The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  Minrah giggled. “I just want to see what you’re like under the blankets. You’ve got to be better than those young boys who are always trying to loose their arrows. So it’s not like I don’t know what I’m asking.”

  Cimozjen kept his face a mask. “It is said that the act creates a bond between the souls forever, and I must wonder what impact it will have on you to find your soul stretched between men scattered across Khorvaire.”

  Minrah shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “I think, Minrah, that that is the point.” He paused. “They say that a fruit that has been squeezed too often is garbage.”

  “I’ll wager that if you give me a squeeze you’ll find out otherwise.”

  “I think higher of you than that, Minrah, and you should too. I am my wife’s, and she is mine. That is the way of it, and that is the end of it.” He turned to look back out the window.

  Fighter, standing in the corner, looked back and forth between the two, as a long silence hung in the air.

  Finally a smile crossed Minrah’s face. “Cimmoooo …” she said liltingly.

  He turned to find her slowly untying the knot at the top of her blouse. “Enough!” he barked with a chop of his hand.

  “Look at that, the old man’s a pot ready to boil over,” Minrah pouted. Then she giggled. “I think I’ll call you Cimmer.”

  “I have a question,” said Fighter. “Minrah said we were on a grand adventure, but all we have done is wait and argue. Is that what an adventure is, sitting and bickering?”

  Cimozjen sighed. “There has been a lot of that, but there always is among people. We are imperfect, after all, but do not let these minor troubles divert you from the greater issues.”

  “Issues like what?” asked the warforged.

  “Vengeance, Fighter. That’s what it’s all about,” said Minrah. “A lone soldier hunting down those who killed his friend. Quite a story, and we’re all a part of it.”

  “And bringing them before the proper authorities,” said Cimozjen. “Unfortunately, we lack all the pertinent facts. We’re hunting down clues, which takes time, as does all this travel. And while traveling, that is when there can be friction, because we have nothing to do and—”

  “I had an idea of something we could do,” grumped Minrah.

  “—and there’s no way to know how long we’ll have to wait before we get results,” concluded Cimozjen with a sharp look at his companion.

  Fighter nodded, then inspected the blade of his battle-axe. “I can wait,” he said. “Even with the time we have spent waiting, I have done more adventuring with you than I had known could be possible.”

  “And as you’ll recall, Fighter, I said we were not adventurers,” said Cimozjen. “We’re just people.”

  “That is true. You said we were seeking people to bring them to justice,” said Fighter. “Justice means equitable treatment for the crimes committed. Do you therefore mean to kill them for their murder?”

  Cimozjen shook his head. “Not if I have a choice,” he said. “It’s never easy just to kill someone.”

  “Actually, it is,” said Fighter. “A solid blow to the top or side of the head crushes the skull, destroying the brain. Strikes at the neck, armpit, or inner thigh cause unstoppable bleeding. Eviscerating the bowels causes them to—”

  “Ewww!” said Minrah, plugging her ears. “Stop!”

  Chapter

  FOURTEEN

  The Foul Airs of Fairhaven

  Sul, the 22nd day of Sypheros, 998

  Well, Cimozjen, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Fairhaven,” said Minrah as they stepped off the lightning rail.

  Cimozjen looked up at the clouds that covered the sky, heavy with the promise of rain. “I’ve been here before,” he said.

  “Have you?” she asked. “I didn’t think the Karrn armies pressed this far into the country.”

  Cimozjen clenched his jaw. “You’re right. I was a prisoner.”

  “You were? How come you didn’t end up like Torval?”

  “I could better answer if I knew what had happened to him. As for me, when the Aundairians found out that I was sworn by oath to Dol Dorn, they put me to work in one of their temples, healing those in need.”

  “They let you tend their sick and wounded? Weren’t they afraid you’d secretly kill them?”

  “Of course not. I am sworn to do no harm to the helpless.”

  “But surely you were doing harm by helping the enemy, weren’t you?” asked Minrah.

