“Wonderful!” said Minrah with a bright smile.
“What?” asked Cimozjen. He held up one hand in a vain attempt to stop the conversation so he could catch up.
“I have been cast out from my home,” said the warforged. “I am therefore to join a group of adventurers. That is what my kind usually does.”
“Glad to have you!” said Minrah, clapping her hands together. “Hoy, what’s in your bag?”
“Wh—now wait just a moment,” said Cimozjen. “We know not why he even wants to—”
“He’s been thrown out of his home,” said Minrah, as if that should explain everything. “Don’t you turn your back on him. He’s one of us now!”
Befuddled, Cimozjen tilted his head and asked, “Where exactly is your home, ’forged?”
“My home is down there,” said the construct, pointing to the open hatch to the cargo hold. “I stay in my home until they open it up and someone tries to kill me. Home is very small, but it I find that a comfort.”
Cimozjen narrowed his eyes. “You’re the one from the crate?”
Minrah blinked several times. “A crate? A crate was your home? But—how long did you, um, live there?”
“All my life,” said the warforged, “though I do not know how long that has been.”
“Do you know when you were made?” asked Cimozjen.
“Yes. I have always known that. It is a part of my functional specifications.”
Cimozjen and Minrah waited, until finally Minrah said, “So when was that?”
“I was brought forth from the creation forge on the third day of the month of Eyre in the year 996.”
“Over two years …” whispered Minrah.
Cimozjen dropped his head and rubbed his hand through his hair. “Oh, my,” he said.
Chapter
TWELVE
The Streets of Throneport
Sar, the 14th day of Sypheros, 998
So do you have a name, friend?” asked Minrah as she popped into her mouth a piece of warm bread heavily laden with berry preserves.
The fresh loaf and jar of preserves were both gifts. The streets of Throneport were abuzz with talk of the raid on the Silver Cygnet, the strange creatures being smuggled within her bowels, and the warforged that had, apparently, been kept as a fighting cock for over two years. Cimozjen and Minrah were small celebrities, while the warforged was an oddity that the crowd couldn’t leave alone. As the dawn passed, the warforged grew increasingly tense until Minrah and Cimozjen managed to extricate themselves from public attention.
The trio loitered outside a grocer’s store a block off the main thoroughfare that led from the port to the castle of Thronehold, Minrah leaning against Cimozjen and he leaning against the store’s wall. The warforged likewise stood with his back to a wall, but looked not at all relaxed, and held his battle-axe at the ready. In an attempt to ease his mood, Minrah had persuaded the warforged to remove the pendulous bag of coin from around his neck and allow her to keep it in her bag, where it would be less of a temptation for thieves. It hadn’t abated the construct’s tension in the slightest.
“Name?” the warforged asked.
“Of course. Your name.” Minrah paused. “What do folks call you?”
“I am sure they called me all sorts of things, but I was never able to attend to what they were yelling. Someone was always trying to kill me.”
“They still might,” said Cimozjen with a snort. “Especially with a bag of coin dangling like a lure around your neck.”
“What?”
“It’s a great and terrible world out there, my friend,” said Minrah. “Yes, there are people who’d just as soon kill you, but there are also some truly sweet people, like Cimozjen here. Isn’t he just as handsome a side of beef as you’ve ever seen?”
“I have never seen a side of beef,” said the warforged. “But something you said confuses me. How can something be both great and terrible? Is not ‘great’ a superlative of good, and ‘terrible’ a superlative of bad?”
Minrah giggled. “Words can have more than one meaning. Great can mean good, or it can mean vast, like the Great Talenta Plains. Or it can mean powerful, like a great king. Or it can mean all of those at once. And terrible, well, it means something that can inspire terror and awe. Bad things do, but so do huge things. There can be a terrible storm, for example. Or sometimes terrible can mean extreme, like that poem that says, ‘ ’Twas terrible a price to pay / In blood for them to win the day.’ ”
“I think I understand. The world is large, and it is filled with extremes. A great and terrible place.”
