from being robbed by a would-be thief, if you must know,” said Cimozjen. “For my troubles, I received some pains.” And now, he thought, looking darkly at Torval’s corpse, for my pains, I am receiving new troubles.
Yorin tilted his fine-featured head back to look even more arrogant. “You realize that under the Code of Kaius, all thieves must be turned over to the White Lions, elsewise one may be considered an accessory to the crime.”
Cimozjen favored the young half-elf with a weary look. “I prevented the robbery,” he said, “hence no crime was committed.”
“You said he was a thief.”
“The captain will recall that I said he was a would-be thief,” said Cimozjen. “I am always careful to say what I intend to say.”
“Mm,” said Yorin, refusing to acknowledge Cimozjen’s minor victory.
“Be that as it may,” continued Cimozjen, “the would-be thief received due measure for his plot. You can trust me on that. He will not look at himself the same way again.”
“And where is this woman, that she might be able to corroborate your tale?”
“I gave her leave. She had a family awaiting her return, I am certain, and she was cold and fearful. I had no further need of her presence, so I released her to return to her family.”
“I see,” said Yorin. “We can send a detail to fetch her easily enough.”
“The captain must understand that I had never seen her before this evening. Given the dim light and the circumstance under which we met, I doubt I would be able to identify her should we ever cross paths again. I presume she lives somewhere toward the south end of the Community Ward, but that is all the better I can say.”
Yorin turned away before Cimozjen had even finished speaking. He walked halfway across the room, then back over to Torval and stood over the body, studying it. “That he was killed, perhaps even murdered, none can deny,” he said. He inspected the body some more. “It took a powerful arm to strike that blow,” he said, looking askance at Cimozjen. “And you’re a strong man. I am told that you carried this corpse up Low Decline, all the way from the docks or thereabouts.”
“Do you think I murdered him?” asked Cimozjen.
“You first said the words,” replied Yorin by way of answer, “not I. Perhaps you killed him yourself, and brought the body here, seeking to absolve your involvement by pandering to us with a play at cooperation.” He turned to face Cimozjen, hands clasped behind his back. “Of course, if this vagrant were to have been killed in the act of robbery—or an attempt to rob, even—then by the Code of Kaius anyone would deem that you slew him defending your life, and for taking a life in that manner no crime would have been committed.” He paused. “Was this vagrant the one who attempted to rob your mysterious vanishing woman?”
“Torval would never stoop to such an act.”
“Such an act,” echoed the captain, nodding. “That was a curious choice of words.”
“Robbing unarmed womenfolk does not merit the word ‘deed.’ Deeds should be great, or noble. Those endeavors that are vile are ‘acts.’ ”
Yorin gave Cimozjen a dubious glance and snorted. He turned his back and paced over to the fire. “Let me understand this properly. You were walking along, this very night, alone, mindful of nothing but your own business. You … chanced upon a thief robbing a young lady, and intervened—this itself a deed quite brimming with nobility and valor, to say nothing of good fortune for yourself. You battled the thief—the would-be thief that is—defeating him, and then quite mysteriously set him free despite his nefarious intent. Likewise the mysterious maiden you peremptorily excused from your presence. Do I have this … rendition of events accurately stated?”
“That is an over-brief but essentially accurate understanding, yes.”
Yorin laughed, a choppy and supercilious snigger. He turned, his lips pursed in a mocking grin and
one eyebrow raised as he gestured toward the body at Cimozjen’s feet. “Then tell me why this … this derelict mess appears nowhere in your tale!”
Cimozjen sucked on his lips for a moment to compose himself before answering.
“Torval Ellinger had nothing at all to do with the attempted robbery, nor with the woman,” he said, speaking as clearly as he could. “However, the knave that I defeated had Torval’s armband in his possession. I prevailed upon his better judgment to lead me to the place where he’d acquired the armband. Thereat he led me to Torval’s body, which lay at the water’s edge past the westernmost dock of King’s Bay. I wrapped the body in my coat and brought it here.”
There was a brief pause, broken only by the popping of the fire.
“Oh, that was spectacular,” said Yorin at last.
“Excuse me, captain?” said Cimozjen.
“Did you see that, lads?” said Yorin, arms spread, turning slowly about to gather all the assembled White Lions in his gaze. “Did you see that? A pause, the briefest of pauses, one so brief that only a trained observer like myself would have noticed, and in that fleeting breath he spun the essential strands of this new embellishment! Then, did you also note the ponderous cadence of his reply, the slow nature of which was designed to give us the illusion of clarity, but in which he was able to embroider his tale with detail to give it that … that clear sound of truth? I tell you, this man is a master orator!”
He clapped his hands and chortled, then raised one admonishing finger. “Ah, but what gives it away? For one, the mixture of ambivalence and superlatives. Note that the body was at the water’s edge—floating or ashore, he does not commit himself to the one or the other—and yet he clearly avows that the body was past the end of the westernmost dock! Such juxtaposition is a clear sign of fabrication!”
“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.”
Chapter
FOUR
Dealings
Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998
Minrah 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 ch
eeks, 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.
The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Page 4