The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  “Thus the odds are good that the murderer was on this ship,” Cimozjen said.

  “He may be still. This looks to be primarily a merchant ship. They take on some passengers, of course, but I’d wager they don’t take on too many. I mean, there’s not that many cabins here and that Kundarak woman said we might keep this room to ourselves.”

  “Why—” Cimozjen yelled, then lowered his voice to a murmur again. “Why did you not inform me of this earlier?”

  “I didn’t want you to pick a fight with the first person to look at us crosswise. If you came onboard actively stalking a killer, your attitude might have prevented us from being let aboard. Or you might have dueled the Winemonger on the spot.”

  “I suppose that’s true. The first part, at least. Torval once told me I had the face of Khyber himself when it came to injustice.”

  “There are easier ways,” said Minrah. “We’ll have to ask the captain to share the passenger list with us. And we’ll have to watch the crew.” She opened her bag and pulled out Torval’s shoe. “Why don’t you take off your chain mail and take a look around the ship. I’m going to see if this has anything left to tell us.”

  Cimozjen looked at Minrah with frank appreciation. “I give you my profound thanks for your help in this matter,” he said. “However this turns out, you’ve been of great assistance.”

  Minrah grinned and blushed. “You can thank me later, when we’ve untangled the knot,” she said with a wink.

  The evening meal found the two sitting on a hawser on deck. Although the weather was cold, the striated clouds in the sky were spattered with reds, golds, and purples, and well worth braving the chill. Cimozjen wolfed his meal in a militarily efficient fashion, while Minrah dipped her hard bread into her stew before each bite.

  “Did you find anything?” murmured Cimozjen.

  “Of course,” said Minrah. “Torval’s pale skin implies that he spent most or all of his time indoors, which, given his past experiences, his size and frame, is very unusual. His shoe confirms it. There are no grass strains on it, and the wear on the sole is even and doesn’t show the typical pits or marks from walking over rocky ground. There’s some dust on the sole, like he walked in white sand, perhaps. It does, however, show some unusual wear on the top, which I haven’t yet figured out. Best of all, Cimmo, there was this.” She proffered a small item in her fingers.

  Cimozjen took it and looked at it. “It’s a chunk of wood.”

  “It’s a sliver of wood. From the sole of his shoe. You can see that the wood is weathered on one side, and clean of the other. Like as not, he picked it up in the moments before his death, because the clean side was exposed, yet never got dirty. I know it’s a stretch, but if we can find some wood that matches the weathering, we might have an idea of where it was he died. So far, all I can say is that it doesn’t match anything on deck.”

  “You want us to look for weathered wood on a ship.”

  “Like I said, it’s a stretch. Did you have any luck?”

  “First, I must say that there are an inordinate number of passengers on this ship, despite what you said earlier. Mostly soldiers, it seems, and a few merchants. In fact, I think we have the only cabin that’s not full.”

  “Really?” asked Minrah. “That’s odd. I wonder if it was something you said.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you, Cimmo. I draw suitors like dung draws flies, no matter what I say.”

  “That is not precisely the simile I would use for you, Minrah,” said Cimozjen.

  Minrah grinned, hugged her knees, and leaned her head on Cimozjen’s shoulder. “What about the crew?”

  “The sailors are a hardy lot, but they all seem more wiry than bulky. None of them seem to have the weight, the sheer power one would need to inflict a wound like Torval’s. And they all bear smaller weapons: hatchets, knives, hammers, that sort.” He looked at the sails. “I suppose they need to keep a hand free to grab the rigging.”

  “And those weapons all have two uses,” said Minrah. “Chop a rope that’s tangled one day, chop a pirate’s neck the next.”

  “True enough.”

  “Nothing in their cabins?”

  “Not that I could see from the hall. They all have small sea chests, though.”

  “You didn’t look through them?”

  “I’ll not stoop to that, Minrah, that’s—”

  “You have a lot to learn about unraveling stories, Cimmo.” Minrah took another bite of her dinner. “So what you’re telling me is that the only person on this ship big enough to have killed Torval is our friend Rophis the Winemonger.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “We’ll have to make a point to sup with him.”

