The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  Pomindras came around the table and sat down, his pleasure evident. He placed a sheaf of high-quality Karrn paper to the side.

  Rophis gestured with his mangled turkey leg. “Try some.” He bit off another large, greasy mouthful and chewed, rolling his eyes back in pleasure. He followed with a hearty swill from his large mug of stout. “Mm. Wonderful.”

  Pomindras did as he’d been bidden, cutting off a large chunk of breast, though truly it required no measure of loyalty or obedience to sample the savory bird.

  Rophis smacked his lips and waved one hand vaguely. “Glad to have you here at last, Pomindras. You may begin.”

  Pomindras set down his knife, wiped his hands and took up the papers. “Attendance continues to grow, lord, at roughly the same pace. Wagers have risen more rapidly, as have participants, and despite a few setbacks, we are profiting well.” He switched to another page. “I’ve been keeping my eye on several potential candidates who may be valuable additions. However, Alain—you remember him, the albino lad?—we’ve confirmed that he’s in touch with the gnomes, so I’ve arranged a special event for his benefit.”

  Rophis chuckled. “Excellent. Monsters are always a good draw. Tell me, what sort is it?”

  Pomindras smiled. “I’d rather it remained a surprise, lord. Trust me, though, it’s a good one.”

  Rophis looked aslant at Pomindras, then laughed. “A surprise, eh? Pomindras, that sounds like—”

  The door to the private dining room opened, and an unfamiliar figure stepped in.

  “You have the wrong room,” growled Pomindras.

  “Oh, no, I do not,” said the small elf gaily. She winked at Pomindras. “In fact, as soon as I saw your bald little head bobbing on in, I knew I’d find myself in the absolute right room.” She blew a kiss to Rophis. “How are you faring, O winemonger son of Raanel?”

  Rophis leaned to his right, an incredulous twist to his lip. “I know that face. Who is she, Pomindras?”

  “You wound me,” said the elf, clutching her heart with melodramatic anguish. “On board the Silver Cygnet, you said I was a lovely creature with a radiant face, and now you don’t remember me?” She sighed and sagged against the doorframe. “But that’s fine, because I remember you, and now, thanks to the Chronicle, the whole of Khorvaire will soon know what you’re doing.”

  “Now I remember you,” said Rophis. “You’re the Karrn’s bit of sleeve lace. And you’re our mysterious narrator, too?”

  Minrah curtsied. “Indeed I am. And now you’re holding my friend. Cimozjen, in case you’ve forgotten. Let him go before nightfall, or I’m calling the Marshals down on you.”

  Rophis stared at her blankly. “The Marshals.”

  “That’s right,” said Minrah. “The Sentinel Marshals. So you might want to give me the answers I want before they wring them from your tortured body.”

  “Pfft!” snorted Rophis. “Empty threats.” He waved a turkey leg. “Pomindras, deal with her.”

  Pomindras stepped around the table. His hand went to his belt, but of course House Ghallanda had required him to surrender his sword upon entry into the Blinking Hippo. So instead he flexed his arms and cocked one meaty fist by his shoulder. “All right, youngster …” he said.

  The elf slid back and pushed the door open a bit wider. A large warforged stepped through the door and adopted a protective stance.

  “This is Four,” said the elf.

  Pomindras swaggered a little as he approached. “It’s for … what?”

  “This,” said the warforged. He threw a fast punch from the waist, catching Pomindras right below the ribs. Pomindras doubled over, gasping for breath, and he staggered and fell to the floor, pulling a chair over on top of himself.

  “Seeing as you have markedly little hospitality,” said the elf, “we’ll be on your way. Free Cimozjen by sundown. I’m giving you one last chance.”

  The two of them departed, and the warforged pulled the door closed behind them.

