The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  Cimozjen inclined his head with renewed curiosity.

  “Any fool can see that the death-blow was several bells old at the soonest. A fresher wound would still have been oozing, and his skin had lost all color.”

  “I fear that our Watch Captain Thauram is not just any fool,” said Cimozjen. He turned to look at her. “My name is—”

  “Cimozjen Hellekanus. I heard. I’m Minrah.”

  “That’s it? No family name?”

  “Never had one.” She pulled back her hood and shook out her hair.

  Cimozjen blinked several times. “You’re an elf!” he said, taken aback.

  Minrah looked at him, her large, almond-shaped eyes twinkling with bemusement. Long ears, the longest Cimozjen had ever seen on an elf, swept elegantly back, hinting at a crown by their shape. “Yes,” she said, eyeing him curiously, “what did you expect?”

  “I—to be honest, I know not precisely what I expected, but in truth, an attr—er, supportive elf-maiden was not even on the roster.”

  She giggled, a sound like water trickling over rocks in the sunshine, a sound far removed from the cold, dark, and painful night of the last two hours. “Well, Cimozjen, I’d say your luck is a far cry better than your imagination.”

  Cimozjen looked away to study the guards again. “I see. And what is it that I can do for you this evening, Minrah?” he asked.

  Minrah leaned forward. “Now that’s an interesting question. I would have expected you to ask what I could do for you. After all, I said I believed your account of events. That itself implies that I am willing to help you out.”

  Cimozjen took a deep breath and let it out. “It has been my experience that there are few in this world who will help a stranger without asking for something in return. As you have offered to help, you must see value for yourself in doing so. I object neither to your company nor to your assistance, for you have a pleasant voice, but I will not be held liable for a debt that I cannot repay. So whatever your price may be for your assistance, let it be known, that we have no misunderstanding between us.”

  Minrah giggled again, and the sound brought a smile to twitch at the corner of Cimozjen’s mouth. “You consider yourself one of those few selfless and generous people, do you?” she asked.

  “No,” said Cimozjen after a brief pause, “but I try. And I aspire to be a far better man than I am.”

  “I think you’re probably more kind than you care to admit,” said Minrah. “But as a matter of fact, my suspicious acquaintance, I do have a price. My price for helping you is simply this. That you let me help you. As in me, and not someone else.”

  Cimozjen turned toward her fully, his curiosity piqued. He started to say something, then rethought and said, “I’m not entirely certain that that makes any sense.”

  “Simple. I am an independent researcher. I look for interesting things. If possible I make those things more interesting or more intriguing, and then I write about them. That done, I bring them to the offices of the Korranberg Chronicle, the Sharn Inquisitive, or whichever chronicle I think might purchase the story from me. I guess you could call me a bard of the broadsheet.

  “This story, your story, it intrigues me. A veteran soldier like you—you are a veteran soldier, right?”

  Cimozjen nodded.

  “I knew it. A veteran soldier finds an old compatriot dead on the streets, murdered. He seeks justice in his native land, but the keepers of the law betray the respect that he and his friend should have earned through their years of service. That is a compelling tale of woe, and done properly I could sell it for ten, maybe fifteen crowns to the right buyer.

  “But”—she reached out and gripped his forearm for emphasis—“what if that soldier were able to unravel the secrets that his dead friend had to tell? What if, despite being spurned by those whom his society entrusted for their safety, what if that man were able to overcome the difficulties, find his friend’s murderer, and bring that craven brigand to justice? Now that, my good man, would be a story! I’d write it in sections, sell each of the sections for a sovereign or two each, then, just as we approach the heroic climax, the final chapter, the desperate final act that everyone awaits … I hold out for a galifar or more! I could easily make ten, twenty times as much with a story like that! That’s why I am willing to help you. I want that story to have a bloody, vengeful climax every bit as much as you do. And, I might add, by being a voice in the narrative I would make a name for myself, a name known to the common people.”

  Cimozjen furrowed his brow. “The common folk? I mean no disrespect, for they are the bone and muscle of the land, but I think you would find the ear of a noble to be far more valuable than the fawning of a farmer.”