  “I told them I’d heal women, children, and those too badly injured to return to the field of battle. Those who’d lost a limb, for example, or were too old.” He sniffed sharply. “They plied on my vows, though, for they brought their own oathbound to me. I am bound by honor to help those of my calling, and I had to do my duty to my brethren even though I knew they’d be returning to fight against my own people. I have long tried to forgive them for abusing my oaths in that fashion.” He nodded with the grim memories. “Be careful what you ask for,” he added, “because there’s more than one way to answer a prayer.”

  “Consider yourself lucky that your prayer was answered with a surprise rather than not answered at all.”

  “The Host answers prayers,” said Cimozjen.

  “No they don’t,” said Minrah darkly. “Or if they do, it’s all capricious. They don’t care about us at all. They’re the gods and as long as we keep worshipping them, they’re fine just sitting around being gods. I mean, they completely abandoned us in the Last War. How else do you explain a hundred years of war, untold slaughter, and the complete destruction of one of the Five Kingdoms?”

  “Explain?” Cimozjen snorted. “Do you think we need the gods’ permission to go to war? We did it ourselves.” He rubbed his chin. “We fought over a throne. We were divided by the very symbol of our unity. And we continued fighting for fifty, sixty years after the original claimants were all dead, instead of just putting an end to it and restoring order. The gods did not abandon us, Minrah. We abandoned them, prayed for them to destroy their other worshippers for our own selfish sakes. If they turned their backs on us, it’s because we first were insolent and threw their own ideals into their faces.”

  “You think so?” asked Minrah, her dander raised. “Then why do they keep letting their priests perform miracles, no matter how corrupt the priests are?”

  “Because the Sovereigns keep their promises, even when we break ours, just as a parent will continue to feed a child even when the child misbehaves.”

  “I have been here before, as well,” said Fighter, his battle-axe, as always, at the ready.

  Minrah and Cimozjen looked at him. “What was that?” said Minrah.

  “Fairhaven. That is what you called this place, correct? I have been before. There is something in the air that is familiar. I think I did a lot of fighting here.” He looked around. “Not in this exact spot, but in this general area. Deep inside a building, or perhaps underground.” He looked around. “It is upsetting. It reminds me that someone may attack me at any time. This is a violent place.”

  “Fairhaven?” said Minrah. “It’s one of the most peaceful places in Khorvaire!”

  “Need I remind you of Torval’s boot, or the marks of imprisonment upon him?” said Cimozjen.

  Minrah shrugged. “No place is perfect, I suppose.”

  “At least this lets us know that we’re on the right path. First you noticed that Torval’s shoe was made here, then we saw Rophis board the Fire Flight, which was headed here. And now Fighter remembers this place from his past.”

  “Like I said, no place is perfect,” Minrah said. She looked around. “You go find us a place to stay before it starts raining, then meet me at the Dragon’s Flagons. It’s by the docks. We have a lot to do.”

  The sound of heavy rain washed into the hubbub of the Dragon’s Flagons as the front door opened, admitting Cimozjen, Fighter, and a gust of cold, fresh air before closing and sealing the sound of rain outside once more.


  Within, the crackling of the fire and the clank of tin plates and drinking mugs battled for dominance with the babble of rowdy conversation. Those gathered were a rough lot, even more so than might be expected for a tavern sited outside the city walls. They took up but a half of the room’s capacity, but made noise and song enough for a group twice their size.

  “Hey!” bellowed an angry voice as the two of them entered. “What is that doing here?” A tall, lithe woman stood, her hand resting on the pommel of the long sword at her hip. She might have been beautiful with her athletic build and long auburn hair folded into a loose braid, but for two items that marred her beauty—the repulsed sneer that crossed her mouth, and the fact that the tip of her nose had been cut off, presumably during the Last War, leaving its scarred remnant looking piggish.

  She stalked up to Cimozjen and looked him up and down, her tongue held between her teeth. “Just what in Khyber’s curses do you think that is?” she asked, jerking her thumb toward the warforged.

  “Fighter,” said Cimozjen, inclining his head at his companion.