  “More than I’ll give you,” muttered Pomindras. He rose and set the chair upright again. “I’ll fetch some others and we’ll—”

  “You’ll do nothing,” said Rophis waving him off with the bone. “Not yet. Ambush her in the streets, and the chronicles will hear of it. That would be bad, because it makes her story all the more compelling. We need a way to eliminate her without adding to her influence, and—” He stopped in mid-gesture, then a jaded smile slowly spread across his face.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Pomindras sat. “What’s your plan, lord?”

  “We’ll send her an invitation that she won’t be able to resist,” he said. Then he returned his attention to his turkey leg.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Lying to the Authorities

  Mol, the 2nd day of Aryth, 998

  Do I know how to work a crowd, or don’t I?” Minrah smiled as she saw the people assembled around the latest edition of The Korranberg Chronicle, where it was plastered to a large, blank wall. The top of the broadsheet featured the fourth installment of her story, and was the subject of much animated discussion.

  “If you wanted an angry crowd, you have succeeded,” said Four.

  “Indeed I have. Now that we have the crowd behind us—or at least behind the thought of righteous revenge—we need to talk with the Sentinel Marshals.”

  “I do not understand. If you are relying on the Sentinel Marshals, why do you want the crowd excited?”

  “Two reasons. The first is so that the Marshals feel the pressure. If they know that every face they meet on the street wants to see Torval avenged, they’re more likely to help. That way they’re less likely to pull some limpid sort of trick like they did at Thronehold, leaving the guilty to go free.”

  “And what is the second reason?”

  “I want the crowd personally involved. There’s nothing like a lynch mob to get a job done right. Once the crowd realizes they’re a part of the story, that they’re involved with history as it’s being written, they’ll get the revenge they all want, laws and Marshals notwithstanding.”

  Four considered this. “Might not there be some casualties, if an angry mob were to attack the Marshals and House Orien?”

  “Most assuredly,” said Minrah. “And that makes for an even more exciting story. We just have to make sure we keep ourselves safe. Come, Four. We’re off to see the Marshals.”

  Cimozjen woke up with a groan. His head ached, an ugly taste had encamped in his mouth, and when he opened his eyes the world looked fuzzy.

  He lay on his pallet bed, clothed and armored and very stiff. He’d been there for a while. He remembered defeating Tholog and, as he hadn’t wanted to face the guards with their electrified spears again, walking out of the arena with his weapons in hand. He’d gone back into his cage like a trained animal.

  Cimozjen forced himself to sit up. There in the corner were his staff and his sword, just as he remembered leaving them, and just out of his reach. With a grunt, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. What had happened next?

  Next he’d … woken up.

  They had done something to him.

  He put his hand to the small of his back. His dagger was gone.

  He stood up and shuffled his way across his cell as far as the chain would let him. There, on the ground by his other weapons, was his dagger. That was why they had struck him unconscious. Somehow they’d known he hadn’t given up his third weapon, and some house wizard had felled him like a tree. He shuffled back over to his pallet bed and sat heavily. He turned his hands over and looked at them.

  They wanted him unarmed.

  But why? One obvious answer was that he could kill himself with his dagger. Still, he could probably commit suicide by hanging himself with his belt or ankle chain, or by starving himself, or even just by falling on his sword in the arena.

  Then he remembered Torval. Torval had used a sharp object to cut into his skin and create a scar. Perhaps they didn’t want that to happen
again.

  Cimozjen pushed up his sleeve and looked at his bare forearm. What kind of message was Torval trying to send?

  He traced his fingers along his skin. S … I … And then he realized: it’s wasn’t an I. It was an L. Torval had been writing Slave, but something had stopped him from completing it.

  He looked up, at the three weapons that lay in the corner, just out of his reach.

  No wonder.

  Minrah and Four walked across town to the outpost of the Sentinel Marshals, located in a corner tower of one of the Aundairian government buildings along with the speaking stone station operated by House Sivis and the Kundarak Banking Guild—an above-ground service desk for their subterranean operations.

