King’s Bay was also cold and very, very deep, which gave cause for some to wonder whether or not it had been formed by a sinkhole that went all the way down to Khyber. Superstitious sailors would make an offering to the Devourer every year that the whole of the port would not drop into the abyss, at least not while they were sailing on it.
The piers that reached into the bay were by and large the same—aged, weatherworn planks strung between pilings made of heavy Karrnathi pine trunks. A few piers were new, rebuilt or in the process thereof with the arrival of peace, and one, the King’s Pier, was a veritable causeway made of stone that reached farther into the dark waters than any other.
Though the wharfs remained largely unchanged as one walked the length of King’s Bay, the surroundings most certainly did not. Cimozjen and his guide turned left as they reached the bayside, and as they walked, the buildings gradually became smaller, denser, and less presentable. Bawdy dockside alehouses and brothels plied a steady trade in the cold weather, offering warmth and companionship, or at least the illusion of it. Gambling houses and the so-called smokehouses found other, more direct means to part people from their silver.
Together Cimozjen and his prisoner paced the length of the waterfront, coming at last to the westernmost of the piers, sited in the lee of a bluff that rose rather abruptly from the ground just to the west. There, the dwarf stopped.
“I trust that you did not find this armband lying here dockside in this ramshackle ward,” said Cimozjen.
“No,” said the dwarf, a tremor in his voice. “I got it from that man, over there.” He pointed to a small pale patch that lay at the water’s edge, barely visible from the wan glow of a nearby establishment. “I hoped maybe he’d have a small purse or something, but that was all he had on him. Weren’t ’til I got somewhere private and had a chance to look it over careful that I figured out what it really was.”
“You mean to tell me that driftwood is a body?”
“It’s the sovereign truth.”
“Show me.”
“You’re the one with the dagger.”
They stepped off the edge of the cobbled waterfront and made their way down a weed-infested slope to the water’s edge. The dwarf slipped on the wet ground, and, because Cimozjen still held his hair, he lost his balance and landed heavily on one hip. This in turn pulled Cimozjen after him. He stumbled into the dwarf and knocked him further, forcing the thief to slide into the water, though by some miracle he recovered his feet as he splashed in.
“Blunted, that’s cold!” cursed the dwarf. “Could you please let go of my hair now? Argh, I can’t see a cursed thing!”
Cimozjen released his locks. With a miserable whine, the dwarf climbed up the bank a bit, plopped down, and started removing his dripping footwear with one hand. The other continued to staunch the bleeding remnants of his nose.
Cimozjen looked at the water’s edge. The dim shape was definitely a body, the shoulders apparently run aground in the shallows. Little more could be seen, as the rest of the body was submerged. Cimozjen pulled a braided leather necklace from beneath his collar and grasped the holy Octogram that hung from it. “Dol Arrah, favor your brother’s servant this day,” he intoned, and the symbol began to glow with a radiance of ethereal beauty, “and grant my prayer that you make your perfect face to shine upon my duty.”
“All that, and he orders the gods around, too,” said the dwarf, tittering nervously. A glare from Cimozjen killed his joviality, and he mumbled an apology.
Cimozjen sheathed his blade and set his staff down. Stepping into the cold water, he gently pulled the body out and laid it to rest on the sloping shore. He bent down to inspect it.
The corpse was tall and unnaturally thin. His bones spoke that he’d once been a more robust man. He was pale blue, but how pale he’d been before dying and being left in frigid water, Cimozjen couldn’t tell. He had long, scraggly hair and an unkempt beard, originally brown, but both shot through with strands of white and gray. His dilated pupils were surrounded by a corona of ice blue, unnaturally suited to his newfound skin tone. And his scant attire—pants and a vest—was, at best, ratty and filthy.
The cause of death was obvious. A heavy blow across the chest had broken ribs and split his breastbone.
“Did you kill him?” asked Cimozjen.
“No, I didn’t,” said the dwarf. “Even if I had an axe, which I don’t, I don’t think I could hit a man like he’s done been hit.”
