The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (17 page)

“This is my father’s dagger, given to me, and to him by his father before him. It bears the Hellekanus family crest on the hilt. And here,” he added, proffering a blue-gray piece of hairy flesh the size of a shovel’s blade, “is the ear of the creature that I killed with it. These are testimony to the truth of my tale, which I swear upon my honor, my bones, and my sovereign patron of arms.”

He tossed the ear to the nearest soldier, then rolled to a sitting position on the side of the trapdoor hatch and twirled the dagger.
“I missed you, old friend,” he said, then lifted the rear of his tunic and slid the blade back into its place.

Minrah walked over and put a reassuring hand on the back of Cimozjen’s neck.

Behind them, the sergeant of the Sentinel Marshals inspected the ear. “Look here,” he said. “It’s been tattooed. ‘17.’ That’s very odd. What do you think?” He handed it to the wizard.

“Very odd indeed,” said the wizard. “I’d think it a gnoll, were it not so abyssally large. I’d pay a high price for the chance to inspect this creature, living or dead. Perhaps we should find out if there are any others.”

The sergeant waved a hand. “Check the other crates, but use caution.”

The Sentinel Marshals started moving among the crates, looking.

“What’s that smell?” said one, sniffing. “Smells like … cockroaches.” He peered into the slats of a crate. A squeaking, chittering noise carried through the bay. “Oh, good gods! Bring that light here, will you?”

Cimozjen moved over to the soldier, his sacred amulet glowing by Dol Arrah’s pleasure. As he drew closer to the soldier, the man drew away from the crate, for a large, insectile leg the length of a javelin extended between a pair of slats and rested its clawed appendage on a nearby box.

“Sergeant,” called the soldier, “we’ve got ’em, we do. This makes dockside rats look like fleas!”

“I—I—I’m going to go back upstairs and wait on the dock until this is all over,” said Minrah, a tremble in her voice. She turned and exited the cargo bay at not quite a run.

“Sergeant,” called another Marshal, “you’ll want to see this.”

The sergeant walked over to the Marshal. Cimozjen moved to join him. The sergeant stood near a smaller crate, one that was marginally larger than an upright coffin, watching as the Sentinel Marshal worked at the locked hasp with a crowbar. The sergeant held one hand elegantly behind his
back, clutching a long, thin rapier concealed behind him.

“So you see what I spoke of, sergeant,” said Cimozjen. “This is a ship of nightmares. Twisted daelkyr creatures, monstrous insects, smuggling these must break a number of laws, does it not?”

The latch flew open with a loud snap, sending splinters flying through the air. The soldier pulled the door open, stepping well away.

“Bugs, perhaps,” said the sergeant. “But this, this is against all the laws of Galifar—and the Treaty of Thronehold besides.” He turned his head. “Seal the ship. Arrest all the crew. Hold all the passengers for interrogation.”

Then he appraised the warforged that tentatively emerged from the crate, a battle-axe in its hands, head turning to look at each of them in turn.

“I do not understand,” he said. The open area was abustle with activity. People opened crates, counted coin, and hauled material hither and yon. Yet the crowd was not all staring at him, no one was yelling, nor was anyone trying to kill him, at least no one that he could determine.

“I already told you, ’forged,” said the man without looking up. He was seated behind a table with a large sheet of parchment emblazoned with intricate filigreed sigils. “Slavery is illegal. We’ve seized what assets we can, and here’s your share.” He shoved a canvas bag across the table to the warforged.

“What am I to do with this bag?”

“Take it.”

“Take it where?”

The man sighed and looked the warforged in the eye for the first time. “This bag and everything in it is yours now. It’s valuable coin, so place it somewhere safe. Do you understand?”

“I will do as you wish,” said the warforged. He picked up
the bag and looped the thick twine drawstring around his neck, leaving the bag to hang pendulously across his chest.

“Fine,” said the man. He turned the parchment around and pointed. “Make your mark here.”

“My what?”

“Your mark,” said the man. “Your signature, if you can write.” He paused and stared at the warforged for a moment. “You’re quite the work, aren’t you? The mark you make to show that you’ve been here.”

The warforged considered this for a moment, then nodded his comprehension. In one powerful motion, he swung his battle-axe over his head and struck the parchment exactly where the man had indicated. The man shrieked and flopped over backward, and the small table split in half under the impact.

“Khyber’s codpiece!” bellowed the man. “Get that—that thing out of here before he kills someone!”

Two guards hustled over and gently escorted the warforged out of the bowels of the ship.

“I’m not going back home?” asked the warforged.

“You can go wherever you want, now,” said one of the guards. “You’ve been emancipated.”

“What am I to do?”

“Whatever you like,” said the guard.

“What would that be?” asked the warforged.

“I don’t know. Join a group of adventurers or something. Isn’t that what your kind usually does?”

And with that they ushered the warforged up a ladder and out onto an open deck. He raised one hand to protect his artificial eyes as the sun rose before him.

Minrah and Cimozjen leaned against the aft railing, breaking their fast with food Minrah had taken from the ship’s larder. It had seemed unlikely that the ship’s cook would provide anything
else. Cooking was difficult when one’s hands were manacled.

As the
Silver Cygnet
would be sailing no farther in the foreseeable future, the Sentinel Marshals had reimbursed the pair with half of their paid passage, taken from the ship’s strongbox.

“So what did they do with that bug?” asked Minrah with a shudder.

“They confiscated it,” said Cimozjen with a shrug. “I understand the wizard will be rendering it into its various parts for arcane research and alchemic ingredients. There were a few other oddities, as well.” He shook his head. “I am confused, though. What did smuggling a monstrous arachnid have to do with Torval’s death?”

“Gambling,” said Minrah.

“What?”

“I took a good look at the cargo hold, now that the open hatch is letting the sunlight in. Remember how there was that white coloration on the sole of Torval’s shoe? That was chalk. There’s a ring of chalk all around the edges of the open area. It was an arena, Cimmo. I’d wager anything they were holding matches between slaves and beasts. Think of it: the creature you killed had a 17 tattooed on its ear. Maybe Torval’s scar wasn’t SI at all, but rather a number: 51.”

“I doubt it,” said Cimozjen. “I’d think it odd that one would have an ear tattoo and the other would have a scar on his arm.”

“I wish we still had it with us to be sure, though. We just assumed it was letters and not numbers.”

“You wish we were still lugging Torval’s arm around?” said Cimozjen incredulously. “Or did you just wish to skin him before burial?”

Minrah shook her head as if from a daze. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Cimozjen nodded. “I understand. Still, the Treaty of Thronehold stipulated that all prisoners would be repatriated.”

“Maybe he crossed the law. Got arrested.”

Just then a warforged walked up to them. His armor plating
looked to be made of thin sheets of rough-hammered iron bolted together. Stretched between the gaps, thick strands of some smooth, organic white material stood in stark contrast. The ’forged held one hand shading his eyes from the dawning sun. The other held a huge axe, the heavy double-bitted head dangling near the ground.

“Are you adventurers?” he asked without preamble.

“No, good ’forged, we’re not,” said Cimozjen.

“Of course we are!” said Minrah almost at the same time. Then she turned to Cimozjen and shot him a questioning look. “What do you think we’re doing here, Cimmo? This is a great adventure! Mystery, murder, revenge, what more could you ask for?”

“Good. Then I am now part of your group,” said the warforged.

“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.

The Streets of Throneport
Sar, the 14th day of Sypheros, 998

S
o 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?”