The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (15 page)

Minrah blushed and raised her cup. She took a small sip, keeping the cup at her lips as an unconscious shield. “I do my best, and I sell enough to keep me in coin. Sometimes I have to
do something boring like write a saga of some noble’s inflated self-image to make ends meet, but mostly I just write stories about things that I see.”

Rophis sat back and stroked his chin, a lopsided grin on his face. “Tell me then, what sort of things do you see?”

She giggled behind the rim of her cup. “I see more than you think.”

“Show me. What sort of things do you see when you look at me?”

Minrah smiled, took a deep drink from her cup, set it down, and then reached out and took Rophis’s hand. He leaned forward, watching as her hands glided up and down his palm, then turned his wrist this way and that.

“I see that you are a very wealthy man,” she said, “one who earns enough to pay his own scribe. You certainly don’t perform your own manual labor. You enjoy using the power you have. You’ve had extensive training in the use of martial weapons, but have not been in the position to practice the art in the streets or on the battlefield. You’re used to the companionship of women. You want to keep certain details of your identity a secret. And although you claim to be from Fairhaven, you just as likely hail from Karrnath.”

Rophis shifted and pulled his hand away. “That’s—you saw—are you a seer, that you read all that in the palm of my hand?”

“Of course not,” said Minrah. “When I said I see things, I meant just normal items that everyone else looks at but doesn’t really notice. I look at details, and I think about them and what they could mean. My father taught me how, and I practice it every day of my life.” She shrugged. “It helps me put my stories together.”

Rophis stroked his chin. “Indeed? So how did you determine what you just said?”

Minrah picked her cup back up, speaking between small sips. “Well, for starters, you have neither a notch for a quill nor ink stains upon your finger, hence someone does your scribing. You
also have someone clean and polish your fingernails, although it’s been a week or so since that’s been done. Your hands are not calloused, so you don’t do hard work. But they are strong, which can be explained by regular exercise with swords and the like. And you usually wear a ring on your right middle finger, which is often where a signet would go. Since you brought neither that ring nor your servant with you, you’re hiding your identity.”

Rophis smiled wryly. “And what of your comment regarding women? Not that I object, nor should I boast.”

“You didn’t flinch or tense when I stroked your hand.” Minrah giggled. “You should have seen Cimmo here when I first took his arm.”

Cimozjen grumbled. “Minrah, I—”

“Don’t make it worse for yourself,” said Rophis with a hearty laugh. “Such a pretty young creature is sure to put most men off their stride. No, my dear Minrah, your skill at observation is very good, but your conclusions are, unfortunately, off the mark.”

“Are they?” said Minrah with a pout. “Bad luck, then. Would you care to point out my errors?”

Rophis leaned back in his chair and ran his hands up and down his belly for a few moments, then said, “Very well, I shall, for your face delights me.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “My hands are strong not from weapons, for I’ve had no formal training. Rather they have been strengthened from carrying heavy bottles by the neck and pouring drinks for those who purchase my wares. While bottles are not as heavy as a sack of potatoes, they are heavy and they do not leave the sort of calluses that one gets when moving crates. As for my ring and nails,” he said wearily, “I indulged myself rather too deeply in luxury last month in Fairhaven, following which a deal in Korth unfortunately went sour. As a result, I had to sell my sapphire ring to fund the purchases I needed to make this trip a profitable venture. It is shameful for a merchant to run his hoard dry, as one needs wealth to make wealth, but this I have unfortunately done.” He smacked his lips. “And now you know my failings. I
trust the candor of my confession will attest to its truth.”

He drained his cup, reached for the bottle, refilled it, and drained it once more. He patted his belly again, then looked up at her and smiled warmly. “Well. Thank you both for your time,” he said. “It has been most diverting. And Minrah, your play at perception and deduction has given me a new hand of tales with which to regale my customers.” He rose, bowed politely, and sauntered off, chuckling to himself, “Me, a warrior? Oh, what an idea!”

Cimozjen watched the merchant until he left the dining area. “Well,” he said, tilting his head toward Minrah, “I suppose one cannot be correct all of the time.”

Minrah glowered at Rophis’s back. “Yes, I can.”

The Empty Shell
Far, the 13th day of Sypheros, 998

D
arkness had long since covered the sky, leaving the Ring of Siberys to shine like a trail of scattered silver dust. A few moons paraded slowly along the ring’s argent path, illuminating the Karrn River, the ship that lay at anchor, and the furtive figure that skulked through the darkness, evading the two sailors that paced the watch.

Carrying an unsheathed sword close to his side, he moved slowly, carefully, slipping by the watch to the ladder that led down to the foredeck cabins. He descended the ladder into the darkness below decks. At the bottom he looked about, then allowed himself a deep breath to steady his nerves.

He reached one hand into a pouch that hung at his belt and pulled out a small ceramic bead, aglow with a faint blue light. It was enough to navigate by, yet still so dim that it was unlikely to attract attention.

With this light, the figure shuffled down the corridor. He held the light close to each cabin door to see which number might be carved into the wood. At last he found the cabin he sought. He readied his sword and, with his hand still palming
the bead, he slowly opened the door. The sound of steady glottal breathing spilled out of the room.

As the door swung open, he clenched his hand about the bead until only the faintest blush of light still shone. He slid in, angling toward the hammock where a bulky shape lay unmoving.