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  In the Dark

  Zor, the 12th day of Sypheros, 998

  It was fully dark outside, just past midnight, and the ship lay at anchor in the Karrn River. Most of the passengers and crew were asleep. Cimozjen and Minrah had easily evaded the few sailors on watch. They stood at the door leading to the cargo area. Belowdecks without a light, the darkness was so pressing that Cimozjen couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. The lack of light made every other sense more acute. The rough feel of the iron handle of the lantern borrowed from the mess as it warmed to his touch, the particular smells of the ship’s wood and Minrah’s hair blending, the subtle slow sway of the deck beneath his feet as it shifted with the river’s current.

  Fortunately, Minrah’s eyes pierced the dark like an owl’s. She worked at the simple latch that secured the cargo hold, making small tinking noises. The only other sounds were an occasional creak of the ship’s wood and the distant steady pacing of a sailor on deck.

  “This is wrong.”

  “Cimmo,” whispered Minrah, “we’re searching the ship.”

  “We’re entering places where we’re not allowed to go, and if they catch me with this naked sword, they’ll think we’re up to something nefarious. Piracy is a hanging offense, Minrah.”

  “Well, of course we’re not supposed to be here,” said Minrah. “We’re trying to find the place that Torval was killed. You think he’d be killed somewhere any old lackey could visit?” She rolled her eyes. “What if someone asked you to swear you’d keep a secret, and then confessed to murdering Torval? Would you keep the secret?”

  “I’d challenge him to a duel.”

  “And if he refused?” She paused as Cimozjen wrestled with the conundrum. “We may be breaking the captain’s rules, but it’s not like we’re breaking them for our own advantage. We’re trying to find justice for Torval. Surely that reason is good enough for you.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re eroding my oaths away?”

  “It’s good for you,” said Minrah. “Your bow’s strung too tight.”

  Cimozjen just scowled.

  “There,” whispered Minrah. She slowly let the door creak open.

  The two slipped in, Minrah gently guiding Cimozjen in the dark. She shut the door. Once it was secured, her hands reached out in the darkness and took Cimozjen’s hand, gently prying the lantern from his grasp. Cimozjen heard a tick-tick sound as she struck flint to steel, creating sparks that flashed like lightning in the dark hold. At last the wick of the oil lantern took to life. Although the wick was trimmed low, the newborn light seemed almost as bright as day.

  The hold was as wide as the ship, some thirty-five feet from side to side, and ran eighty or so feet fore-to-aft. Where they entered, the hold was a mere six feet high, but an atrium of sorts opened in the center of the hold, rising all the way to the main deck some twelve feet over their head. The short end of the hold was densely packed with cargo, and a sizeable supply of casks and foodstuffs hung from the rafters near the door that Minrah had just picked. In the atrium area, the hold was less than one quarter full. Large crates dominated the aft portion, and smaller boxes and bales lined the sides.

  The two pushed their way through the netting, their noses filled with
the scent of sausage and pungent cheese.

  “Look at all this empty space in the center,” whispered Minrah as she handed the lantern back to Cimozjen. “I would have thought a merchant ship would wait for more cargo before casting off, or if leaving half full, to have stored the cargo nearer the hatch.”

  “Mm,” said Cimozjen. He poked at the netting. “It appears that our fare will include a robust amount of cabbage between here and Aundair. There will be some ill winds blowing, of that I am sure.”

  Minrah giggled. “I’m going to take a look over there,” she said, pointing to the port side.

  Cimozjen started to work his way around to the starboard. “Nightwood pale,” he mumbled to himself, tapping absently on a cask. “And again. Hm. And that’ll be Karlak port. That’s a good evening glass, I tell you truly.”

  A loud creak sounded in the hold. “Hoy,” said Minrah. “Cimmo, take a look at this.”

  He turned to see the shadow of Minrah kneeling in the center of the hold. As he walked closer, he saw that she had opened a trapdoor in the floor.

  He peered in. “A secret storage? For rocks?”

  “That’s the bilge. Don’t you know anything about ships?”

  “I know farming, soldiering, and raising children right.”

  “It’s the bilge. Any water that leaks into the ship or washes over the deck ends up here. And the rocks are the ballast, to help keep the ship upright.”