“Right. And it’s a damned sight larger than that crate you called ‘home.’ ”
“But I liked my home. It was comforting.”
Minrah shrugged. “For a long time, my home was in a caravan. And I felt it was safe and comfortable, until”—she dropped her eyes—“well, until I found out differently.” She sucked on her lips for a moment. “But you get used to it.”
Cimozjen downed the last of his bread, and said, “I tell you the truth, if you want things around you to give you peace and security, you’ll have neither. Your, uh, home was comforting, but you never knew when they’d open it up and you’d have to fight. Am I right? So even when you were snug in your home, you lived with a sense of dread, did you not?”
The warforged nodded.
“I thought as much. Listen. If you want to have both freedom and safety, you will never achieve your goal. Before you can have true freedom you must have confidence in your own abilities, and set your sights on ideals that are higher than you. You’ll find faith in the Sovereign Host invaluable.”
Minrah rolled her eyes.
“Take my advice for what’s it’s worth,” Cimozjen said. “And, if you would be so kind, give us a name.”
“You are Cimozjen, and you are Minrah.”
Minrah laughed, and Cimozjen smiled in spite of himself. “What I mean is, please tell us your name.”
The warforged considered for a moment. “I have none.”
“Sure you do,” said Minrah.
“Perhaps not, Minrah,” said Cimozjen, “Remember, he’s probably been kept in a crate since he was made.”
“But they had to call him something, didn’t they?” said Minrah. She thought about it for a moment, then asked, “Did you hear anything right before they opened your cr—er, home? Something consistent all the time?”
“I did,” said the warforged. “It sounded like this.” His voice buzzed with a roar like an ocean, and within the noise a voice yelled out, crying “Fferrrrdurrrahnn!”
“Could you repeat that?” asked Cimozjen.
The warforged did.
“That’s an impressive imitation,” said Minrah. “But what does it mean? I couldn’t make it out.”
“Fighter N?” offered Cimozjen.
“The last part sounded like ‘drawn,’ ” said Minrah, “but that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Perhaps it was ‘thirty-one,’ another number in the manner of that creature’s ear.”
“Perhaps, but that sound rather put me in mind of someone calling out to a crowd, and calling out numbers just doesn’t seem compelling.” The elf grumped, deep in her throat. “Well, we’ll just call you Durn for now. Is that all right?”
“No, it’s not,” said Cimozjen. “You’re not going to use even a mild expletive as a name. We’ll call him Fighter for now. At least that’s an accurate description of his skills.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” groused Minrah.
She looked up. “Hoy there, Cimmo,” she said, having espied a procession that made its way along the thoroughfare to the castle. “I’ll wager those are the Marshals’ prisoners now.”
“So that’s where the crowd went off to,” said Cimozjen. “Come on, then, uh, Fighter. Let’s show you one of the better aspects to this world—justice. The sergeant of the Sentinel Marshals said we could attend the questioning of the ship’s officers and the other passengers.”
<
br /> “That’s terrible,” said the warforged.
“What?” said Cimozjen. “No it’s not. I should think it will be very interesting.”
“The projection of authority upon those in bondage is sure to evoke awe and terror, is it not?”
“Of course it does, Fighter,” said Minrah, “but—oh, right. You know the definitions, but we’ll have to work on the application of your language skills.”
By the time they reached the main road, the procession had already passed by. It was a long, single line of people shackled together. One long chain ran from cuff to cuff on their left ankles, and another ran from right wrist to right wrist. The shuffling of feet and chinking of chains made for a very depressing sound, even to the normally ebullient Minrah. Sentinel Marshals paced along both sides of the line, barking at the prisoners and occasionally jabbing at slow ones with the butt of a spear.
Unburdened by either chains or dread, the trio set a faster pace and gradually began to pass the line as the guards urged it forward. Every time they passed a prisoner, the three would turn their heads to look at his or her face.