  “For one such as you, a great warrior, that is surely true,” said Minrah. “But for us bards, who live by our wit—more or less honestly, that is—the acclaim of the crowd is a golden sound. A noble may gift you with gold, but a crowd can shower you with a cloudburst of copper, and they are far less fickle a patron. The day that the people look through a chronicle for a story written by me, or dare I say that they even demand one, that, ohhh, that my friend, is the day I become a true bard of the pen!”

  Cimozjen leaned back and laughed, a genuine, warm laugh that resounded in the otherwise quiet room. He swiped his knuckle across the bottom of his nose. “If it brings Torval justice,” he said with a wry smile, “who am I to complain if all of Khorvaire knows his story? Very well, Minrah of no family name, we have ourselves an understanding, and a deal.”

  “Here now, what’s all this?” said a guard, stepping closer and squashing the mood that had developed.

  “It’s nothing, White Lion,” said Cimozjen, “simply—”

  “I’m just telling him the story about the ogress, the duckling, and the justicar of the Silver Flame,” said Minrah, nudging Cimozjen surreptitiously with her foot. She turned back to Cimozjen. “Here’s another one for you. What did King Kaius the First say when he executed his court jester?”

  “Truly I cannot say,” said Cimozjen, caught unprepared by Minrah’s ploy.

  “I’m at my wit’s end!”

  Cimozjen laughed as realistically as he could.

  “Or this. How many Darguun halberdiers would you need to take Cyre?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” said Cimozjen.

  “We’ll never know,” said Minrah, starting to laugh. “Even they don’t want it anymore.”

  Cimozjen tried to laugh again, but found he couldn’t force out much more than a wheeze, so instead he doubled over and thumped the table to conceal his mediocre emoting.

  The guard rolled his eyes and walked away.

  “My apologies, Cimozjen,” said Minrah, leaning in close, “if you loiter here long enough, you’ll learn every tired and terrible joke in town. I can’t tell you how many new recruits I’ve seen try to impress the old hands with that last one.”

  Cimozjen laughed, and this time it was genuine, for there were many such painful jokes from his time in the military, as well.

  She leaned forward. “So let’s begin. I’m curious. Why didn’t you just tell the captain that you were of the Iron Band? Wouldn’t that make him want to help you?”

  “How do you know I’m of the Iron Band?”

  Minrah grinned. “By the way you treated your friend, you had to have served in the Last War together. I made a guess, and you’ve just confirmed it. So why not tell him?”

  Cimozjen rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen enough of his kind. Garrison gargoyles. I wanted to know if he would help me because it was right. If not, then by revealing my service, all I could truly garner would be the illusion of help as he tried to curry favor.”

  “You’re absolutely right on that one.”

  Cimozjen cocked his head. “You seem to know these people rather well,” he said. “Do you come here often?”

  Minrah shrugged. “Whenever I’m in town, yes.”

  “And our preening cockerel puts up with you?”

 
Minrah held up her palms helplessly. “I wrote a work once that cast young Thauram in a good light—I make things up when I have to, no surprise—and as a result, he tolerates my presence. This is the worst of the White Lion troops, the most pathetic soldiers guarding the least desirable location, so this is where the best stories come.” She punched him playfully on the arm. “And you’re my proof of that tonight!”

  At that reminder, Cimozjen’s heart became somber again. He felt his face fall, and a part of him was sad to see what was left of the jovial mood pass away as had his friend. “Tell me how you can help me find justice, Minrah.”

  “Simple,” said Minrah, picking up the conversation with a businesslike tone. “I’d start now, but your friend—Torval was it? He’s much too big for me to drag around by myself, so we’ll have to leave him in the street for the moment.” Minrah pulled her knees up and hugged them to her, a strangely girlish act for such a mature conversation. “We just wait here until the rider gets back. When he does, Yorin Thauram the Second-Rate will let you go, and you can take me somewhere private.” She smiled knowingly. “Where I can find out what your friend has to say, that is.”