He leveled his sword, turning the blade’s angle to the vertical so that it would slide between the ribs, and thrust as hard as he could. The blade struck true, and for an instant he thought he had accomplished his goal, until he heard the unmistakable sound of steel striking against chain mail.

Then he heard a scream.

Minrah, sitting cross-legged in her billet, snapped out of her meditations at the sound of an impact. She saw the intruder in their cabin, saw the blade in his hands, saw him pull the weapon back from Cimozjen’s hammock.

Fear seized her, fear for her life ending abruptly with the sensation of assassin’s cold blade in her vitals. She shrieked and pushed herself away from the killer, mindless of the fact that she sat in a hammock. She backed into the wall, but her feet kept pedaling, pushing the hammock’s netting out from under her, and she tumbled backward, crying out again in surprise as she flopped into the lower bunk and then thumped to the floor.

Startled by her scream, the intruder scrambled away from her, striking his heel against Cimozjen, who’d been sleeping on the floor. The intruder fell backward, dropping his sword and his bead just as Cimozjen raised his arms to protect himself.

Hearing the clang of metal against the deck and an earthy curse from an unknown voice, Cimozjen pushed himself free of the stranger, rising to his hands and knees. He grabbed for his
scabbard, but it was trapped beneath the stranger’s weight. In the dim blue light he saw the man grab his own sword again.

Cimozjen flopped onto his back, crab-walking to distance himself as the assassin took two wild swings. As the killer closed, Cimozjen thrust out with his feet and connected, slamming the assassin into the far wall of the small cabin. Cimozjen rolled and grabbed for his scabbard again, snatching it up and raising it just in time to block a downward chop. The intruder raised his blade for another strike, and Cimozjen shoved the scabbard upward, smiting the man in the loins. As he doubled over from the blow, Cimozjen thrust his scabbarded sword into the man’s gut, and then jammed his knee with a thrust of his foot.

Because he lay on the floor, his kick lacked the extra impetus of his weight behind it. His efforts were not rewarded with the sound of breaking bones, but he did manage to send the killer to the floor. Cimozjen rolled to his feet and drew his sword, holding his scabbard in his left hand as a potential shield.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Cimozjen.

The stranger likewise rose, though rather more slowly than Cimozjen. His face twisted with an unreadable mix of emotion. “Sorry,” he panted. “I can’t let you stop us!”

He charged again, whipping his blade through a pattern that, even in the dim light of the glowing bead, Cimozjen recognized as the Queen’s Best Sword Drill, or, as the Karrns mockingly called it, the Cyran Spin.

Cimozjen feinted an opening, then brought his sword around to parry the expected blow. Sparks flashed in the dimly lit cabin as the two weapons collided. Cimozjen struck with his scabbard, taking the intruder in the temple with the metal-reinforced sheath, then he spun and drew his sword across the man’s belly, taking a terrible slash. Spinning completely around, he lanced the stranger through the ribs with his sword, and the would-be assassin arched his back and slumped to the floor as Cimozjen yanked out his sword and took a few precautionary steps back.

“Who are you?” Cimozjen asked, his voice spurred by anger, indignation, and adrenaline.

Lying on his side on the floor, the man coughed wetly, and drew in a burbling breath. “Jewel of Khorvaire,” he gasped, “I can’t even kill an unarmed man anymore.”

Cimozjen grasped the Octogram pendant that hung from his neck. “Dol Arrah, favor your brother’s servant this day, and grant my prayer that you make your perfect face to shine upon my duty,” he said beneath his breath. The warm glow of the holy symbol suffused the room, its radiance drowning the pitiable blue light of the old man’s bead. Cimozjen kicked the man’s sword away from his twitching fingers and kneeled beside him.

The man’s breathing was labored and wheezy. Cimozjen turned him over, to find himself staring at the visage of a scarred human some six or seven decades of age. Blood colored his lips crimson, and his eyes stared at Cimozjen, filled with a heavy weight of regret and shame.

“My last … chance …” gasped the intruder. He clutched and pulled at his tunic with a hand tattooed with a crown and bell. A wretched slurping sound marked each breath he took. As Cimozjen watched, he could see the man’s voice box sliding a little to the left with each labored breath. As it moved, the old man’s breaths became shallower and shallower. He started to thrash and kick.

“Hang on, soldier. I’ll take care of you,” said Cimozjen, and he set to working his healing powers upon the man, a task made more difficult by the Cyran’s struggles. Gritting his teeth as he worked his way through his supplication, he forced the wounded man to lie flat on his back and clamped his hand over the man’s heart. A warm glow lit the room from within the man’s chest. It erupted out of his wounded abdomen, casting a reddish hue to everything. Nevertheless, the man’s esophagus continued to move to the side, displaced by over an inch and getting worse with each liquid breath. Cimozjen increased the speed of his litany and placed his hand over the man’s throat, trying to understand the injury.

The intruder moved his hand to touch Cimozjen’s wrist, interrupting his prayer of supplication. He tried to smile, but the expression was twisted by pain into a pastiche of camaraderie. He coughed once more, wetly, and bloodstained saliva covered his chin. “No,” he wheezed. He labored to draw a few last shallow breaths, then closed his eyes and whispered, “Seems I’d … just … embarrass myself.” He drew a last shallow, gasping breath, his legs kicking weakly, then he stretched his neck like a drowning man, his tongue protruding. His fingers clutched at Cimozjen’s wrist, the nails digging into his flesh.