The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  Except he wasn’t there. He’d thrown the hard feint to draw the creature into such a move, trusting its larger weight to impede it from recovering from its error in judgment. He ran to the center of the open area and kneeled, as if ready to spring upon the creature himself.

  The thing roared its frustration, a howling burbling messy sound. It grabbed its weapon with two of its hands, preparing to swing it like a club, and closed on Cimozjen in a reckless charge.

  “Dol Dorn save me!” Cimozjen snatched the iron ring of the bilge hatch in his ruined hand. Ignoring the pain as he stretched the severed muscles and ligaments, he flipped the hatch open and leaped backwards.

  Too consumed with bloodlust, the beast paid no attention to Cimozjen’s ploy. It charged forward, raising the heavy axe for a killing blow, but then its foot stepped into the open hatch. Its great inertia impelled it forward, and Cimozjen saw the sudden lurch as its knee struck the edge of the open hatch. A strangely liquid pop sounded as its knee broke against the rim of the hatch, and the creature flopped to the deck, landing heavily on its chest, its arms extended.

  Pain and rage filled its piggy eyes, and it roared its wrath. It moved to gather itself up, but Cimozjen stepped forward onto the haft of its cruel weapon. With a practiced move, he snatched his dirk from its hidden sheath at the small of his back, gripping its hilt between his middle and ring finger. Bracing the dagger’s butt against the heel of his palm, he stepped forward and plunged the steel blade through one of the creature’s red eyes, driving it deep into its brain. The hideous beast grunted, twitched, then sagged into nothingness, the last stinking breath hissing away through its slobbery jowls.

  Chapter

  NINE

  Questions and Lies

  Zor, the 12th day of Sypheros, 998

  Erami d’Kundarak kneeled near the top of the ladder. Pulling her well-worn robe tighter about her nightshift, she called down into the lower deck, “Report!”

  “Cargo bay’s locked, it is!” came the reply. “We’ll need us the key if’n you want us to go see.”

  “Or we could just let well enough alone, leastaways until daylight, that is,” came a second reply. This suggestion was welcomed with a murmur of affirmation from several sailors.

  “Belay your tongues!” snapped Erami. “I’ll not have troubles in my cargo hold! You lot stand fast! I’ll be right back!”

  She rose and stomped back to her cabin, her short but muscular legs moving her quickly across the deck. The whole while she cursed all sailors, a cowardly and superstitious lot if ever there were.

  Back in her cabin, she quickly changed into something more officious than a faded robe and a satin nightshift that was weary with age. She also took the chance to jam boots on her feet. The clomping noise they made when she stomped gave her stride more presence.

  Once dressed, she grabbed her ring of keys and her heavy hammer and made for the ladder once more. She made sure to stomp as she crossed over the heads of the sailors the next deck down. Once down the ladder, she paused to scowl at the eight sailors, armed and gathered at the door to the cargo hold.

  “What’s with all the long faces?” she barked. “You think you’d all been buggered by Lazhaarites!”

  “We just don’t rightly know what’s going on in there,” mumbled someone safely to the rear of the corridor.

  “That’s right. And I aim to find out,” said Erami. She flipped her key ring around and held one of the keys up. “Here,” she said, passing it to one of the sailors. “Open it up. Let’s get to work.”

  “Why don’t you open it?” said a sailor, again one safely hidden from her view.

  Her countenance darkened. Sometimes she wished humans were shorter. It would make such crass insubordination a lot harder to get away with. “Because you’re paid to keep this vessel on course, shipshape and free from danger. There’s something inside there that might be a danger. You mongrels are to find it, kill it, and tell me what it is. In that order. I, on the other hand, am paid to count money and, in case you’ve forgotten, pay your wages. And if you tell the commander that I cheated you out of two weeks’ pay when we get back to Fairhaven, whom do you think he’s liable to believe, hmm?”

  The sailors stared at her for a moment, then the one holding the keys grimaced and said, “Ahoy, boys, let me through to open the door. Let’s have this over and done with.”