  “I fear he has little to say anymore,” said Cimozjen.

  “Not to the casual acquaintance, no. But I’ll get him to talk to me. See, I look for things. And when I look, I find them. Little things—threads, marks … clues. Then I—well, this time you and I together, we piece together what we know from those clues, and then we look for more clues based on that. It’s kind of like untying a tangled spool of thread. And at times, it’s just as frustrating.” She reached out and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I believe we can do it. You and me, together.”

  Cimozjen glanced at the door that led outside. “I do hope you are right, else my heart will never be settled again.” He blew out a heavy sigh, puffing his cheeks. Memories stung his eyes. “Would that you had known him the way I knew him. He—” Cimozjen stopped for fear his voice might crack, and roughly rubbed his free hand across his mouth and chin to regain control.

  “I know,” said Minrah, gripping his hand tighter. “Believe me, I know.”

  It was nearing midnight before Yorin Thauram II, with a mix of reluctance and relief, let Cimozjen leave. Cimozjen tenderly rewrapped his friend’s body, gathered it up, and hoisted it over his right shoulder. Minrah picked up a small pack, a bag, and Cimozjen’s staff, and then, without asking, slipped her hand into the crook of his left elbow and snuggled into his arm. Together, the two of them walked through the darkened streets of Korth.

  A heavy autumn mist had set in, making the world seem ethereal. The few other pedestrians they passed in the cold night were but shades in the hazy dreamscape. The only color in the gray-on-gray nighttime city came from the rainbow halos that surrounded the magical lanterns that illuminated the intersections of major streets.

  “Let’s talk about our first step, then,” said Minrah. “Shall we start by finding a necromancer that might be able to get Torval to talk?”

  “No,” said Cimozjen flatly.

  “Why not? I know it’s pricey, but a veteran like you should be able to—”

  “I’ll not entrust Torval to the mercies of the Cult of Vol,” spat Cimozjen with startling vehemence, “nor to anyone else who practices their vile rites. I’ve had … poor experiences with their ilk in times past, and I’d trust their assistance even less than I’d trust Thauram and his kind.”

  In response to his outburst, Minrah just gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. They walked in silence together for a dozen blocks or so before she spoke again.

  “They still amaze me, after all these years,” she said.

  “The White Lions?”

  “These lights.” Minrah pointed to one of the lanterns as they passed. “They never stop shining. Ever. I think it’s amazing that magewrights can do that, spend a relatively short amount of time on a project and leave an indelible mark on the world like that. That’s what I want to do. Write a story that will be read over and over again for a thousand years. It’s a kind of immortality to have your name remembered forever.”

  They walked in silence for another block. At the next intersection, she spoke again. “Did you know that the name ‘everbright lanterns’ originated in Thrane?” she asked.

  “No, I did not. I thought that’s just what most people call them.”

  “A lot of them do, I think, especially in the cities, but the nickname is most prevalent in Thrane over every other nation in Khorvaire. It spread everywhere with their missionaries, I suppose, so now it’s more of a Khorvairian word than anything. Kind of lost its roots. I think the phrase originally had to do with their obsession with the Silver Flame, their holy eternal fire, burning all the time in its cathedral. A true believer is always supposed to have the light of the Silver Flame burning bright in their souls, or so they say. So I’ve always thought that they used that name as kind of a reminder to themselves of what they ought to be doing. Bringing their light to the world.”

  Cimozjen mulled the idea over for a moment. “Sounds reasonable.”

  “And the Brelish often as not call them cold fire lanterns,” she said. “I think that’s because they appreciate the irony of the phrase ‘cold fire,’ the inherent magical implications of the name. I mean, their capital, Sharn, is replete with magic, built as it is right there on a manifest zone with all those huge towers. If the magic faded from the area, the whole city would collapse. But in the meantime, they revel in it.”

  “I see,” said Cimozjen. “And in a like manner Karrns call them wisplights because they’re so faint compared to the sun. Wispy sunlight—wisplight. It seems the most realistic label.”