  Inside, the Sentinel Marshal outpost was actually welcoming. While well furnished, it had neither the pomp of royalty nor the ostentatious hubris of the dragonmarked houses. The power it projected was quiet, much like, it was told, had been the case with the early kings of Galifar. The dark wood had been warmly polished to have a deep luster reminiscent of coals burning on a winter night. Papers were posted about containing splendid renditions of wanted criminals, some of them created with magical glamers that seemed as true to life as one could possibly want. A map of Khorvaire dominated one wall, peppered with tiny flags and pins, and opposite that hung a detailed map of the streets of Fairhaven, likewise peppered with little colored flags and notes.

  A clerk sat at a high desk, scribing gear all about him. He looked at Minrah as she and Four entered the room, his fingers laced at the edge of his desk.

  “Good morning to the both of you. Do you have a criminal complaint, or are you seeking some other service?”

  Minrah smiled as she walked over. The desk was just a tad too high for her to peer over, so she slipped to the side. It also helped her flirting to stand closer to her target. “It’s rather more complicated than that,” she said, gazing at him from the corner of her eye as she feigned timidity.

  “Indeed? How may I be of service?”

  “My name’s Minrah Hunter,” she said with just a trace of coyness. “And you are …?”

  “Sorn d’Deneith, at your service.”

  Minrah’s fluttered her eyes and faced him more fully. “I’m sorry, Sorn …?”

  “Of House Deneith,” he said. “My apologies if it wasn’t clear. Sometimes that double ‘D’ comes out sounding like a stutter.”

  “Deneith. Right,” said Minrah. She tried to force her smile back, but her furrowed brow smothered it as a thunderhead stops the sunshine. “House Deneith. But I thought … aren’t the Sentinel Marshals an … independent … force?”

  “Of course we are. It’s part of our charter, just like the Blademarks Guild and the—”

  “And the Defender’s Guild. Right.” Her expression went from anxious to vacuously sunny in an instant. “That’s why I’m here. I was looking to hire a bodyguard. Would that be possible?”

  “I’m sorry, miss,” said the clerk. “That’s not what we do in this office. We only handle criminal investigations here. Contracts for the Defenders Guild are handled through the main House Deneith enclave.”

  “Was I mistaken?” gasped Minrah. “I am so sorry.”

  “Not a worry. It can be a little confusing sometimes. We Marshals keep ourselves physically separate from the rest of the house to help maintain our neutrality. If you’d like, I can give you directions.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I know where I’m going.”

  “No problem, young miss,” said the clerk with a respectful nod of the head. “Happens all the time. Truly.”

  Minrah left quickly, grabbing Four’s arm as she departed. She dragged him behind her until they had exited the tower, walked half a block, and then ducked in an alley. No sooner were they out of sight than Minrah leaned against the wall, trembling, squealed a high-pitched cry and grabbed at her hair with clawed hands.

  “Are you ailing?” asked Four.

  “Yes!” said Minrah. “I am so stupid!”

  “Ah. Your brain is damaged, then?”

  “Four,” said Minrah, “don’t you see? All this time we’ve been looking at who might have sway over the Marshals, but who has more sway than their own people? House Orien isn’t behind this! It’s House Deneith!”

  “But you said they were rigidly neutral and true to their pledge, and would not want to risk their reputation.”

  “Obviously, I didn’t think it through all the way. But it all makes sense now. Who’s better to take control of soldiers than soldiers, who’s more likely to promote fighting than mercenaries, and who’s less likely to hold to the law than sellswords? No wonder Rophis was so unruffled when I threatened him with the Marshals raiding his gambling arena. Just think about it. The Sentinel Marshals are one arm of the house, and they always uphold the law and vanquish the wrongdoer … unless doing so crosses their own! They can’t very well cut the purse that pays them, can they? That’s why the Marshals let Pomindras and Rophis go free on Thronehold, Four. They were letting members of their own house off the hook.” She snorted. “Meanwhile, the people they hired or duped—the passengers, and that Kundarak moneycounter—they get arrested and prosecuted for their part in the slave trade.”

  “Great!”

  Minrah looked up at him, confused and disgusted. “What?”

