The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  “Yes, we did, mm, we do still, that is. They’re an old tradition, seeking to build up the very souls of the fallen and craft them into—mm—beautiful objects. They tend to those criminals that the crown believes could be of menial service to the nation. It’s a good work that they do. Mm-hmm. Far better for the country than keeping them in a prison and wasting food on them, like they did in the old days of Galifar. The ones that aren’t too dangerous that is. Mm-hmm, thieves, harlots, smugglers, and the like. Make them work. Nothing like ten years mucking the sewer to make someone rethink disobeying the king’s own law. Or re-cobbling the street while having children throw rotten food at you all day long. Hah!” Hannel pounded his desk. “I dare say I’ve helped flagellate a few myself with produce past its prime. Mm.”

  Cimozjen raised one hand to stop the monk from conversing too far afield. “Truly, the order does a great service to the crown. Now, during the Last War, did the Custodians not also take prisoners from other nations under their care?”

  “Yes, we did. Mm, those who were of the right heart about it. By that I mean that some of the prisoners were so hateful that they’d just as soon rip your throat out with their teeth. Mm-hmm. We couldn’t do a thing about those ones but throw them into a dungeon pit and toss food down from time to time. But those were mostly the Thranes, what with all their Silver Flame gibberish and talk of holy warfare and bringing the light to Galifar. Those who surrendered honorably were treated honorably.”

  “Indeed,” said Cimozjen. “And I understand that the control of the Custodians was handled through this place?”

  “Control?” He shook his head. It looked like a violent squabble between flesh and bone. “No no no no. Communication, my son, that’s what we are for. The Keeper of the Divine Wrath must keep oversight over all of his servants, mm-hmm? For the last seven years I have had the honor of serving as the liaison for my order to the Church.”

  “And before that?”

  “Brother Margan was the liaison, mm, Sovereigns rest his soul. I served as his aide and scribe.”

  “Very good,” said Cimozjen. “Tell me then, what happened to the prisoners once the Treaty of Thronehold was signed? How did the brotherhood divest themselves of their charges?”

  Hannel leaned back and laced his fingers high upon his pudgy breast. “Queen Aurala commanded that we of the church take every step we could to document how we abided by the terms of the treaty. Every prisoner was to be repatriated. We wanted to ensure we had a clean record, mm, by the Queen’s own order.”

  “Is there a way to tell if a given prisoner was returned to his homeland?”

  “Certainly. That is most of what I do these days, you know. I research the missing. Mm, you see, we may not always have kept good track of them while they were on a work detail—there were indeed times when catastrophe or warfare created a disturbance in our duties—but we were very careful when peace came, mm-hmm. Once everyone we had was returned, I’ve spent my time trying to, mm, clear up any discrepancies.”

  Cimozjen smiled, a genuine show of hope. “That is wonderful news, for I fear my friend may have slipped through the cracks.”

  “Indeed? Mm. What can you tell me of him?”

  “His name was Torval Ellinger, a soldier of the Iron Band. He was sent to … the, um …”

  “He cut timber at the Areksul garrison,” said Minrah.

  “Hm? Is someone else there?” asked the friar, flustered.

  “I am a friend of Cimozjen’s,” said Minrah. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Mm … hmm … you didn’t startle me, young girl, I just didn’t see you over there in the shadows. Mm.” He looked over his shoulder. “Ourielle, my dear? Would you kindly fetch me the book on the Areksul garrison?”

  A creature crawled out from beneath the table at which the monk sat. It seemed a monstrous, misshapen spider at first, with long, thin, fleshy limbs slowly and quietly uncurling, each ending in a delicate, long-fingered hand. Its body was akin to a human’s head, naked of hair. The legs sprouted from roughly where the neck should have been. Sparing a brief glance at the visitors, it moved across the floor on its twice-jointed limbs. Its hands made the barest padding noise as they struck the tiles.

  “Such a pleasant sound, mm-hmm,” said the monk. A tight smile puckered his face. “She likes to be barefoot,” he added.

