“Personally, I believe that an excess of generosity is not within the realm of possibility,” he said. “Still … what do you think?”
“I think maybe they’re all in on it,” she said, spinning her finger in a circle. “They’re all after us.”
Cimozjen narrowed his eyes. “If they were,” he murmured, “they’d have all come together. No need for secrecy. But it does appear that some of our fellow passengers have no concern for our wellbeing.”
He looked at the dead man. “Maybe lack of curiosity will work to our advantage, though. His body is healed of all visible injury. If no one’s about, we should be able to move it somewhere else, on deck or in another hallway. With the blood on his lips, maybe folks will think he died of consumption. I have an ill feeling of what might result should I be forced to answer to the commander for killing someone in my cabin, regardless of my innocence in the matter.”
“That’s a plan, then,” said Minrah. “Strip off his tunic. I’ll wipe up what I can of the blood and throw it in the river.”
“Right. The blood and sword holes would make folks suspicious.” Cimozjen stripped the man’s shirt off and handed it to Minrah, then, hoisting the man under one arm, slipped out into the hallway.
Minrah stared at the closed door. “And, uh, I’ll sit watch for the rest of the night, all right? Right.” She set to cleaning up, pausing to pick up the faintly glowing bead. She rolled it between her finger and thumb. “Well, that’s a fun trinket,” she said.
“Wake up, Cimmo.” Minrah nudged her companion with her foot. “A new day has dawned, and we’re on the Sound.”
“Mm?” Cimozjen rolled onto his back and groaned. “I’ll be glad to be off this ship,” he grumbled. “I know not what’s worse—sleeping in a hammock and ruining my back, or sleeping on the floor and having my shoulders be too sore to move.”
“Oh, quit your bellyaching and heal yourself up.”
“I’ll not do that,” he said. He pushed himself into a sitting position and roughly scratched his scalp.
“Why not?”
“First, it’s wrong to abuse the blessing of the Sovereign Host.”
“Oh, what do they care?” said Minrah. “You’ve got it, use it. You think they’d even notice?”
“Second,” said Cimozjen, “one never knows when a dire need might arise. Suppose I healed my shoulders, my stubbed toe, and a canker in my mouth, and then you were to fall down a ladder and break your leg? Hm? I bear my pain for you, Minrah, and the others whom the Sovereigns may send to me for help.” With a grunt, he pushed himself up and arose.
“Well, you need not bear it alone much longer, dear heart, for I just heard we’re going to dock at Throneport.”
“Throneport?” Cimozjen snorted. “Throneport may have mattered before the Last War. Now it’s nothing but a derelict township that feigns to bend its knee to an empty throne.”
“Oh, silly Cimmo, that’s not all it is,” said Minrah. “While there’s no longer a great king, Jarot’s hand remains. Throneport is a stronghold for the Sentinel Marshals.”
Cimozjen’s eyes brightened. “You’re right, it is,” he said. He ran one hand across his stubbly chin. “I’m sure they’d be interested to hear that the Silver Cygnet was smuggling dangerous beasts.”
Chapter
ELEVEN
First Taste of Freedom
Far, the 13th day of Sypheros, 998
Sunset colored the chilly autumn sky as the Silver Cygnet hove to. Sailors threw lines to the stevedores and ran out the gangway.
Cimozjen and Minrah gazed at the island before debarking. It thrust steeply skyward from Scions Sound. Farms graced the few tracts of arable land that nestled between the rocks, and the mercantile town of Throneport waited at the water’s edge. At the crest of the island stood the castle for which the island was named—Thronehold, the ancient seat of the Galifar kings, an elegant structure that looked both graceful and martial against the sky.
“That’s it? That’s the whole island?” Minrah snorted. “It’s smaller than I would have thought.”
“Let’s go,” said Cimozjen.