  “Fight her?” yelled the woman. “Aundair dares, bastard progeny of Cannith!” She stepped back and drew her sword, and within an eyeblink the warforged began sweeping his battle-axe into an attack position.

  “No!” yelled Cimozjen. He jumped between the two of them, one hand held out to the Aundairian, the other raised toward Fighter’s face. The warforged surged forward, trying to push through the paladin to get to his target. Cimozjen’s feet stumbled, but he managed to retain his balance. Desperate to save blood from being wrongly shed, and despite the fear of receiving an Aundairian sword in his kidney, he reached up and grabbed Fighter’s wrists as the construct started his attack.

  The powerful arms of the warforged drove the aging Karrn to his knees, but Cimozjen’s resistance robbed the attack of all its momentum.

  “Stop!” grunted the paladin through clenched teeth, but Fighter took no heed. He swung his torso to the left, and then raised one foot, planted it on Cimozjen’s chest, and shoved him away. He took a wide, sweeping wind-up with his battle-axe, and raised it high as he stepped toward the supine warrior.

  A flash of insight told Cimozjen that Fighter’s paranoid reflexes were in complete control. Two years of being attacked at unexpected times had honed him to react violently to any threat, and Cimozjen had just become such a threat. So, as Fighter stepped over him and his deadly axe began arcing down, Cimozjen did nothing but look the warforged in the eye and pray the Host for deliverance.

  But Fighter’s blade came, not slowing in the slightest.

  Minrah shrieked as Fighter’s battle-axe struck. She shut her eyes and heard a heavy crack as the double-bitted blade impacted.

  “Fighter, no!” cried Minrah. She pried one eye open to see the axe buried in the floor just above Cimozjen’s shoulders, where his head would normally be. Just beyond—and safely out of weapon’s reach—the Aundairian woman waved her sword uncertainly.

  “Dear gods, no—” Minrah gasped, averting her eyes.

  “Stop!” bellowed Cimozjen.

  Minrah gaped at the man. He propped himself up on one elbow, his head making an appearance from where it had been hidden behind Fighter’s huge axe blade.

  Cimozjen swiveled his head to face the other way, and pointed at the Aundairian. “Stop!”

  “I am stopped now,” said Fighter. “I could not cease earlier, only divert the angle of my weapon.”

  “I meant her,” said Cimozjen as he rose. His limbs trembled as he took his feet. “His name, fair woman, is ‘Fighter.’ That’s what he is, and that’s who he is.” He ran one hand through his hair and took a very deep breath. “Although when viewed in the light of these past few moments, I am inclined to think that it is not a very good name. I apologize most deeply and humbly that you misunderstood me.” He held one hand up to examine its quivering fingers.

  The woman sneered. “I’m not afraid of that travesty.”

  Cimozjen hung his head briefly, and then looked at the woman again. “I am not asking you to be afraid of him. I am asking that you leave him be. So if you would please grant me that, I would be most appreciative, for I suddenly find myself in need of a stiff drink.” He ran one trembling finger along his ear and drew it back to find it adorned with a small blossom of blood.

  One of the woman’s associates walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Let it go, Jolieni. He wasn’t involved.” He looked up to Cimozjen. “My thanks for your ease, stranger. I trust you’ll not hold this against her. She lost one of her friends to a ’forged just last—”

  “That and a whole bag of—” shouted someone from across the common room.

  “Shut your bung!” snapped Jolieni, raising her sword at the heckler. Nonetheless, she allowed her friend to lead her back to her chair and accepted a new tankard of drink. And although she drank, she did not take her eyes off Fighter.

  Cimozjen spotted Minrah sitting at the bar, and walked over to join her, Fighter at his heels watching the crowd very carefully.

  “Nice place,” said Cimozjen, wiping spilled ale from the seat of a stool before he sat. He clenched and unclenched his trembling hands.

  Fighter stood with his back to the bar, his axe at the ready.

  “Don’t ever do that to me again,” said Minrah, her voice fraught with emotion.