  They pushed their way into the room, lanterns and weapons held high. Slowly they inched their way in, murmuring to each other as they progressed. Erami followed them in, her hammer resting on her shoulder.

  “Avast there!” shouted someone. “Amidships!”

  “Stand to!”

  “Careful, lads!”

  A pause, and then, “How in the storm did it get out?”

  Erami pushed her way through the netting that hung from the rafters filled with larder, and approached the nearest sailor. “What is it?” she asked.

  “There’s your answer,” said a sailor, pointing to a hulking pile of fur that lay near the middle of the cargo bay.

  Erami stepped forward. Whatever the twisted and malformed heap was, it was alive—or at least it once had been. It lay unmoving, its head resting in a quiescent pool of blood. “That, sailor,” said Erami, “is not my answer. It raises more questions. What in Siberys is it? And more important, what killed it?”

  There was a short silence, and then one of the sailors offered an answer. “The cabbage stew?”

  Pomindras looked at his steward, his hands steepled over his nose and his eyes devoid of emotion. “I know of the beast. It was an exotic animal that was being transported for a very wealthy client.”

  “Then why was it not on the cargo manifest, commander?” asked Erami, her anger seeping out with every syllable.

  “It is. It’s the ‘large crate, taxidermist’s trophy.’ We thought it best to keep you in the dark about its true nature.”

  “Commander,” snapped Erami, “if I am to be your purser and steward, I need to know—”

  “You need to know what I think you need to know! And you would do well to keep in mind who the commander of this ship is.”

  “Yes, commander,” answered Erami, her ire, for the moment, controlled.

  “You say it was dead?”

  “Yes, commander,” said Erami. “It was nigh exactly in the center of the hold, lying almost atop the bilge hatch. One of the legs was ugly broken, and one ear lopped off, but what undid it was a strike to one eye. Perhaps a sling stone, a spear, or something else of the like. And there was a large weapon in one of its hands, a double-ended battle-axe sort of thing.”

  “And what of the hold?”

  “Blood, commander, and not just that of the creature. Whoever killed it, the beast got one or two chops in. Blood on its weapon, trails of blood circling here and there. Looks like it scored a bleeder. That and a few chunks taken out of the decking is the extent of the wreckage. I’m happy to report the cargo was undamaged.”

  “Any idea how it got out?” asked Pomindras.

  “No, commander. Either it worked the pin out by itself, or someone deliberately let it loose.”

  “Thank you, Erami,” said Pomindras. “However, next time the ship is endangered, I want you to wake me.”

  “I tried to, commander, but you were out cold with the drink.”

  “Then prod me with the rim of my shield until I rouse myself!” He rubbed his temples before turning to the boatswain. “What of the passengers and crew?”

  “Most were awakened. Some were in the halls, some adeck. We did spot one of them armed, on the first deck below, and thought to hold him for you.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Cimozjen Hellekanus, commander, a veteran of Karrnath. Provisional papers.”

  “I remember him.” Pomindras rubbed the corners of his eyes then ran his hand roughly across his shaven scalp. “Bring him in.”

  The first mate opened the cabin door and gestured. Two sailors escorted Cimozjen into the cab
in, and a third followed, holding the Karrn’s sword and scabbard. The sailors guided Cimozjen to stand in front of Pomindras.

  “You wished to see me, captain?” said Cimozjen respectfully.

  “Commander.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I am not the captain. The one who owns this ship wishes me to remember my station, so I am the ship’s commander.”

  “My apologies. I did not—”

  “I am told that you were stalking about the corridors with your weapon in hand.”

  “You were misinformed. My weapon was sheathed.” The sailor behind Cimozjen nodded his confirmation.

  “I see,” said the commander. “And why were you stalking my ship armed?”

  “You heard that terrible noise, did you not? It sounded as if it were some nightmare from the Mournland. As there was no trouble on deck, I thought to go below and investigate. There I met your crew, returning from below.”