  A few minutes later, the creature returned. It moved on three legs, as the fourth held a thin volume in its long-fingered hand, yet its gait was as smooth and noiseless as it had been when it had departed. The creature walked up to the monk and crawled beneath the table once more. The last part of it to be seen was its fourth leg, which deftly placed the book gently by the side of the monk’s hand before it, too, disappeared beneath the woodwork.

  “Mm. Such a sweet young thing, she is. Always very quiet. Mm.” He shooed the quill pen to the side, and it returned obediently to its inkwell. He opened the book and leaned close over the pages, one hand fiddling with his monocle.

  The trio waited patiently while the clerk went through the elegant calligraphed pages of the tome. “Here we are, mm-hmm. The list of prisoners from Areksul garrison. Looks like there are a few amendments here already—told you they couldn’t write—but … hmm … yes, there he is. ‘Ellinger, Torval, Karrnath, Iron Band.’ He was repatriated. Unless, mm, he took ill and died while being sent home.”

  “Or something of that nature,” said Minrah.

  “Tell me,” said Cimozjen, ignoring her comment, “what exactly was the procedure for repatriating the prisoners?”

  “Mm? For the most part, the church arranged for their departure by communicating with those of equal standing in the churches of the other nations. Obviously this was rather more troublesome when dealing with Thrane, mm-hmm, but they finally got enough good sense in their heads to let the remaining faithful handle the exchange, rather than leave it to those myopic sots that overthrew the king.”

  “Myopic, you say?” asked Minrah.

  “Mm?” Hannel glanced up, cast about, and looked in the general direction of Cimozjen. “Yes, mm. Indeed.”

  “Enough, Minrah,” said Cimozjen, raising one hand to cut off any dispute. “Brother, you said ‘for the most part.’ Was Torval part of that group, or was he handled a different way?”

  “Mm. Not him, no,” said Hannel, shaking his head and setting his flab to waggling again. “Not according to this annotation. He was to be afforded special treatment.”

  “Special?”

  “The Prelate, Host bless his ailing health, insisted that certain select prisoners be afforded special treatment as suited their station or service.”

  “Prelate Quardov?” blurted Cimozjen.

  “Mm. Yes. His Reverence the High Archdeacon of the Cathedral of the Heavens, Blessed Apostle of the Church of the Sovereign Host, and, mm …”

  Minrah pulled Cimozjen towards her as Hannel prattled on. “You know him?” asked Minrah quietly.

  “Yes, I do,” said Cimozjen, lowering his voice so the aging friar couldn’t hear. “Or rather, I know of him, and saw him. Near the end of the War he visited the infirmary where I was serving, and asked several pointed questions about me and my disposition, or so one of the hospitalers informed me. He took a long look at me while I worked, and I tell you the truth, there was no warmth in that gaze.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous man,” said Minrah.

  “That is the truth of it,” said Cimozjen. “As soon as I returned his stare, he averted his eyes and moved on.” He scratched his ear and grimaced with the memory. “I thought at the time he was a coward, but a coward with power is a very dangerous man indeed.”

  Taking a breath, he leaned forward to the monk. “Tell me, Brother Hannel, what was this special dispensation that the Prelate ordered?”

  “Mm? Oh, we were to turn the prisoners over to the Holy Escorts Martial.”

  “Who are they?” asked Minrah.

  “They are supposed to stand watch over the proper
ty of the church,” said Cimozjen, “but really they’re more like the personal bodyguard of the highest in the clergy.”

  “Right you are, mm,” said Hannel. “I understand that Escorts Martial delivered the prisoners into the care one of the dragonmarked houses. Mm. Their power and reputation crosses all borders equally, you know, so they’d be best suited to oversee all the prisoners back to their homes. Mm-hmm.”

  “Which prisoners received this special treatment?”

  Hannel leaned back again, drumming his fingers on his pallid cheek. “All of the high-profile ones, you know. We needed to show proper respect, mm. There were plenty. Noble-born commanders and other royalty, of course, and even senior members of the Church of the Silver Flame or the Eldeen druidic sects. Plus we’d taken prisoners from a number of the elite formations. We’ve had people from the Queen’s Swords, the Iron Band, the Green Pantaloons, mm, and the Cyran Storm Cavaliers. We even captured a bone knight once, mm-hmm. I searched the names out personally, you know. I wanted to ensure that all who merited the dispensation were so blessed.”