  “Do what?”

  “Get your head cut off. I thought you were dead.”

  Cimozjen chuckled, and it came out much higher pitched than normal. “I have no intention of leaving this mortal plane at someone else’s behest, make no mistake.” He looked to the barkeep and raised two fingers together.

  The barkeep noted his gesture, nodded and slid him a mug of strong ale. Cimozjen took a long pull and asked, “Whatever made you choose to meet here? It hardly seems to be your style.”

  “I’d heard of it, but never been here before,” said Minrah. “It’s the only place along the docks that the river elves avoid. I figured any place that rough would be a good place to start looking for folks heartless enough to watch horrid giant dogs or oversized bugs eat prisoners, or else for someone who might know something about such fights.” She looked over her shoulder. “And it is rough. I got challenged to a fight almost as soon as I walked in, and once they figured out I wasn’t a fighter—not that that’s a hard deduction—I had to promise the proprietor special favors to earn the right to stay here.”

  “Special favors,” said Cimozjen.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not nearly as enticing as you are, Cimmer.” She took a swig of her drink. “Besides, I didn’t mention anything specific. I was rather thinking of favoring him with a free mention in my next story. Get the name of this fine establishment known across Khorvaire.” She snickered. “I don’t think he actually expects me to warm his bed, but I guess he thinks it’s a worthy enough gamble. Nothing to lose and me to gain. And he isn’t making me pay for my drinks. Maybe he hopes each glass betters his chances. Foolish man.”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “Do you think they’ll attack me again?” asked Fighter.

  “Them? No,” said Cimozjen, not even looking up from his ale. “I think you showed them enough of your power and skill that they’ll leave you alone. At least for now. Speaking of which, we need a better name for you. What did you say you heard? You know, for your name?”

  “Fferrrrdurrrahnn!” said Fighter. It sounded a little like he was roaring into a mug through clenched teeth.

  “Hmm,” said Minrah. “Maybe it’s a number, like the one that was tattooed into the, um, that … thing’s ear.”

  “Four … something?” said Cimozjen. “I suppose Four is as good a name as any, and a lot less likely to get us into fights.”

  “So I am to respond to the name ‘Four’ from now on?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I accept that. It is as good a label as the other.”

  “Well, if you come u
p with a name you like better, Forty, let us know,” said Minrah.

  “Which is it, then? Four or Forty?”

  “Forty-four forty or more!” giggled Minrah.

  Cimozjen shook his head. “Just indulge her; it’s easier that way.”

  “Damned right,” said Minrah as she took another sip of her drink. They sat in silence a while longer. “Still, it was an interesting conversation, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe your ear caught more than mine,” said Cimozjen. He dipped his finger in the ale and traced it along his ear. It stung. “I had other things on my mind.”

  “She’s a veteran, that’s clear,” said Minrah.

  “Aye,” agreed Cimozjen. “I heard that chant more times than I care to think about.”

  “And she’s grieving. That means the wound to her heart is fresh, unlike the wound to her nose.”

  “Why is she not bleeding, then, or dead?” asked Four.

  “Let us finish, Forty-boy, all right? That man said she lost her friend ‘just last’ something. Could be just last night or just last week. But just last month sounds awkward. And she’d have had some time to get her grief under control.”

  “But she’s been drinking.” said Cimozjen.

  “But her stance was assured and speech was clear. She is not drunk,” said Minrah. “At least not yet. Then whoever that was across the way said she lost a bag of something, as well. So which do you think she lost? A bag of sweet rolls, a bag of night linens, or a bag of coin?”

  “Coin,” said Cimozjen.

  “Right. And whatever coin she lost was hers. If it were someone else’s, say if she’d been guarding some lord’s wealth, I guarantee that the loss would likely not sting her as badly as it does.” Minrah took a sip, then ordered a pickle from the proprietor. “So we have this. A warforged killed her friend recently. That alone I’d dismiss as the result of a duel or perhaps criminal activity. But she lost a bag of coin or something equally valuable at the same time.