  “Any blood on his weapon?” asked the commander.

  The sailor drew Cimozjen’s sword halfway out from its sheath. “No, commander.”

  “Blood?” asked Cimozjen. “Why would there be blood on my sword?”

  “Because there is a killer aboard, and I need to ensure that it is not you.”

  Cimozjen lowered his head. “Would that I might truly say that I was free of innocent blood, commander, but I cannot. However, I can avow that I have not killed a single person since the end of the Last War.”

  “What about this evening?”

  “Commander, surely this evening is still after the Last War, is it not?”

  “Did you kill any—anyone this evening?”

  “Commander, upon my honor, my sword has spilled no blood upon this vessel, nor has it done so upon this evening. My soul be forfeit if I lie.” Inside he winced at how quickly he had adopted Minrah’s method of misdirection.

  “Did you enter the cargo hold tonight?”

  Cimozjen spread his hands. “I have no cargo beyond my bags, commander. Why would I enter the hold? And besides, I would have thought it to be locked.”

  “Yes it is,” said the commander, leaning forward. “Did you open the lock?”

  “No, commander. I did not, and I would not.”

  “But what of magic?”

  “I have no magic to see me past a secured door, commander.”

  The commander exhaled. “One other item. The, um, deceased has had an ear severed. Did you do that?”

  “Surely the commander can see that such an act would draw blood, and I swore my sword free of it.” Inside, his stomach curdled.

  “Answer my question! Do you have the severed ear?”

  “No, commander. I possess no one’s ear, nor would I wish to own such a trophy. You are free to search my person and my billet.”

  “So I shall,” said the commander, “Strip off your tunic.”

  Cimozjen complied without hesitation, shaking out his tunic once it was off. Pomindras looked the man over. He was built like an old soldier. The powerful muscles were still apparent, though now they labored beneath a veneer of age—a slight paunch about the middle, a sag to the once-taunt skin. Cimozjen turned in place, arms held out to the side.

  There was not a fresh mark on him. Scars, certainly, but no wounds, nothing that would spatter blood on his ship.

  “You may go,” said Pomindras, “but mark that my eye will be upon you.” He growled. “Erami, fetch me Rophis Raanel’s Son.”

  Cimozjen leaned against the railing at the stern of the boat, his hands folded and drooping. He stared at the water, gazing sightlessly at the crescent reflections of several of Eberron’s moons as his brain retraced the events of the past two days.

  He had not besmirched his honor by avowing a lie. But he had made statements out of context, arranged facts out of chronological order, claimed his worn weapon as the sum of his threat, and presented questions as answers. All this with the intent to deceive. He had abetted someone in breaking into a locked area, and killed a creature that had been held harmless in a cage. He had selfishly looked after his own safety, abusing the blessing of the Host and spurning their promise of deliverance. And yet …

  And yet his friend still lay dead, murdered and unavenged, calling to his soul. He had gathered information that might lead to Torval’s murderer, and thence to justice. And if he had not been deceitful, then would he not have broken his vows to his blood brothers, to his fellow soldiers of the Iron Band? They had sworn eternal vigilance and loyalty.

  He could no longer think, which was a blessing, as he had no idea what to think. His mind had circled the same thoughts for hours, dodging between guilt and vindication so many times that it was dizzy, exhausted, curled up upon itself like a dog, ready to sleep.

  He heard a soft step padding up behind, then a slender hand reached out of the darkness and gently touched his arm just below the elbow.

  “What troubles you, Cimmo?” asked Minrah, her lyric voice seeming to be the moons’ wavering reflections given life.

  Cimozjen did not answer.

  “I was worried.”

  “Then why did you run?”

  “Fight that thing?” asked Minrah. “Me?” She pulled him around to face her, reached out one soft hand and placed it on his unshaven face. “Are you insane? We didn’t have to fight it, and I sure as spit didn’t want to. That wasn’t our problem. All you had to do was get to the door, and we could have locked it in the hold and run back to bed.” She paused, giggling uncertainly. “That’s as sure as rain. Running was the only smart thing to do. So why didn’t you?”