The ancient dock was one of several piers built from living coral by Vadalis bathymancers almost a thousand years before. During the days of the Kingdom of Galifar it had been crisply squared and rose-colored, well maintained by the servants of the throne. However, during the Last War the dock had suffered a century of neglect and was now worn, cracked in places, festooned with seaweed and limpets, and heavily stained by the seawaters. It was an unfortunately accurate allegory for the isle of Thronehold and its vacant throne, once the crown jewel of the continent.
“It’s a wonder no one ever tried to take it over,” said Minrah. “You’d think that with the Five Nations fighting for the throne, an obvious first strategy would be to seize Thronehold.”
“The true king need not seize his own throne,” said Cimozjen. “The very act of using military power to take the castle would demonstrate that one was a usurper, and would probably unite the rest of the nations against him.”
“Politics,” said Minrah. “Yech.”
“So where do you think we might find the Sentinel Marshals?”
“I’ve heard their headquarters are in the castle,” said Minrah. “If so, we’ll have to ask the Thronewardens, who look after the place.”
“We should go straight there. Sovereigns willing, we’ll get there before the sun is completely down.”
They moved briskly through the streets of Throneport. Once, a hundred years earlier, it would have been a bustling center of open-handed commerce. In the post-war times, even with the arrival of a new ship, the town seemed suspicious, furtive. The people were still there, but in the absence of a uniting king most of those residing in Throneport worked for personal interests, be those the goals of their home nation or some other affiliation. It gave the town a corrupt feeling, like a city of thieves and assassins.
The pair wound their way toward the castle, panting with exertion as they ascended the steep streets. As they passed one of the lower baileys of the castle—a fortified outbuilding connected to the main castle by a high, arcing bridge that soared high overhead—a soldier hailed them from a shadowed portcullis.
“Pardon me, good folks,” he said, “but that street is the road to the castle gate.”
“Yes,” panted Cimozjen, “we know. How much farther is it to the castle?”
“It’s still a bit of a climb,” he said, “and I fear you’ll find your effort wasted. They seal the gate at dusk.”
“What?” said Minrah. “Why would they do that?”
“It’s been the tradition since the start of the Last War. While there is a threat to Thronehold, the Thronewardens seal the castle during the hours of darkness. And so long as there is no king, there is, by definition, a threat.”
“But it’s the Thronewardens we want to see,” said Minrah.
“For what purpose?”
“We were hoping they’d be able to admit us to the headquarters of the Sentinel Marshals,” said Cimozjen. “We have some information we believe they’d be interested in.”
“Is that so?” asked the soldier. He stepped out from the portcullis, and pulled off his helmet. Silvery hair spilled out onto his shoulders, framing an aged, kindly face. His slanting eyes and thin features showed him to be of mixed human and elven heritage. His weathered face bore wrinkles of care and cast a sad appearance over him despite his strong, piercing eyes. “It just so happens I’ve been a guard here since shortly after the start of the Last War. I know the Sentinel Marshals.” He extended a hand. “My name is Theyedir Deneith. Tell me what you have for them, and if the information is worthy, I’ll show you to them, be the castle sealed or not.”
It was the last watch before dawn, but the sailor standing watch was far from sleepy.
Having a squad of thirty armed and armored soldiers suddenly appear on the dock carrying lanterns aimed at you tends to have a rousing effect.
“No
one’s allowed aboard from midnight until first light,” the sailor called out, “Commander’s orders.”
Focused as he was upon the armed throng, he neglected to notice the soft pad of approaching footsteps behind him. He did feel a hard blow strike the back of his head, though only briefly, before he slumped to the deck.
Cimozjen lowered the gangplank and let the Sentinel Marshals aboard. Several of them secured the ladders and the corridors leading to the cabins, the rest Cimozjen and Minrah led directly to the cargo hold.
The Marshals had a wizard with them, who ensorcelled the door such that it unlocked and opened of its own accord. “Now’s your chance, Karrn,” he said to Cimozjen. “Show us we were right to trust you on this.”
“You don’t believe him?” asked Minrah.
The wizard smiled, lopsided but genuine. “Personally, I put more stake in Theyedir’s good feelings about you than in the story you two told. Daft as that old tinhorn is, he seems to have a good instinct about these things.”