“Go on.”
“I found him like that this afternoon. Well, he was just kind of under the water, like a dead fish. I used a stick to pull him to shore. Figured drifting in the water like that odds were he hadn’t been picked over yet. That’s the sovereign truth, the whole of it, I swear.”
“And he stayed here undisturbed all day?”
“Well, it looks like he kind of slid back in, because I left him half ashore. Or maybe someone else picked him over and gave him a shove. But sure, no one has really bothered with him since. In this part of town, that’s no surprise. When the watch comes down here, which don’t happen overmuch, they’re mostly concerned about them as still moves.”
Cimozjen nodded. “I thank you for your assistance. And you should thank the Host that I only broke your nose. If the city watch had caught you, you’d find the Code of Kaius a lot less compassionate than I have been. Instead, you’re getting a second chance this night. Make the most of it. Now go.”
Cimozjen turned his attention back to the corpse, ignoring the scuffling and grunting as the dwarf tugged on his sodden shoes and beat a hasty retreat. Cimozjen pulled the hair out of the dead man’s face, trying to recognize his features. The arc of the dimpled chin, the angled eyes, the exaggerated curve of his upper lip—they were hauntingly familiar, yet unrecognizable, inanimate and emaciated as they were.
He started scanning the rest of the body, looking for telltale marks, scars …
And then he saw the tattoo.
Twenty-nine years earlier:
“Do you like it?” The soldier—a tall, robust man with dark, oiled hair and a well-muscled torso—threw his tunic aside and proudly displayed the intricate tattoo on his bare chest. The skin it covered was raw and sore, and glistened with an ointment to speed healing.
Several others around made approving grunts and murmurs, so Cimozjen could hardly resist interfering. He sauntered over and neatly sliced his way through the small knot of soldiers.
Cimozjen leaned forward and peered at the tattoo closely. It was exquisitely rendered, with excellent detail and a good depth of color. “Mm. It’s a bit off center,” he said in an underwhelmed tone of voice.
“It’s drawn over the heart!” snapped the soldier.
“Ah, I see. In that case, it’s right on target.” He straightened and held out a hand. “Cimozjen Hellekanus at your service. Welcome to the Iron Band.”
The soldier took his hand in a grip as tight as sailor’s knot. “Torval Ellinger, recruited out of the Rekkenmark.”
“Truly?” said Cimozjen. “I spent two years there myself, before I volunteered to go to battle.”
“Tired of mucking the stables, were you?” asked Torval. The others snickered.
“No,” said Cimozjen. “Tired of mucking your bunk.”
The other soldiers hooted at his riposte.
“But I have a question, good Torval. If you’ve been to the Academy, why did you feel the need for a chipmunk tattoo?”
“It’s a wolf!” snarled Torval, irritated. Then, with a calm pride, he added, “It’s rendered in the old heraldry style, a wolf rampant—the traditional symbol of our land.”
“Eating an acorn?”
“Grabbing the crown of Galifar!” roared Torval.
“Ah. Well, it’s a very nice tattoo, now that you’ve explained it,” said Cimozjen suppressing a wry smile.
“You may not think it’s much, but you’re the lone arrow on that. Right, boys?” He looked at the other soldiers, hands out, and the others murmured their
assent. “They’ll be even more impressed when they see this,” he bellowed. He flexed his muscles, hunching forward and bowing his arms to display his entire upper body to best advantage.
“Perhaps I’m missing the point,” said Cimozjen. “They’ll be even more impressed when you’re constipated?”
Torval drew himself up and stalked slowly over to Cimozjen, until the latter found his nose all but touching the top of Torval’s breastbone. “Look me in the eyes and say that,” he growled.
“I would look up,” said Cimozjen, “but think the view would be underwhelming.”
“Coward,” said Torval. “All talk until a real threat comes, hm?” He chest-bumped Cimozjen, knocking him a step back, and closed the distance to loom over him once more. “So are you going to fight me like a man, or run crying to the commander?”