  “Which house handled them?”

  “Mm?” Hannel shrugged, a gesture that seemed to take far more effort than it was worth. “Once the Escorts Martial turned them over? House Ghallanda, I suppose. Mm. Excellent hospitality would be a good way to see after the well-being of such important personages.” He licked his lips and smiled as he patted his stomach.

  “You suppose?” pressed Cimozjen. “Why do you not know?”

  “Mm? Well, perhaps House Thuranni and their bodyguards might also have been a good choice. Keep them safe amidst an angry crowd.”

  “Tell me which it was!” snapped Cimozjen.

  “Calm down, my son,” said Hannel, holding his pudgy hands aloft. “I’m just musing about it. Mm. They didn’t tell me about it. The Escorts Martial took care of it all. Our work was done once we delivered the prisoners to them. Mm-hmm. But it didn’t really matter which house it was. All that mattered was that they were being taken care of. I just followed his reverence’s wishes.”

  Cimozjen leaned against the table and ran his hands across the back of his neck, rolling his head in annoyance. “You can be sure that that’s what a lot of people said at the start of the Last War.”

  Back in their lodgings, Cimozjen leaned against the window frame and stared out into the night, watching as the last waning sprays of sunset slipped beneath the overhanging clouds. Occasional droplets of rain spattered on the mullioned window, refracting the lights from lanterns and glowstones as the autumn night fell.

  “House Ghallanda,” muttered Cimozjen. “That makes a malformed sort of sense. They bear the mark of hospitality, and although we hear of the many services they render to highborn nobles, their services would extend as easily to lowborn knaves with money to frivol away.”

  “The rich poor?” asked Four. “That is incongruous.”

  “Not at all,” said Minrah. “A lot of people profited greatly from the War. The dragonmarked houses, especially. House Deneith supplied mercenaries to all sides, while house Cannith made engines of war like trebuchets and … well, you.”

  “But the dragonmarked houses are all nobles, are they not?” asked Four.

  “There were also a lot of smaller families that tried to pull themselves to a higher station,” said Minrah. “People who provided weapons, redirected supply trains, or transported goods that were in high demand.”

  “Arms runners, embezzlers, bandits, and smugglers, in other words,” said Cimozjen. “Vagabonds, the lot of them.”

  “Hoy there, no need to sound so vindictive,” said Minrah.

  Cimozjen turned his head from the window and looked at her, one questioning eyebrow raised above a piercing gaze.

  Minrah dropped her gaze. “Yes, that’s how I grew up,” she said. “My parents were merchants of Khorvaire, as they put it. They believed in the Galifar kings and the unified kingdom—for that matter, they had lived in it—and so they ignored the borders that the War had drawn.” She looked back up, but Cimozjen still had the accusatory gleam in his eye.

  “We never sold weapons or anything like that. That wasn’t the way Dadda worked. But with the War, sometimes certain commodities could be hard to find, especially the rare and the refined—Zil silk, Karrn paper, Aundairian jewelry and sculpture, Brelish magic, even simple things like black pepper and fragrant oils. There was a lot of money to be made by circumventing the warlords and their so-called borders.” She laughed once, a bitter sound tasting of the ashes of Arcadian memories. “I think I’ve been over most of the continent. Those were good times. Dadda taught me how to read the land, read the weather, and most importantly, read the people.

  “And some of the people we dealt with, they were pretty scary. They weren’t wandering merchants like us. They were like great spiders in the cities, with a web of spies and hooligans. They were the ones that actually evaded the city watch and the church and the royalty … assuming they weren’t selling our goods to the royals outright. I never wanted to be one of those carrion crawlers.”

  She shook her head. “But it’s true that some people like that made a lot of money on the War, and if they were of a mind to spend it, they’d be plenty happy to see folks like Four be taken from their cages and made to fight. All the better if it happens in a safe location with Ghallanda food and drink.”

