The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (21 page)

“Fairhaven?” said Minrah. “It’s one of the most peaceful places in Khorvaire!”

“Need I remind you of Torval’s boot, or the marks of imprisonment upon him?” said Cimozjen.

Minrah shrugged. “No place is perfect, I suppose.”

“At least this lets us know that we’re on the right path. First you noticed that Torval’s shoe was made here, then we saw Rophis board the
Fire Flight
, which was headed here. And now Fighter remembers this place from his past.”

“Like I said, no place is perfect,” Minrah said. She looked around. “You go find us a place to stay before it starts raining, then meet me at the Dragon’s Flagons. It’s by the docks. We have a lot to do.”

The sound of heavy rain washed into the hubbub of the Dragon’s Flagons as the front door opened, admitting Cimozjen, Fighter, and a gust of cold, fresh air before closing and sealing the sound of rain outside once more.

Within, the crackling of the fire and the clank of tin plates and drinking mugs battled for dominance with the babble of rowdy conversation. Those gathered were a rough lot, even more so than might be expected for a tavern sited outside the city walls. They took up but a half of the room’s capacity, but made noise and song enough for a group twice their size.

“Hey!” bellowed an angry voice as the two of them entered.
“What is
that
doing here?” A tall, lithe woman stood, her hand resting on the pommel of the long sword at her hip. She might have been beautiful with her athletic build and long auburn hair folded into a loose braid, but for two items that marred her beauty—the repulsed sneer that crossed her mouth, and the fact that the tip of her nose had been cut off, presumably during the Last War, leaving its scarred remnant looking piggish.

She stalked up to Cimozjen and looked him up and down, her tongue held between her teeth. “Just what in Khyber’s curses do you think that is?” she asked, jerking her thumb toward the warforged.

“Fighter,” said Cimozjen, inclining his head at his companion.

“Fight her?” yelled the woman. “Aundair dares, bastard progeny of Cannith!” She stepped back and drew her sword, and within an eyeblink the warforged began sweeping his battle-axe into an attack position.

“No!” yelled Cimozjen. He jumped between the two of them, one hand held out to the Aundairian, the other raised toward Fighter’s face. The warforged surged forward, trying to push through the paladin to get to his target. Cimozjen’s feet stumbled, but he managed to retain his balance. Desperate to save blood from being wrongly shed, and despite the fear of receiving an Aundairian sword in his kidney, he reached up and grabbed Fighter’s wrists as the construct started his attack.

The powerful arms of the warforged drove the aging Karrn to his knees, but Cimozjen’s resistance robbed the attack of all its momentum.

“Stop!” grunted the paladin through clenched teeth, but Fighter took no heed. He swung his torso to the left, and then raised one foot, planted it on Cimozjen’s chest, and shoved him away. He took a wide, sweeping wind-up with his battle-axe, and raised it high as he stepped toward the supine warrior.

A flash of insight told Cimozjen that Fighter’s paranoid reflexes were in complete control. Two years of being attacked at unexpected times had honed him to react violently to any threat, and
Cimozjen had just become such a threat. So, as Fighter stepped over him and his deadly axe began arcing down, Cimozjen did nothing but look the warforged in the eye and pray the Host for deliverance.

But Fighter’s blade came, not slowing in the slightest.

Minrah shrieked as Fighter’s battle-axe struck. She shut her eyes and heard a heavy crack as the double-bitted blade impacted.

“Fighter, no!” cried Minrah. She pried one eye open to see the axe buried in the floor just above Cimozjen’s shoulders, where his head would normally be. Just beyond—and safely out of weapon’s reach—the Aundairian woman waved her sword uncertainly.

“Dear gods, no—” Minrah gasped, averting her eyes.

“Stop!” bellowed Cimozjen.

Minrah gaped at the man. He propped himself up on one elbow, his head making an appearance from where it had been hidden behind Fighter’s huge axe blade.

Cimozjen swiveled his head to face the other way, and pointed at the Aundairian. “Stop!”

“I am stopped now,” said Fighter. “I could not cease earlier, only divert the angle of my weapon.”

“I meant her,” said Cimozjen as he rose. His limbs trembled as he took his feet. “His name, fair woman, is ‘Fighter.’ That’s what he is, and that’s who he is.” He ran one hand through his hair and took a very deep breath. “Although when viewed in the light of these past few moments, I am inclined to think that it is not a very good name. I apologize most deeply and humbly that you misunderstood me.” He held one hand up to examine its quivering fingers.

The woman sneered. “I’m not afraid of that travesty.”

Cimozjen hung his head briefly, and then looked at the woman again. “I am not asking you to be afraid of him. I am asking that you leave him be. So if you would please grant me that, I would
be most appreciative, for I suddenly find myself in need of a stiff drink.” He ran one trembling finger along his ear and drew it back to find it adorned with a small blossom of blood.

One of the woman’s associates walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Let it go, Jolieni. He wasn’t involved.” He looked up to Cimozjen. “My thanks for your ease, stranger. I trust you’ll not hold this against her. She lost one of her friends to a ’forged just last—”

“That and a whole bag of—” shouted someone from across the common room.

“Shut your bung!” snapped Jolieni, raising her sword at the heckler. Nonetheless, she allowed her friend to lead her back to her chair and accepted a new tankard of drink. And although she drank, she did not take her eyes off Fighter.