  “Rocks? Hmm. I guess that makes sense. One would need something below the waterline to offset the weight of the tall masts.”

  “Notice anything unusual?”

  “The rocks are wet,” he said, “so we’re sinking, if slowly.”

  “No, there’s always water down in the bilge. What I mean is that there’s a gap in the rocks. Look around. It’s like someone took out a bunch of the rocks right here, next to this hatch. All around, they’re piled up higher.”

  “You’re right,” said Cimozjen, holding the lantern into the hatch. “And I do believe that one of those would weigh down a man like Torval well enough.”

  “Do you know what this means?” hissed Minrah.

  Cimozjen nodded slowly. “That his killer knows his way around a ship. A veteran sailor.”

  “Cimozjen,” said Minrah, “I didn’t say a rock was missing. I said rocks. It looks like it might be a dozen gone.”

  “A dozen—”

  “This is bad,” said Minrah, looking all about. “We need to get out of here.” She rose abruptly and pushed the hatch, and it fell shut with a bang. “I’m sorry!” she said.

  “Hss!” said Cimozjen, holding up his sword hand to silence her.

  In dark quiet of the hold, they heard the slow creaking of the hull, the shuffled pacing of a sailor on deck and a quiet snuffling sound.

  “Do you hear that?” whispered Minrah.

  At the sound of her whisper, the snuffling grew more insistent, then shifted to a panting noise occasionally broken with a few whines.

  “That sounds like a dog,” said Minrah.

  “If indeed it’s a dog, then it’s a six-times big one,” said Cimozjen.

  They heard the sound of something shifting, and claws scratching on wood.

  “Oh, poor dog, all shut up down here,” said Minrah. Pointing to the large crates aft, she added, “Sounds like it’s in one of those over there.”

  “And doubtless for good cause,” said Cimozjen.

  “Sure, so it wouldn’t foul the deck. Sailors are nothing if not tidy.” She whistled softly. “Where are you, puppy?” She found a large wooden crate, over six feet in each dimension, and the sniffing and eager panting renewed with even more insistence.

  “Do not open that crate,” said Cimozjen.

  “He wants out,” she said. “Listen to him. What a big baby. Just for a few moments.” She held her hand up to a small knothole that pierced one of the wide, heavy planks, and was rewarded by the sudden arrival of a wet nose that sniffed eagerly, pausing only to whine insistently. “Ohh, did those mean sailors lock you up so you wouldn’t make a mess?” She moved around to the front of the crate.

  “Or else because they’re training it to be a killer. That is perhaps why they needed to dispose of a dozen bodies.”

  “Don’t be silly, Cimmo. Dogs don’t swing big axes.” So saying, she pulled the pin from the solid iron latch and flipped it open.

  The door crashed open, tossing Minrah aside. A huge, shaggy creature stepped out on stout canine legs. It had a broad, muscular torso with three long arms, two mounted at its shoulders and the third jutting from below one thick pectoral muscle. It was so top-heavy that as it exited the crate its third arm served duty as an additional leg. It had two long muzzles, fused into one where they met at the face and filled with long, strong teeth. Three piggish eyes, haphazardly scattered above the snouts, glared in hatred as it scented the air.

  It turned its grotesque head to the dim lantern and saw Cimozjen, standing in a martial crouch with his sword held defensively in front.

  “What in Khyber are you?” asked Cimozjen, awe and disgust in his voice. “Not that I expect an answer …”

  The creature rose off of its third arm, standing upright to its full seven feet of height. It reached one large, misshapen paw over the top of the crate, and drew it back holding a cruel-looking weapon with a double-bitted axe blade at each end.

  Cimozjen exhaled, readying himself. “That’s as good an answer as any,” he muttered. He extended his sword, holding the lantern to the rear, protecting his precious light as best he could.

  Cimozjen saw a shadow flit along the hull as the creature closed, snarling. “Minrah,” warned Cimozjen, “stay behind me, and I—” His words died as he heard the door to the hold open and slam shut again.