  “No, silly man,” said Minrah. “I’d wager it’s because of the Karrnathi obsession with mystery, death, and undeath. You’re a superstitious and moody people, probably because you grew up with all these large, dark pine forests encroaching on your towns. I think they’re named because they’re faint and round and can only be seen at night, like will-o’-wisps. That’s why in the small towns, folks only call them ‘wisplights.’ They’re closer to their superstitions than city folk.”

  Cimozjen pursed his lips. “I’d not thought of it that way,” he said, “but I do suppose you could be right.”

  “There’s no ‘could be’ about it,” said Minrah with a confident laugh.

  “Up there,” said Cimozjen, “that’s where I’m staying. The Walking Wounded.”

  “I see it. Charming picture of a one-armed zombie on the sign. Do you have a private room?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I find them a needless indulgence,” said Cimozjen.

  “I should have expected a veteran to say as much. You’ve probably spent most of your life bunking with other solders, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, and trust me, one learns to sleep lightly.”

  Minrah paused in her step, her hand slipping from Cimozjen’s elbow. “Do soldiers actually steal from each other? That’s pathetic!”

  Cimozjen chuckled. “No, they do not. At least not in the Karrnathi army. Well, maybe once in a great while one will try, though I dare say that losing a right hand in the center of camp tends to discourage such activities. Yet soldiers will play pranks.”

  Minrah giggled as she caught back up and took his arm again. “Do they?”

  “Oh yes. Snoring, that’s the killer. It shows you’re heavily asleep. Plus at night, it can give away the location of your camp to an enemy scout, so no one ever truly regrets taking advantage of a snoring man while in the field. I remember one night w—uh, one or two soldiers shaved a general bald as he lay snoring in his bed. Head and beard, cut to stubble. Left him with nothing but an X for his forelock.”

  “Did you ever get found out?”

  “Minrah, whatever makes you think it was me?”

  She laughed and tilted her head on his arm. “You said you remembered, not that someone told you. And I heard your little stutter. It was you and
Torval, wasn’t it?”

  Cimozjen grinned. “In truth, it was. And, according to the general’s orderly, every night afterward he tied a strip of cloth around his head to hold his jaw closed.” He stopped and turned to impel her subtly toward the front door of the inn. “Here we are.”

  Minrah walked up to open the door but paused with her hand on the latch. “You understand that we’ll need a private room tonight. We shouldn’t have others poking around our affairs.” She drew in a breath through her nose. “Don’t carry him like a cord of wood, all right? Cradle him in your arms, and let his head rest on your shoulder. So which side of the door is the owner’s desk on?”

  “I do not remember,” said Cimozjen. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course,” said Minrah. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” She looked at Cimozjen, and he waited patiently for her to explain. “Look, we don’t want the innkeeper to see Torval’s face. Even a stone-cold drunk has more life in his face than he does. Hmm. Just hold him whichever way is more comfortable, and I’ll square him away. Whatever you do, don’t let him shift, or his head might flop down.”

  Cimozjen maneuvered Torval’s body into position, wincing as his wounds and knotted muscles protested the additional abuse. Minrah arranged Cimozjen’s longcoat about Torval’s body, unveiling his head, smoothing his hair somewhat but leaving his dead face concealed.

  “Right,” she said, “just head in and keep walking. Don’t stop. I’ll handle the rest, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  Minrah opened the door and Cimozjen stepped through. She scooted in right behind him, walking straight up to the owner. “I don’t mean to be rude, but our friend here pickled himself in a jug and decided he wanted to drink the river as a chaser. We’ll need a private room, a basin of hot water, and a pail as quickly as you can.” Even as she finished, she pressed a coin into the flustering innkeeper’s palm. “Let’s be quick about it, now, unless you want him to share what he’s been eating and drinking all evening!”

  She grabbed the lantern that sat on the desk with one hand and the innkeeper’s wrist with the other, pulling him along, following Cimozjen to the staircase that led to the rooms. “Quick, quick, which is the closest private room? The longer he’s carried around doubled up like that, the more likely it is that we’ll be squeezing everything out of him. Drunk as he is, that might mean both ends!”