  “That is great. Great as in large, ominous, and far-reaching.”

  Minrah placed her face in her hands. “We really need to work on your language skills.”

  “You have said that before,” said Four, “but you never follow up with lessons.” He paused, and seeing no response was forthcoming, asked, “So what is our next step?”

  Minrah rubbed her face, then looked to the steely autumn sky. “Since we can’t go to the law, we go to the power.” She stood erect, brushed her hair back, and regained her composure. “We go to the crown. Queen Aurala will be ill-pleased to hear that people are being enslaved in her fair land.”

  Striding out the other end of the alley, she spoke to Four over her shoulder. “Let me be realistic,” she said. “We’re not going to see her. We’ll see some low-ranking administrators that will be ill-pleased on her behalf. But on the bright side, maybe they’ll have some magic for us, something we can use to our advantage.”

  The view slit slammed shut. And, after a moment, the bland gray door opened to admit Tholog into the front rooms of the arena. He nodded to the door guard and went down the passageway to the right, thinking about how all door guards seemed to like to slam view slits.

  He entered the booking area, walked up to one of the barred wickets, and rapped his knuckle on the wooden counter. “Seneschal!” he called, lisping the sibilants.

  The only person within the booking room was an older human, checking ledgers. He looked up. “Ah, yes, may we help you …?”

  “Tholog.”

  “Yes, that’s right, Tholog.” The seneschal rose and walked slowly over, touching one finger to the side of his nose. “Didn’t we pay out against you last night?”

  Tholog rubbed a hand self-consciously on the bandage over the base of his neck, where a wound, a good two fingers wide but merely skin-deep, marked the place where Cimozjen had stabbed him. “Uh, yes, you did,” he growled bitterly, “and that’s what I’m here for. I want to issue a challenge.”

  “Looking for revenge, are we?”

  “No,” said Tholog. “I’m still too weak for that. I lost a lot of blood. If I stand up too quickly, the darkness takes me.”

  The seneschal leaned forward, hands clasped together over his heart. “Was the wound serious?”

  “It should have been fatal. Cursed Karrn cheated me!” spat the hobgoblin. “Distracted me with talk of honor, then stabbed me in the neck as I was thinking. I cannot leave him unpunished. I want my vengeance now, but I don’t know when I’ll be strong enough to return.”

  “That is a pity,” said the seneschal, looking truly compassionate. “You’ve been doing so well for us. And for yourself, of cou
rse. How is it then that we can help you?”

  “I have someone I’d like to use as a stand-in for my revenge. I’ve found another fighter who’d be well suited to the arena, and I hope to make some money backing him with my wagers before everyone else figures out how good he is.”

  “Do tell us of him.”

  Tholog rubbed his wound again. “He’s a bugbear, mercenary from Darguun, and he’s a tough one, eager for a scrap.”

  “Bugbear?” asked the seneschal. “I don’t believe we’ve ever seen one of them in our establishment.”

  Tholog shrugged, then winced and clutched at his wound again. “I can’t speak for the whole race, but this one is pretty much the same height and build as a front-line warforged. Thank the Host for his fur, because he wears pretty much nothing but his armor. Saw him at a drunken brawl across town the other night. Took down several with nothing but his teeth and claws. When he was done, I hied off with him before the watch showed up. No sense in wasting a good warrior in the dungeons, right?”

  The seneschal wrung his hands. “The creature sounds impressive indeed,” he said, “and the novelty could be good for business. You are aware that we do not normally allow third-party challenges, but since you were treated so unfairly in the previous fight, and since you’ve provided such good results for us over the last year, I suppose I will endorse your invitation. It’s too late to add anyone to the lists for tonight, but I can put your champion in for the morrow, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you. Please pair him off against … grrh, I can’t remember his name. You know who I mean.”

  The seneschal smiled. “Cimozjen, the Killer from Karrnath. I know him well. He’s already drawn quite a bit of betting activity for us. I am sure this match will do well for all of us.”