“That looks like just about everyone on the ship, agreed?” said Cimozjen as they perused the line, his face showing a mixture of satisfaction and compassion. “Well, I suppose the innocent will be free of this whole situation soon enough.”
“It’s not the innocent that I’m concerned about,” said Minrah, looking toward the head of the line.
“The Sentinel Marshals will sniff out the guilty, I assure you.”
“Then explain this, Cimmo,” said Minrah. “Why isn’t the commander among the prisoners?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone we’ve passed so far has been a passenger, have they not? Look, there’s that old man from Breland, and there’s that pair of brothers from Aundair. The one in the rear came from Flamekeep, if I remember right.”
“How is it that you know so much about these people?” asked Fighter.
“I haven’t sequestered myself in our cabin like Cimmo or been caged like you have, friend,” said Minrah. “I’ve spent hours and hours on a ship with them, and I try to talk to a lot of people. You never know when you might find an interesting story.” Minrah pointed. “See, Cimmo? Look there. There’s that dwarf lass, Erami d’Kundarak. Why is she in the line and not commander Pomindras?”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” said Cimozjen, his voice edging.
“Let’s get to the head of the line. I want to see if there’s anyone else that’s been lucky enough to avoid the chains.”
The trio picked up their pace and quickly moved to the head of the line, taking note of every face they saw.
“You know who else we’re missing?” asked Minrah.
Cimozjen stroked his chin. “Rophis the Winemonger.”
“That’s right. Him and the commander. Judging by the number of prisoners, that’s a complete accounting of those missing.”
“That’s a grave concern. Sergeant!” he called. He trotted over to the Sentinel Marshal that headed the procession. “Sergeant!”
The Sentinel Marshal ignored him until Cimozjen tapped him on the shoulder. “What?” he snapped.
“I am wondering, my good man, where the ship’s commander is, as well as a certain passenger—”
“They have been taken care of,” said the Marshal.
“Do you mean executed?” asked Cimozjen. “But we had—”
“They have been taken care of,” repeated the Marshal.
Cimozjen looked at him oddly. “Perhaps you mean they were brought up to the castle earlier, and quietly so. I can certainly understand your desire for discretion, but as you should well recall, I am the one who exposed their smuggling and slavery to you. May I ask, then, when and where the prisoners will be questioned?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Indeed it is my concern, sergeant, for not only am I the accuser in this case, but I also believe that these selfsame slavers held a friend of mine in their thrall until he was murdered.”
“The questioning will be private,” said the sergeant.
“But you told me that we could attend. We have questions we’d like to have answered, and our unique perspective, having been on the vessel in question, would pro—”
The sergeant stopped in his tracks and turned to face Cimozjen. “I’d rather not arrest the day’s hero for hindering a Sentinel Marshal pursuing his duties,” he said, “but you’re testing my patience. Now leave!”
“Arrest me? But I’ve done nothing wrong! By the Code of Galifar—”
The sergeant abruptly stepped back, a broad smile beaming from his face. “Isn’t this a true hero?” he shouted, sweeping one arm out to engage the crowd. “Not only does he risk his life to uncover the blaggards who were violating countless articles of the Code of Galifar, but he declines any personal reward for his daring deeds! Let’s hear a cheer for him! Khooooot!”
The crowd of onlookers cheered.
The sergeant motioned the crowd to silence again. “Sad to say, my troop and I have much to do yet this day, and will be busy interrogating these prisoners until well after sundown. However, I see that the Crown and King is opening their doors early this day, and while this fine man refuses any personal payment for his deeds, I am certain that he’d be happy to spend the reward money buying drinks for the good people of Throneport!” With that, he drew a small leather coin pouch from his belt and slung it to Cimozjen, arcing it high so that everyone within the area would mark its flight.
Cimozjen caught the bag easily, giving the sergeant a look mixed of grudging respect for his cleverness and bitter disappointment at his evasion.
The sergeant whipped one hand into the air. “He’s dying to tell the tale of his escapades, folks. You need only beg him to do it! If this is how he starts his morning, think of the wild and glorious tales he has to share!”