Cimozjen spotted Minrah sitting at the bar, and walked over to join her, Fighter at his heels watching the crowd very carefully.

“Nice place,” said Cimozjen, wiping spilled ale from the seat of a stool before he sat. He clenched and unclenched his trembling hands.

Fighter stood with his back to the bar, his axe at the ready.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” said Minrah, her voice fraught with emotion.

“Do what?”

“Get your head cut off. I thought you were dead.”

Cimozjen chuckled, and it came out much higher pitched than normal. “I have no intention of leaving this mortal plane at someone else’s behest, make no mistake.” He looked to the barkeep and raised two fingers together.

The barkeep noted his gesture, nodded and slid him a mug of strong ale. Cimozjen took a long pull and asked, “Whatever made you choose to meet here? It hardly seems to be your style.”

“I’d heard of it, but never been here before,” said Minrah. “It’s the only place along the docks that the river elves avoid. I figured any place that rough would be a good place to start looking for folks heartless enough to watch horrid giant dogs or oversized
bugs eat prisoners, or else for someone who might know something about such fights.” She looked over her shoulder. “And it is rough. I got challenged to a fight almost as soon as I walked in, and once they figured out I wasn’t a fighter—not that that’s a hard deduction—I had to promise the proprietor special favors to earn the right to stay here.”

“Special favors,” said Cimozjen.

“I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not nearly as enticing as you are, Cimmer.” She took a swig of her drink. “Besides, I didn’t mention anything specific. I was rather thinking of favoring him with a free mention in my next story. Get the name of this fine establishment known across Khorvaire.” She snickered. “I don’t think he actually expects me to warm his bed, but I guess he thinks it’s a worthy enough gamble. Nothing to lose and me to gain. And he isn’t making me pay for my drinks. Maybe he hopes each glass betters his chances. Foolish man.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Do you think they’ll attack me again?” asked Fighter.

“Them? No,” said Cimozjen, not even looking up from his ale. “I think you showed them enough of your power and skill that they’ll leave you alone. At least for now. Speaking of which, we need a better name for you. What did you say you heard? You know, for your name?”

“Fferrrrdurrrahnn!” said Fighter. It sounded a little like he was roaring into a mug through clenched teeth.

“Hmm,” said Minrah. “Maybe it’s a number, like the one that was tattooed into the, um, that … thing’s ear.”

“Four … something?” said Cimozjen. “I suppose Four is as good a name as any, and a lot less likely to get us into fights.”

“So I am to respond to the name ‘Four’ from now on?”

“That’s right.”

“I accept that. It is as good a label as the other.”

“Well, if you come up with a name you like better, Forty, let us know,” said Minrah.

“Which is it, then? Four or Forty?”

“Forty-four forty or more!” giggled Minrah.

Cimozjen shook his head. “Just indulge her; it’s easier that way.”

“Damned right,” said Minrah as she took another sip of her drink. They sat in silence a while longer. “Still, it was an interesting conversation, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe your ear caught more than mine,” said Cimozjen. He dipped his finger in the ale and traced it along his ear. It stung. “I had other things on my mind.”

“She’s a veteran, that’s clear,” said Minrah.

“Aye,” agreed Cimozjen. “I heard that chant more times than I care to think about.”

“And she’s grieving. That means the wound to her heart is fresh, unlike the wound to her nose.”

“Why is she not bleeding, then, or dead?” asked Four.

“Let us finish, Forty-boy, all right? That man said she lost her friend ‘just last’ something. Could be just last night or just last week. But just last month sounds awkward. And she’d have had some time to get her grief under control.”

“But she’s been drinking.” said Cimozjen.

“But her stance was assured and speech was clear. She is not drunk,” said Minrah. “At least not yet. Then whoever that was across the way said she lost a bag of something, as well. So which do you think she lost? A bag of sweet rolls, a bag of night linens, or a bag of coin?”

“Coin,” said Cimozjen.

“Right. And whatever coin she lost was hers. If it were someone else’s, say if she’d been guarding some lord’s wealth, I guarantee that the loss would likely not sting her as badly as it does.” Minrah took a sip, then ordered a pickle from the proprietor. “So we have this. A warforged killed her friend recently. That alone I’d dismiss as the result of a duel or perhaps criminal activity. But she lost a bag of coin or something equally valuable at the same time.

“Now a formal duel is not something people of her station would take to. She looks like she’d just take her grievances out on the spot,
and fight to the death. And by the looks of her and her friends, if she’d been robbed, she’d be spouting for revenge, and they’d all be dragging the alleys for the culprit. But she’s acting powerless. So it makes me wonder. What if it were an arranged fight, like her friend was a prisoner, too? Did she wager all her wealth on her friend, hoping to buy him free, and lose everything all at once? For that matter, say the other was her betrothed or her husband. She might have lost her entire future in one foolish wager.

“Mark my words, Cimozjen, I was right. This is the place to be. I bet this is all knotted together, and she’s a part of it, however peripherally. We just have to ingratiate ourselves here, and start to belong.”

Cimozjen glanced over at Four, then down at his armband, hidden beneath the sleeve of his tunic. “That may not be as easy as it sounds.”