Cimozjen led the way in, whispering a prayer, Minrah huddled close behind him. He kissed his amulet, and divine light shone forth in the room. “The large crates are in the back,” he said, gesturing as he worked his way through the cargo, “but I have no idea what might be in them. The beast was held in that, the largest of the crates. Down here’s the only evidence I have of its existence.” He stopped in the center of the cargo area, kneeled, and pulled up the trap door to the ballast hatch. Then he lay on the deck and lowered his head and shoulders into the hatch. After a moment’s grunting and reaching in the cramped area, he pulled up two items.
“This is my father’s dagger, given to me, and to him by his father before him. It bears the Hellekanus family crest on the hilt. And here,” he added, proffering a blue-gray piece of hairy flesh the size of a shovel’s blade, “is the ear of the creature that I killed with it. These are testimony to the truth of my tale, which I swear upon my honor, my bones, and my sovereign patron of arms.”
He tossed the ear to the nearest soldier, then rolled to a sitting position on the side of the trapdoor hatch and twirled the dagger. “I missed you, old friend,” he said, then lifted the rear of his tunic and slid the blade back into its place.
Minrah walked over and put a reassuring hand on the back of Cimozjen’s neck.
Behind them, the sergeant of the Sentinel Marshals inspected the ear. “Look here,” he said. “It’s been tattooed. ‘17.’ That’s very odd. What do you think?” He handed it to the wizard.
“Very odd indeed,” said the wizard. “I’d think it a gnoll, were it not so abyssally large. I’d pay a high price for the chance to inspect this creature, living or dead. Perhaps we should find out if there are any others.”
The sergeant waved a hand. “Check the other crates, but use caution.”
The Sentinel Marshals started moving among the crates, looking.
“What’s that smell?” said one, sniffing. “Smells like … cockroaches.” He peered into the slats of a crate. A squeaking, chittering noise carried through the bay. “Oh, good gods! Bring that light here, will you?”
Cimozjen moved over to the soldier, his sacred amulet glowing by Dol Arrah’s pleasure. As he drew closer to the soldier, the man drew away from the crate, for a large, insectile leg the length of a javelin extended between a pair of slats and rested its clawed appendage on a nearby box.
“Sergeant,” called the soldier, “we’ve got ’em, we do. This makes dockside rats look like fleas!”
“I—I—I’m going to go back upstairs and wait on the dock until this is all over,” said Minrah, a tremble in her voice. She turned and exited the cargo bay at not quite a run.
“Sergeant,” called another Marshal, “you’ll want to see this.”
The sergeant walked over to the Marshal. Cimozjen moved to join him. The sergeant stood near a smaller crate, one that was marginally larger than an upright coffin, watching as the Sentinel Marshal worked at the locked hasp with a crowbar. The sergeant held one hand elegantly behind his back, clutching a long, thin rapier concealed behind him.
“So you see what I spoke of, sergeant,” said Cimozjen. “This is a ship of nightmares. Twisted daelkyr creatures, monstrous insects, smuggling these must break a number of laws, does it not?”
The latch flew open with a loud snap, sending splinters flying through the air. The soldier pulled the door open, stepping well away.
“Bugs, perhaps,” said the sergeant. “But this, this is against all the laws of Galifar—and the Treaty of Thronehold besides.” He turned his head. “Seal the ship. Arrest all the crew. Hold all the passengers for interrogation.”
Then he appraised the warforged that tentatively emerged from the crate, a battle-axe in its hands, head turning to look at each of them in turn.
“I do not understand,” he said. The open area was abustle with activity. People opened crates, counted coin, and hauled material hither and yon. Yet the crowd was not all staring at him, no one was yelling, nor was anyone trying to kill him, at least no one that he could determine.
“I already told you, ’forged,” said the man without looking up. He was seated behind a table with a large sheet of parchment emblazoned with intricate filigreed sigils. “Slavery is illegal. We’ve seized what assets we can, and here’s your share.” He shoved a canvas bag across the table to the warforged.