Cimozjen looked up to lock eyes with Torval. “I am your commander,” he said.
Torval’s face did not merely fall. It collapsed. “Uhh …” he said.
Cimozjen thumped him on the chest. “And if a soldier like you falls for that feint, maybe I should try it against the Thranes, hm? What do you think?”
“What?” roared Torval. “You—you—” Anger flushing his face, he cocked his fists, ready to smash down on Cimozjen like a sledge. His torso once more knotted into a rock-hard formation more reminiscent of masonry than muscle.
Cimozjen raised his eyebrows in appreciation. “Wow,” he said as he thumped Torval’s chest again. “Never mind that. When the Thranes come, I’ll just take cover behind you and your chipmunk.”
Chapter
THREE
A Cold and Joyless Homecoming
Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998
Tears stinging his eyes, Cimozjen carefully spread his torn longcoat on the ground. He picked up Torval’s corpse—a body far lighter and more frail than it had been when he’d carried the injured soldier to the healers so many years ago—and laid him out as best he could on the tattered leather. The cold, damp skin and unresponsive flesh seemed unreal, warring in Cimozjen’s mind with the memories of a sanguine, vibrant man.
He folded the coat respectfully about the body, and used the buckled straps to secure it as best he could. “You deserve far better, my friend,” said Cimozjen. “I know not what you’ve gone through all these years, but you deserved far better then, and you do so now.” He gently closed the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He hefted the limp bundle and slung it over one shoulder, then grabbed his staff and climbed carefully back up the slope to the boardwalk. As he walked back toward the better parts of town, he could feel the eyes of the dockside revelers watching his progress. Even if the size and shape of the leather-wrapped corpse had not given away its true nature, the two feet that stuck out of the end made it painfully clear. It bothered Cimozjen that Torval’s corpse only had one shoe on. It seemed the final insult.
He trudged through the cold night with his burden. His arm throbbed from its heavy bruising, his side pained him as his tunic chafed against the wounds left by the mace, and the strained muscles in his neck grew tighter as he walked. Yet his thoughts were not on his own travails, for he had suffered far worse before, and knew he would survive these. Instead, he ruminated about his friend and cohort, a brother closer to his heart than his own family, bound there by the oaths they’d shared and blood they had spilled and shed together. How he wished he could have called upon the Sovereign Host for Torval’s healing.
At the first major road he turned away from the waterfront and headed into the city.
As he passed beneath a magical wisplight, a slender gentleman paused in his own errand and looked at the unlikely pair. “Need some help, friend?” he asked gently.
Cimozjen slowed. The stranger was well dressed in a green coat and a wide tricorn hat. He had neither the look of a corpse collector nor the bearing of a thug, but seemed to have genuine concern. It was a rare thing. Simple civility was one of the many casualties of the Last War.
Cimozjen smiled sadly. “I fear not,” he said, continuing on his way. “He’s already dead. I thank you, though.”
Yet as he walked, Cimozjen realized that the stranger had helped, after all. Somehow giving voice to the obvious helped to clear his mind of its melancholy musings. He could do nothing to help Torval anymore, but perhaps he could find justice for his suffering and death. He set his intellect to the task, to discern what series of unfortunate events might have led Torval away from being honored as a hero of the Last War to being a piece of forgotten detritus scavenged from the waters of a benighted bay.
He could think of nothing, but the more he tried, the more determined he became to find the answer, come what may.
After several long blocks he took a right at Low Dock Lane. The well-cobbled road rose steadily upward, carved across the face of a steep river bluff. Oft called Low Decline by residents, it connected the worst part of the docks directly to the less fashionable Westgate end of the Hightower Ward, and as a result, the upper portions were duly patrolled by the city watch.
By the time he had topped the bluff, Cimozjen was breathing hard and his knees ached from the strenuous climb. He felt he might not have made it without the extra support his staff gave him.
As he had hoped, a squad of White Lions stood apathetic watch over the road, huddled in their cloaks and chatting by the light of a single lantern. Their apathy vanished as Cimozjen and Torval drew closer, the corpse’s two feet bobbing with every heavy step Cimozjen took.