  Cimozjen looked at the floor and scuffed it with his boot. “House Ghallanda. I’m not sure how we can handle this,” he said.

  “Look on the bright side,” said Minrah. “At least it’ll make me a great story.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY

  Brash

  Zol, the 24th day of Sypheros, 998

  Cimozjen breathed deeply and evenly. The faint sound reminded Minrah of the sound of distant surf. She rose from her feigned meditation and went over to kneel next to Four, who sat in a chair in the corner. He held his battle-axe upright, with its hilt resting on the floor.

  “Listen, Four,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking about things, about Jolieni’s ‘revenge’ and all, and I have an idea I want to follow up on. You stay here and watch over Cimmer, will you?”

  “You do not wish for me to come with you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m a little worried about him, though. Even though he says he sleeps lightly, I’d be afraid of what may happen if someone from the other night were to sneak in here …”

  “I would kill them,” said Four. “That is what I do.”

  “And that’s just what I need you to keep doing, right?” She smiled. “I’ll knock when I get back, so you don’t get all excited. Don’t forget.”

  She crept over to their piled belongings and rifled through them until she found a large pouch. It clinked slightly as she picked it up and opened it. She checked its contents, nodded happily, and closed and folded the pouch. She slipped it beneath the waistband of her skirt and quietly left the room.

  Huddled within her cloak against the dripping rain, she walked swiftly to the Dragon’s Flagons.

  It was still open when she arrived, although at that late hour the clientele had thinned to a bare handful. She was relieved to see that Jolieni was still there, burying her hateful demeanor beneath a layer of alcohol.

  Minrah ordered a mead and made a point to look at Jolieni whenever the veteran warrior’s attention was engaged elsewhere. As soon as Jolieni returned her gaze, Minrah averted her eyes, then waited to begin the cycle again. It only took a few repetitions of the gambit to induce Jolieni to rise from her seat and stalk over to the bar.

  “What’s your issue?” she demanded.

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” Minrah said, not looking up from her mead. She drew another swig and waited until Jolieni was just starting to speak again. “I just wanted to see if you were actually as tough as you claim to be. And I think you’re probably pretty tough.”

  Jolieni leaned over, her mouth open but silent as she fought for the right word. She finally squeez
ed it out. “Probably?”

  “I think so, yes,” said Minrah nodding.

  “That’s daring talk from such a little waif of an elf,” said Jolieni.

  Minrah turned to look at her, eyes surprised. “Is it? I do apologize. That was not my intent. Just trying to be accurate, find out the truth of things. That’s all.”

  Jolieni rested her arms on the bar and leaned closer, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Minrah felt the breath from Jolieni’s truncated nose brush her cheek.

  “And you think I’m ‘probably’ tough.” Jolieni drew a dagger, long and thin and very sharp, and began cleaning her fingernails. “I think, little one, that you must be quite the fool not to be afraid of me.”

  “Me?” said Minrah. She laughed. “Of course I’m afraid of you,” She tapped her hand intimately on Jolieni’s arm. “That is, I would be if I didn’t have my friend looking after me.”

  Jolieni drew back. “You mean that old carthorse you drink with?”

  Minrah nodded as she took another drink from her mead. “S’right.”

  Jolieni laughed, stood, and started to turn away.

  Minrah set down her cup, clanking it with just a bit of extra force to ensure Jolieni continued to listen. “He’s old all right,” she said brightly, “but—pfft!—he was fighting while you were still figuring out the drawstring of the local bumpkin.”

  Jolieni stiffened then turned her head haughtily back to sneer down at Minrah. “I’ve killed men half his age and twice his skill,” she said.

  “I’m sure you have,” said Minrah. “Crossbows are like that.”

  “Crossbows?” flustered Jolieni. “I—”

  “Don’t fret about it,” said Minrah, holding up her hands. “It’s not like it matters anyway. The War’s over, so if you want to think you could beat him, fine. Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “ ’Tis fine to boast so proud and tall / When cow’ring ’hind the ringing wall,” said Jolieni.

  “The Saga of Valiant and Vigilant, isn’t that?” said Minrah.

  “Well, if your friend hasn’t the string to stand by your words …”