  The creature hunched down, ready to spring. Its meaty paws worked the rough wooden haft of its weapon. It bared its irregular teeth, lips curled so far back that a dribble of thick saliva slid from its jaw to splat on the deck.

  Looking at the beast’s tensed muscles, the sheer size and power of its build, Cimozjen wished he’d had the foresight to set the lantern somewhere safe. But of course, he realized, if the creature were clever enough to douse his light, such a move would assuredly prove fatal.

  The creature snuffled loudly, then lunged, a straightforward charge at Cimozjen, whipping the heavy axe around in a short but powerful downward chop. Cimozjen spun to the side, flailing his lantern in one direction as he dodged the other. The beast reflexively followed the path of the light, only to see it careen away at the last moment, and its blow chopped solidly into the wood of the deck.

  Cimozjen used his momentum to spin around and swing at the beast, but the darkness and the fast spin had disoriented him slightly, and the angle of his blade was too steep. He watched his sword glance off the beast’s ribs, shearing away a portion of its dense fur. If the blade had drawn blood beneath the shaggy coat, Cimozjen could not see it.

  The creature turned with amazing speed, wrenching its axe from the wood. It snarled and hacked at the ground in frustration. A grotesque split purple tongue lolled out of its butterfly-shaped maw and licked at its nostrils. Small red eyes stared malevolently at Cimozjen as it appraised him.

  The two circled each other warily, Cimozjen casting quick side glances to determine which, if any, of the surroundings he could use to his advantage. To keep the creature’s attention away from his darting eyes, he spun his sword rapidly through the Rekkenmark Sword Drill. He also hoped the flashy sequence might unnerve the creature. He was quite uncertain whether he’d survive the next few moments with no armor, shield, or helmet, and any advantage would help.

  The creature snorted like a bull, and waved its weapon back and forth. Then it took one long step forward and swatted crudely at Cimozjen’s weapon with its own.

  Cimozjen yanked his sword out of the way in a circular swing, then brought it back down, striking the wooden haft of the monstrosity’s axe. The blow, though solid, did not go clean through the b
east’s weapon. Rather Cimozjen’s blade buried itself in the wood.

  The two combatants stared at the locked weapons in surprise. Then the creature hoisted the double-headed axe into the air, taking Cimozjen’s sword and arm with it. Cimozjen desperately tried to yank his weapon free, but while his arm was still raised, the creature punched him solidly with its third arm. The impact knocked the Karrn off his feet, but also wrenched his sword free from the wooden haft. Cimozjen stumbled and fell, rolling to the right to keep the lantern from shattering on the deck.

  The beast charged, swinging a wild, two-handed chop at the supine man. Cimozjen rolled toward the swing and in. The axe blade whistled as it passed his ear, drawing a gash across his cheek, and he felt the wood shake beneath him as the blade took another chunk out of the decking.

  As Cimozjen rose, hoping to hamstring his foe, the lantern guttered. His heart caved in his chest, and he aborted his attack to pull all his focus into holding the oil lamp steady. He knew he had no chance of surviving against the twisted creature in pitch darkness. He backed away quickly, heading for the center of the open area, knowing that he stood no chance of backing into a crate. He kept the beast in his peripheral vision until at last the wick’s flame rose tall and steady once more.

  Thus relieved, he turned to look at his shaggy foe again. It had crept up upon him while his attention had been diverted by the lantern, and took another wild swing at his sword. This time it caught Cimozjen unprepared, and with a loud metallic clang, it struck his wrist and the blade. The impact sent his sword from his grasp, tumbling along the floor to come to rest against the wine casks, and nearly severed his thumb from his hand.

  Cimozjen stared at the creature, turning his hand palm-down to hide the injury. He felt hot blood trickle down his fingers to drip upon the deck. The creature’s horrid maw twisted into an unnatural asymmetric grin. It let out a juicy, humming growl, which Cimozjen instinctively knew was a sound of cruel mirth.

  Cimozjen lunged hard for his weapon, but the abomination was expecting such a move. It leapt with stunning alacrity to defend the sword, using three of its five limbs to propel it in a low, powerful leap. It arced through the air and landed, claws scrabbling on the wood, bifurcated maw open to tear into Cimozjen’s flesh—