The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  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?”

  “Looks like a quill and a plow.”

  “The one on top, that’s not a quill. That’s a dragonhawk feather.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means this was made in Aundair,” said Minrah. “Our trail leads across Scions Sound, oathbound, and there’s a ship weighing anchor at noon.”

  The trumpeter atop Crownhome sounded the time, one hour before midday, his klaxon barely audible above the hubbub of the city. Cimozjen walked resolutely to the docks. Minrah, holding onto his arm, trotted to keep up with his stride.

  “Hoy, big man, no need to rush,” she panted. She tried to adjust her pack, but doing so made her bag slide off her shoulder. She did her best to wrestle that back into place, while not letting go of the paladin’s arm. “We’ll be there in plenty of time. Hoy, slow down!”

  “There will be plenty of time to rest and recover our wind once we board ship,” Cimozjen said, “I’ll squander none of it now.”

  “Listen, I’ve been looking to travel to Aundair for some time—there’s some special research the Korranberg Chronicle wants done—but you don’t see me galloping along, do you?”

  He didn’t answer, but kept a brisk military cadence, with strides neither too long nor too short. His leather longcoat billowed about his legs. His kit bounced at his hip, the coins chinking with every pace, and his chain mail hauberk shushed beneath his new tunic. He’d also recovered his backpack from the inn’s safekeeping room, and he wore it on his back with his broadsword lashed across the top. In his left hand he held his metal-shod walking staff, thick and stout, and it ticked against the cobbles in time with Cimozjen’s boots.

  The bay water was smooth. Only the tiniest ripples against the shore or near the hull of a ship reflected the sun’s rays. Minrah pointed past the cogs, longships, and scows to one of the few seaworthy vessels in the harbor, an elegant wide-beamed two-masted brigantine. The Aundairian civilian naval jack hung limpidly from the pole at the stern.

  “Hoy, look at her!” exclaimed Minrah as they drew close. “Shallow draft for a river run, and the beam of a fat mare. That’ll be a smooth ride across the Sound. I hope they have hammocks!”

  “May it not be so,” said Cimozjen. “Hammocks give me backaches. Hurry up, you’re flagging.”

  Minrah upped her pace. “I love the feel of rocking back and forth in them, especially when the ship puts them to swaying. Reminds me of my childhood, riding with my folks. I can lie there and rock, and my mind just empties away to nothing.”

  The twosome walked down the pier, passing a few others who, like Cimozjen, also had a military bearing. One younger elf honed his rapier and watched the river, while an aging man dropped his oilcloth bundle and sat on it to catch his breath. Cimozjen nodded to each of them as they passed, and received curt nods in return.

  The pair climbed up the steep gangway to the ship. The long planked walkway flexed with each step that Cimozjen took, and Minrah, giggling, used the motion to put an extra bounce in her step.

  They reached the ship’s deck, abustle with activity as longshoremen loaded cargo and sailors prepared the vessel for the journey. They were immediately greeted by a trio of crewmen. Two ship’s officers—a dwarf female with long, thick braids, and a human male with wide-set eyes, a shaved head and a severe black goatee—backed by a large, sunbeaten deck hand with a scarf wrapped around his head and his hand wrapped around a naked cutlass.

  The human, a quillboard tucked under his arm, held up a hand, his quill pen still clutched in his ink-stained fingers. “Ahoy, and welcome aboard the Silver Cygnet,” he said wearily. “My name is Pomindras. What’s your business here today?”

  “We are told you sail this day for Aundair, and wish to procure passage,” said Cimozjen.

  “With hammocks!” added Minrah, panting.

  Pomindras looked from one to the other and back again, studying their faces and their stances. “We should be able to accommodate you,” he said at last. “Is it just the two of you?”

  “Just us,” said Minrah, hugging Cimozjen’s arm tightly.

  “We have no baggage beyond what we carry,” added Cimozjen.

  “Fare is fifty galifars for the both of you.”

  Cimozjen opened his haversack, fished around, then offered up five small platinum pieces. Pomindras gestured with his quillboard to the other ship’s officer. Cimozjen gave his coins to the dwarf, pouring them into her outstretched palm.

  “I’ll need your names,” said Pomindras listlessly.

  “Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service,” he said, reaching into his kit. He pulled out his brass case, casually let the sailor see the national seal embossed on its surface, and then pulled out his provisional papers.

  “The Army Clerk’s Office still hasn’t squared you away yet, eh?” said Pomindras. “Very well.”

  “Minrah of Eastgate. Korth, that is.” She pulled stained identification papers from her bag. They had no case to protect them, and bore creases both intentional and accidental.

  Pomindras opened her papers with a slight look of distaste. “These are barely legible,” he grumbled. “Well, it does at least say your name is Minrah. But if the Aundairian authorities don’t like this, that’s your problem, not mine, and if you’ve not the coin for the return, your port of call will be the starboard rail.” He gave the paper back and waved with his quillboard. “Aboard.”

  The dwarf, having pocketed Cimozjen’s coins through a slot in the locked iron strongbox she carried on her belt, gestured the two onboard. “I am called Erami d’Kundarak. I’m the purser and the steward of the Silver Cygnet. Berths are belowdecks, just af
t of yon companionway. There’s four to a cuddy, so lay claim to yours now. If you’re lucky, the other two berths might not fill. The mess is amidships, but you can eat topside if the weather is fair and you don’t interfere with the ship’s business. If there’s anything else you need whilst aboard, let me know. We may not be able to do anything about it,” she said with a wink, “but at least I’ll know.”

  “Thank you very much, Erami d’Kundarak,” said Cimozjen, placing his hand over his heart. “May the Host bless this ship with the Sovereigns’ speed.”

  Erami smiled. “The Host bless you, Master Hellekanus, and you, Minrah.”

  “That would be remarkable, wouldn’t it?” murmured Minrah.

  Cimozjen started to lead the way toward the ladder, skirting around a large coil of rope on the deck, but just as they stepped away from the ship’s officers, a well-dressed man rose from leaning against the gunwale and intercepted them.

  “Brightness be,” he said, with a rich Aundairian accent. “Chain mail, a sword, and a metal-shod staff?” He crossed his arms and ran an appraising eye down Cimozjen’s body and up again. “And those look to be military hobnailed boots, if my eyes don’t deceive.”

  He looked Cimozjen in the eye. “So, Karrn, you’re here to fight?”

  Twenty-six years earlier:

  “Tell me, Cimozjen, are you here to fight?”

  Behind them, the chaos of battle resounded—horns, war cries, the terrified whinnies of horses, the howl of the wounded and dying. Overhead, the whistling of the arrows vied against the rippling pops of flaming catapult missiles for the right to quail the hardest heart.

  “We’re here to conquer, general,” said Cimozjen confidently.

  “Excellent!” said General Kraal. Karrnathi war banners formed a veritable curtain behind the general, backlit by the early morning sun. The sight alone instilled martial ardor in Cimozjen, as did the respect “Horseshoe” Kraal had for Cimozjen’s unit.