“What am I to do with this bag?”
“Take it.”
“Take it where?”
The man sighed and looked the warforged in the eye for the first time. “This bag and everything in it is yours now. It’s valuable coin, so place it somewhere safe. Do you understand?”
“I will do as you wish,” said the warforged. He picked up the bag and looped the thick twine drawstring around his neck, leaving the bag to hang pendulously across his chest.
“Fine,” said the man. He turned the parchment around and pointed. “Make your mark here.”
“My what?”
“Your mark,” said the man. “Your signature, if you can write.” He paused and stared at the warforged for a moment. “You’re quite the work, aren’t you? The mark you make to show that you’ve been here.”
The warforged considered this for a moment, then nodded his comprehension. In one powerful motion, he swung his battle-axe over his head and struck the parchment exactly where the man had indicated. The man shrieked and flopped over backward, and the small table split in half under the impact.
“Khyber’s codpiece!” bellowed the man. “Get that—that thing out of here before he kills someone!”
Two guards hustled over and gently escorted the warforged out of the bowels of the ship.
“I’m not going back home?” asked the warforged.
“You can go wherever you want, now,” said one of the guards. “You’ve been emancipated.”
“What am I to do?”
“Whatever you like,” said the guard.
“What would that be?” asked the warforged.
“I don’t know. Join a group of adventurers or something. Isn’t that what your kind usually does?”
And with that they ushered the warforged up a ladder and out onto an open deck. He raised one hand to protect his artificial eyes as the sun rose before him.
Minrah and Cimozjen leaned against the aft railing, breaking their fast with food Minrah had taken from the ship’s larder. It had seemed unlikely that the ship’s cook would provide anything else. Cooking was difficult when one’s hands were manacled.
As the Silver Cygnet would be sailing no farther in the foreseeable future, the Sentinel Marshals had reimbursed the pair with half of their paid passage, taken from the ship’s strongbox.
“So what did they do with that bug?” asked Minrah with a shudder.
“They confiscated it,” said Cimozjen with a shrug. “I understand the wizard will be rendering it into its various parts for arcane research and alchemic ingredients. There were a few other oddities, as well.” He shook his head. �
�I am confused, though. What did smuggling a monstrous arachnid have to do with Torval’s death?”
“Gambling,” said Minrah.
“What?”
“I took a good look at the cargo hold, now that the open hatch is letting the sunlight in. Remember how there was that white coloration on the sole of Torval’s shoe? That was chalk. There’s a ring of chalk all around the edges of the open area. It was an arena, Cimmo. I’d wager anything they were holding matches between slaves and beasts. Think of it: the creature you killed had a 17 tattooed on its ear. Maybe Torval’s scar wasn’t SI at all, but rather a number: 51.”
“I doubt it,” said Cimozjen. “I’d think it odd that one would have an ear tattoo and the other would have a scar on his arm.”
“I wish we still had it with us to be sure, though. We just assumed it was letters and not numbers.”
“You wish we were still lugging Torval’s arm around?” said Cimozjen incredulously. “Or did you just wish to skin him before burial?”
Minrah shook her head as if from a daze. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
Cimozjen nodded. “I understand. Still, the Treaty of Thronehold stipulated that all prisoners would be repatriated.”
“Maybe he crossed the law. Got arrested.”
Just then a warforged walked up to them. His armor plating looked to be made of thin sheets of rough-hammered iron bolted together. Stretched between the gaps, thick strands of some smooth, organic white material stood in stark contrast. The ’forged held one hand shading his eyes from the dawning sun. The other held a huge axe, the heavy double-bitted head dangling near the ground.
“Are you adventurers?” he asked without preamble.
“No, good ’forged, we’re not,” said Cimozjen.
“Of course we are!” said Minrah almost at the same time. Then she turned to Cimozjen and shot him a questioning look. “What do you think we’re doing here, Cimmo? This is a great adventure! Mystery, murder, revenge, what more could you ask for?”
“Good. Then I am now part of your group,” said the warforged.
The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Page 12