  Cimozjen nodded, deciding to speak. “I stayed to protect you.”

  “Well, that’s just—you—hoy now, you did?” Her face split in a wide smile, visible even in the faint moonlight. “You love me,” she said happily.

  “I have sworn to protect the weak and the foolish,” said Cimozjen. “Down there, you were both.”

  Minrah sobered up, but her eyes were still alight. “That’s what chance dealt me,” she said. “I’m no fighter. But I also don’t have all these oaths. They nigh killed you, Cimmo.”

  He turned back to the railing and lowered his gaze. “At least my motives would have been clear.”

  “That’s a fine reason to die.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  She watched him for a moment, then slid her arm into his and looked at the water as well. “What’s eating at you?”

  Cimozjen sighed. “This whole situation. It’s … unclean.”

  “Murder is not a pleasant subject.”

  “I find my oaths and vows at odds with my conscience, and my desires at odds with the laws. I fear that if I spend too much time in this situation, that it may consume me.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Minrah.

  Cimozjen drew a deep breath in through his nose, his lips pressed tightly together. “Consider the dwarf, the one who led me to Torval. Would that I had healed him, but bitterness clouded my vision. I could have given him the gift of forgiveness, shown him a better path, been the reflection of Dol Dorn, the illustration of restraint and honor to inspire him. I could perhaps have turned him from his base path to a higher one. Yet I did not. And I know not his name, so it may well be impossible for me to rectify my error.”

  “You think a thief is so easily turned into a day laborer?” Minrah said. “You’re deluded.”

  “Whether or not my efforts would have been in vain, the very fact that I did not try reflects badly upon my heart. I find my soul clouded.” He turned around and leaned back upon the railing, head turned to the sky to gaze at Siberys’s ring. “During the Last War, I found myself in a similar bind,” he said. “I prayed for the Sovereigns’ intercession. And they gave it, though in a way I would never have foreseen.” He snorted in black humor. “I fear to ask them again, for their answer might stand athwart the path to Torval’s justice.”

  “Then don’t. We’ll do it ourselves. We don’t need them.” She shrugged. “So I guess
you killed the thing that murdered Torval, hm? It had the build and the axe.”

  “Not here,” murmured Cimozjen, “the night and the water may carry our words to unwanted ears.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Minrah. “I started about five or six different rumors among the passengers and crew. People all over the ship are talking.”

  At that, Cimozjen bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had had enough dishonesty for one night.

  The undercurrent of discussion rose anew with the dawn, and most of the people on the ship spoke of the events of the previous night while breaking their fast. The crew generally tried to disprove any wild theories that were presented to them—or, at times, within earshot—and this activity itself incited the passengers to even wilder theories.

  Based on Cimozjen’s interview with commander Pomindras, Minrah insisted they make the opportunity to chat with Rophis, to see how his questioning had gone. By virtue of Minrah’s unquestioned talent at flirting, they managed to sit alone with the large merchant.

  “You were questioned, too?” asked Rophis. “Then at least I am in a good company. I spoke with the commander. It seems there was some sort of fight in the cargo hold. A slaughter of some sort. The commander asked if I were involved. He seems to think I’ve the size and temper to risk my life in such a manner.” He chuckled. “For my part, I feared it might have been someone out to thieve my goods, but I am assured that everything remains in good order. I understand someone’s hunting hound got loose, and one of the crew was forced to put it down, as the mad disease had seized it.”

  “The mad disease?” asked Minrah.

  “A distemper of the blood. It makes the brain go savage, and the corruption foams up from the animal’s bowels and out of the mouth.”

  “That’s what the crew are all saying,” said Minrah, “though I daresay that the howling was like no cur I’ve ever heard. Do you believe them, or do you think they’re covering something up?”