Cimozjen saw one of the guards extend his hand out of his cloak and give the guard next to him a sharp shove on the shoulder. That soldier and another moved to intercept Cimozjen as he came closer.
“Halt,” the guard said as he drew close, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. The second guard moved into a flanking position to Cimozjen’s right, where Cimozjen was unable to track him thanks to Torval’s hips blocking his vision.
Cimozjen stopped and shifted Torval on his shoulder. “White Lion,” he said respectfully. “I wish to—”
“Explain yourself,” snapped the guard. “What are you up to here?”
Cimozjen took a deep breath before answering. Not only was he rather winded, but doing so helped ensure he did not launch a sarcastic remark that would cause him more trouble. “I am bringing a body in for evidence,” he said. “I wish to see the captain of the watch or the investigator on duty.”
The guard glanced at his partner. Cimozjen heard a noise that he surmised was the guard shrugging.
“Fair enough,” said the guard. “I was going to take you to the Old Man anyway. You don’t have the look of a corpse collector.”
The other guard chuckled. “Never mind that he’s collected a corpse.”
“Stuff your mouth,” snapped the first. Then he looked back at Cimozjen and jerked his thumb to the north. “Come on, you. Give me your stick and let’s get going.”
“If you’d be so kind as to help me with my burden …” said Cimozjen.
“I get paid to make dead bodies, not carry them. Move.”
The White Lions served as both town watch and military garrison for the City of Korth, and they had barracks near each of the major gates into the city. The barracks served as housing, armory, hospital, and headquarters, and, with their grandiose design and plethora of banners and memorabilia, as a blatant symbol of the executors of authority in the city. Naturally, the Westgate barracks had been built fairly near Low Dock Lane, a fact in which Cimozjen found no small measure of relief.
He followed the first guard into the front room of the barracks. The second guard followed behind him. A fire blazing in a large stone hearth lighted the spacious front room of the headquarters. A sizeable iron stewpot hung over the fire, and the pungent aroma of venison stew filled the room. As soon as the scent caught his nose, Cimozjen’s stomach rumbled and his mouth started watering. It was hearty fare, ideal for a cold, damp night.
The room had a few tables scattered about, with chairs and gua
rds here and there. A large beautifully rendered map of the city hung on one wall, and the pelt of some alarmingly huge beast covered another.
“Halt there,” said the guard, scowling at Cimozjen as he gestured. Then he turned. “Lads, someone wants to see the Old Man.” He tossed Cimozjen’s staff in the corner of the room and went over to the fire to warm himself.
Cimozjen moved over to one of the chairs, kneeled, and divested himself of Torval, setting the corpse to recline in the chair as best he could.
“Hey,” said a grizzled old guard, “get that filthy maggot farm off the chair!”
Cimozjen straightened up and tried to stretch, but his wounds and knotted muscles prevented him. “I’ve given him my chair,” he said. “I shall stand in his place.”
“He don’t care none where he sets,” said the guard.
Cimozjen fixed the old man with a gaze. “I do.”
The old guard held the look for a moment, then dropped his eyes. “Well at least move him away from the fire, will you? Don’t want him to fester and start stinking up the place.”
Cimozjen sighed heavily, then slowly pulled the chair, Torval still in it, across the room. He made it seem more of an effort than it truly was, just to irritate the guard with the unreasonableness of his demand.
Just before Cimozjen finished his task, a short man strode into the room. As he entered, the other guards all stood and touched their brow in salute, but then began sitting back down. Cimozjen straightened, inclined his head respectfully, then looked the captain of the guard up and down.
It was a Karrnathi tradition to call the leader of one’s unit “the Old Man,” a habit born of the nation’s culture of respect for one’s elders. Thus Cimozjen, the aging veteran, had difficulty stifling a sardonic laugh when the captain of the guard appeared to be a young lad no older than his own youngest son.
The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Page 3