The crowd cheered again, and rather more loudly this time. Following the grand gesture of the sergeant, they crowded around Cimozjen, gently badgering him and his companions toward the Crown and King.
Behind the waving hands of the excited peasantry, Cimozjen saw the Sentinel Marshals brutally urging their charges onward.
The tavern had the musky and pervasive odor of spilled beer gone rancid and tobacco smoked days or even months prior, and was thus much akin to most taverns spread across the Five Nations. The sergeant’s coin purse had been long depleted, and the drinks it had purchased already forgotten. While Cimozjen’s early tales had held the crowd in thrall, those he’d told more recently had been carefully chosen for minimal effect and told with deliberate ponderousness. Thus he had driven the locals to their own tables and tales told with rather more excitement and considerably less honesty, leaving him and his companions alone. Cimozjen and Minrah sat. Fighter stood in the corner, his battle-axe at the ready.
Minrah sighed in disgust, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “I can’t believe you let him get away with that.”
Cimozjen stretched, gave Fighter a reassuring pat on the arm, and slouched down in his chair. “With what?” he asked.
“With manipulating you into coming in here and wasting your time buying drinks for ingrates.”
“I did no such thing,” said Cimozjen.
“Did you come in here? Yes. Did you buy drinks? Yes. Did you waste a lot of time? Yes. Aside from that, you did yourself proud, Cimmo.”
“I did not allow him to manipulate me,” he said. “I chose to do as I was bidden.”
“What? You chose to—gah! That was just—that was not smart. Not smart at all.”
“Perhaps. But it was kind.”
“Kind? Kind to whom?”
“All of the people in this tavern.”
Minrah sat back and folded her arms across her breast. “I’d rather be smart than kind.”
Fighter stirred. “I concur. When they opened my home, there was always someone who intended to attack me. I needed to use my intellect to figure out wh
ich it was. Kindness would not have availed me any. Therefore Minrah’s preference is the correct one.”
“There is much you have to learn about the world, Fighter. Did you not think about things while you were in the—uh, your home?”
“No. I waited. Sometimes I waited for long periods of time, but during those times I had no need to think, for I was not being attacked. Sometimes there were noises outside my home, but as I could not reach those noises, nor could they reach me, I ignored them. I find it considerably more taxing being without my home, for I must always be alert for whoever will next attack me.”
“Alas, your education is sorely lacking, good warforged. To begin with, intelligence is a trait, while kindness is a virtue.”
“Sure, and I’d rather be lucky enough to be smart,” said Minrah.
“Intellect is a gift the Sovereigns give you,” said Cimozjen, ignoring her outburst, “while kindness is a gift you give others. The world would be a far better place if people thought more of others than of themselves.”
“Like that’s ever going to come to pass,” muttered Minrah.
“Someone’s coming,” said Fighter. “He’s armed.”
Cimozjen looked up and saw a guard approaching, marking his paces by using a spear as a walking stick. The guard was silhouetted against the windows, and Cimozjen couldn’t make out the face. “Is the sergeant checking up on us?” he asked quietly.
“It’s Theyedir,” said Minrah. “The old soldier from the lower bailey.”
Theyedir approached their table. Cimozjen stood, his hand straying to the sword at his side. Seeing this, Minrah stood and moved quickly to the far side of Fighter. Fighter edged along the wall to cover Cimozjen’s flank.
“Have you come to question us, now?” asked Cimozjen.
Theyedir slowed his pace, a look of timid concern on his face. He leaned his spear against the wall and held up his hands peacefully. “I am sorry if I have disconcerted you. It was not my intent.”
“Then what is your intent?” asked Cimozjen.
“I have heard some disturbing rumors about my beloved Marshals,” he said. An apologetic smile reorganized the wrinkles on his face into a more pleasant arrangement. “May I sit, please? I would hear what you have to say about the matter, in hopes that you might shed some light.”
The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Page 13
