Cimozjen looked at her and smiled. “I thank you,” he said, then he grabbed his tattered longcoat and left.
When Cimozjen returned to the room, Minrah was pacing the floor. “Hoy!” she said with a bright smile and a bounce. “Zjennie’s back at last!”
Cimozjen scowled and held up one admonishing finger. “Do not call me by that name.”
“Why not?”
“Because you sound like my mother,” he said.
“Eww, don’t want that. I’ll call you Cimmo instead.”
“Must you?” asked Cimozjen. “I don’t like that any more than Zjennie.”
“My, so formal from someone who just spent the night with me.”
Cimozjen fumbled for words, then said, “Only in a purely literal sense!”
“So far,” grinned Minrah.
“Minrah-”
“No time for that now, Cimmo” she said. “We’ve got lots to do today. Did you get what you needed?”
Cimozjen’s shoulders sagged as he resigned himself to his fate. “Yes, new tunic for me, a decent outfit for him,” he said. “Got a tailormage to repair my coat.” He walked over to Torval. Folding his arms, he stared down at the dead man and nodded to himself. “The proprietor understands my situation. He promised he’d see to Torval’s disposition without the collectors finding out. So that gives us our own rein, I suppose.”
Minrah went over and sat on the windowsill. She hugged her knees and looked at Cimozjen, rocking back and forth in eagerness. “So how much are you willing to pay to see your friend find justice?”
“Whatever it takes,” said Cimozjen. Then his brow darkened and he looked up. “You’re not demanding payment now, are you? We had an agreement-”
Minrah laughed. “Of course not! But I don’t have a lot of coin, and I needed to know if you had enough to pay for me while we pursue this.”
“I can make good on your expenses,” he said, “so long as they are not lavish.” He paused and scratched his scalp self-consciously. “Nonetheless, I must ask you to leave while I change his clothes.”
“That’s fine,” said Minrah. “But do it quickly. We have a boat to catch.”
“What do you mean?”
“I took a look at Torval’s shoe while you were gone,” she said, holding it aloft. “I figured that wouldn’t count as undressing him, right? I mean, one was already off. And if you look right here, there’s a craftsman’s mark. See it?”
“Looks like a quill and a plow.”
“The one on top, that’s not a quill. That’s a dragonhawk feather.”
“Which means?”
“Which means this was made in Aundair,” said Minrah. “Our trail leads across Scions Sound, oathbound, and there’s a ship weighing anchor at noon.”
The trumpeter atop Crownhome sounded the time, one hour before midday, his klaxon barely audible above the hubbub of the city. Cimozjen walked resolutely to the docks. Minrah, holding onto his arm, trotted to keep up with his stride.
“Hoy, big man, no need to rush,” she panted. She tried to adjust her pack, but doing so made her bag slide off her shoulder. She did her best to wrestle that back into place, while not letting go of the paladin’s arm. “We’ll be there in plenty of time. Hoy, slow down!”
“There will be plenty of time to rest and recover our wind once we board ship,” Cimozjen said, “I’ll squander none of it now.”
“Listen, I’ve been looking to travel to Aundair for some time-there’s some special research the Korranberg Chronicle wants done-but you don’t see me galloping along, do you?”
He didn’t answer, but kept a brisk military cadence, with strides neither too long nor too short. His leather longcoat billowed about his legs. His kit bounced at his hip, the coins chinking with every pace, and his chain mail hauberk shushed beneath his new tunic. He’d also recovered his backpack from the inn’s safekeeping room, and he wore it on his back with his broadsword lashed across the top. In his left hand he held his metal-shod walking staff, thick and stout, and it ticked against the cobbles in time with Cimozjen’s boots.
The bay water was smooth. Only the tiniest ripples against the shore or near the hull of a ship reflected the sun’s rays. Minrah pointed past the cogs, longships, and scows to one of the few seaworthy vessels in the harbor, an elegant wide-beamed two-masted brigantine. The Aundairian civilian naval jack hung limpidly from the pole at the stern.
“Hoy, look at her!” exclaimed Minrah as they drew close. “Shallow draft for a river run, and the beam of a fat mare. That’ll be a smooth ride across the Sound. I hope they have hammocks!”
“May it not be so,” said Cimozjen. “Hammocks give me backaches. Hurry up, you’re flagging.”
Minrah upped her pace. “I love the feel of rocking back and forth in them, especially when the ship puts them to swaying. Reminds me of my childhood, riding with my folks. I can lie there and rock, and my mind just empties away to nothing.”
The twosome walked down the pier, passing a few others who, like Cimozjen, also had a military bearing. One younger elf honed his rapier and watched the river, while an aging man dropped his oilcloth bundle and sat on it to catch his breath. Cimozjen nodded to each of them as they passed, and received curt nods in return.
The pair climbed up the steep gangway to the ship. The long planked walkway flexed with each step that Cimozjen took, and Minrah, giggling, used the motion to put an extra bounce in her step.
They reached the ship’s deck, abustle with activity as longshoremen loaded cargo and sailors prepared the vessel for the journey. They were immediately greeted by a trio of crewmen. Two ship’s officers-a dwarf female with long, thick braids, and a human male with wide-set eyes, a shaved head and a severe black goatee-backed by a large, sunbeaten deck hand with a scarf wrapped around his head and his hand wrapped around a naked cutlass.
The human, a quillboard tucked under his arm, held up a hand, his quill pen still clutched in his ink-stained fingers. “Ahoy, and welcome aboard the Silver Cygnet,” he said wearily. “My name is Pomindras. What’s your business here today?”
“We are told you sail this day for Aundair, and wish to procure passage,” said Cimozjen.
“With hammocks!” added Minrah, panting.
Pomindras looked from one to the other and back again, studying their faces and their stances. “We should be able to accommodate you,” he said at last. “Is it just the two of you?”
“Just us,” said Minrah, hugging Cimozjen’s arm tightly.
“We have no baggage beyond what we carry,” added Cimozjen.
“Fare is fifty galifars for the both of you.”
Cimozjen opened his haversack, fished around, then offered up five small platinum pieces. Pomindras gestured with his quillboard to the other ship’s officer. Cimozjen gave his coins to the dwarf, pouring them into her outstretched palm.
“I’ll need your names,” said Pomindras listlessly.
“Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service,” he said, reaching into his kit. He pulled out his brass case, casually let the sailor see the national seal embossed on its surface, and then pulled out his provisional papers.
“The Army Clerk’s Office still hasn’t squared you away yet, eh?” said Pomindras. “Very well.”
“Minrah of Eastgate. Korth, that is.” She pulled stained identification papers from her bag. They had no case to protect them, and bore creases both intentional and accidental.
Pomindras opened her papers with a slight look of distaste. “These are barely legible,” he grumbled. “Well, it does at least say your name is Minrah. But if the Aundairian authorities don’t like this, that’s your problem, not mine, and if you’ve not the coin for the return, your port of call will be the starboard rail.” He gave the paper back and waved with his quillboard. “Aboard.”
The dwarf, having pocketed Cimozjen’s coins through a slot in the locked iron strongbox she carried on her belt, gestured the two onboard. “I am called Erami d’Kundarak. I’m the purser and the steward of the Silver Cygnet. Berths are belowdecks, just aft of yon companionway. There’s four to a cuddy, so lay claim to yours now. If you’re lucky, the other two berths might not fill. The mess is amidships, but you can eat topside if the weather is fair and you don’t interfere with the ship’s business. If there’s anything else you need whilst aboard, let me know. We may not be able to do anything about it,” she said with a wink, “but at least I’ll know.”