Chapter NINE
Questions and Lies
Zor, the 12th day of Sypheros, 998
Erami d’Kundarak kneeled near the top of the ladder. Pulling her well-worn robe tighter about her nightshift, she called down into the lower deck, “Report!”
“Cargo bay’s locked, it is!” came the reply. “We’ll need us the key if’n you want us to go see.”
“Or we could just let well enough alone, leastaways until daylight, that is,” came a second reply. This suggestion was welcomed with a murmur of affirmation from several sailors.
“Belay your tongues!” snapped Erami. “I’ll not have troubles in my cargo hold! You lot stand fast! I’ll be right back!”
She rose and stomped back to her cabin, her short but muscular legs moving her quickly across the deck. The whole while she cursed all sailors, a cowardly and superstitious lot if ever there were.
Back in her cabin, she quickly changed into something more officious than a faded robe and a satin nightshift that was weary with age. She also took the chance to jam boots on her feet. The clomping noise they made when she stomped gave her stride more presence.
Once dressed, she grabbed her ring of keys and her heavy hammer and made for the ladder once more. She made sure to stomp as she crossed over the heads of the sailors the next deck down. Once down the ladder, she paused to scowl at the eight sailors, armed and gathered at the door to the cargo hold.
“What’s with all the long faces?” she barked. “You think you’d all been buggered by Lazhaarites!”
“We just don’t rightly know what’s going on in there,” mumbled someone safely to the rear of the corridor.
“That’s right. And I aim to find out,” said Erami. She flipped her key ring around and held one of the keys up. “Here,” she said, passing it to one of the sailors. “Open it up. Let’s get to work.”
“Why don’t you open it?” said a sailor, again one safely hidden from her view.
Her countenance darkened. Sometimes she wished humans were shorter. It would make such crass insubordination a lot harder to get away with. “Because you’re paid to keep this vessel on course, shipshape and free from danger. There’s something inside there that might be a danger. You mongrels are to find it, kill it, and tell me what it is. In that order. I, on the other hand, am paid to count money and, in case you’ve forgotten, pay your wages. And if you tell the commander that I cheated you out of two weeks’ pay when we get back to Fairhaven, whom do you think he’s liable to believe, hmm?”
The sailors stared at her for a moment, then the one holding the keys grimaced and said, “Ahoy, boys, let me through to open the door. Let’s have this over and done with.”
They pushed their way into the room, lanterns and weapons held high. Slowly they inched their way in, murmuring to each other as they progressed. Erami followed them in, her hammer resting on her shoulder.
“Avast there!” shouted someone. “Amidships!”
“Stand to!”
“Careful, lads!”
A pause, and then, “How in the storm did it get out?”
Erami pushed her way through the netting that hung from the rafters filled with larder, and approached the nearest sailor. “What is it?” she asked.
“There’s your answer,” said a sailor, pointing to a hulking pile of fur that lay near the middle of the cargo bay.
Erami stepped forward. Whatever the twisted and malformed heap was, it was alive-or at least it once had been. It lay unmoving, its head resting in a quiescent pool of blood. “That, sailor,” said Erami, “is not my answer. It raises more questions. What in Siberys is it? And more important, what killed it?”
There was a short silence, and then one of the sailors offered an answer. “The cabbage stew?”
Pomindras looked at his steward, his hands steepled over his nose and his eyes devoid of emotion. “I know of the beast. It was an exotic animal that was being transported for a very wealthy client.”
“Then why was it not on the cargo manifest, commander?” asked Erami, her anger seeping out with every syllable.
“It is. It’s the ‘large crate, taxidermist’s trophy.’ We thought it best to keep you in the dark about its true nature.”
“Commander,” snapped Erami, “if I am to be your purser and steward, I need to know-”
“You need to know what I think you need to know! And you would do well to keep in mind who the commander of this ship is.”
“Yes, commander,” answered Erami, her ire, for the moment, controlled.
“You say it was dead?”
“Yes, commander,” said Erami. “It was nigh exactly in the center of the hold, lying almost atop the bilge hatch. One of the legs was ugly broken, and one ear lopped off, but what undid it was a strike to one eye. Perhaps a sling stone, a spear, or something else of the like. And there was a large weapon in one of its hands, a double-ended battle-axe sort of thing.”
“And what of the hold?”
“Blood, commander, and not just that of the creature. Whoever killed it, the beast got one or two chops in. Blood on its weapon, trails of blood circling here and there. Looks like it scored a bleeder. That and a few chunks taken out of the decking is the extent of the wreckage. I’m happy to report the cargo was undamaged.”
“Any idea how it got out?” asked Pomindras.
“No, commander. Either it worked the pin out by itself, or someone deliberately let it loose.”
“Thank you, Erami,” said Pomindras. “However, next time the ship is endangered, I want you to wake me.”
“I tried to, commander, but you were out cold with the drink.”
“Then prod me with the rim of my shield until I rouse myself!” He rubbed his temples before turning to the boatswain. “What of the passengers and crew?”
“Most were awakened. Some were in the halls, some adeck. We did spot one of them armed, on the first deck below, and thought to hold him for you.”
“And who would that be?”
“Cimozjen Hellekanus, commander, a veteran of Karrnath. Provisional papers.”
“I remember him.” Pomindras rubbed the corners of his eyes then ran his hand roughly across his shaven scalp. “Bring him in.”
The first mate opened the cabin door and gestured. Two sailors escorted Cimozjen into the cabin, and a third followed, holding the Karrn’s sword and scabbard. The sailors guided Cimozjen to stand in front of Pomindras.
“You wished to see me, captain?” said Cimozjen respectfully.
“Commander.”
“Pardon me?”
“I am not the captain. The one who owns this ship wishes me to remember my station, so I am the ship’s commander.”
“My apologies. I did not-”
“I am told that you were stalking about the corridors with your weapon in hand.”
“You were misinformed. My weapon was sheathed.” The sailor behind Cimozjen nodded his confirmation.
“I see,” said the commander. “And why were you stalking my ship armed?”
“You heard that terrible noise, did you not? It sounded as if it were some nightmare from the Mournland. As there was no trouble on deck, I thought to go below and investigate. There I met your crew, returning from below.”
“Any blood on his weapon?” asked the commander.
The sailor drew Cimozjen’s sword halfway out from its sheath. “No, commander.”
“Blood?” asked Cimozjen. “Why would there be blood on my sword?”
“Because there is a killer aboard, and I need to ensure that it is not you.”
Cimozjen lowered his head. “Would that I might truly say that I was free of innocent blood, commander, but I cannot. However, I can avow that I have not killed a single person since the end of the Last War.”
“What about this evening?”
“Commander, surely this evening is still after the Last War, is it not?”
“Did you kill any-anyone this evening?”
“Commander, upon my honor, my sword has spilled no blood upon this vessel, nor has it done so upon this evening. My soul be forfeit if I lie.” Inside he winced at how quickly he had adopted Minrah’s method of misdirection.
“Did you enter the cargo hold tonight?”
Cimozjen spread his hands. “I have no cargo beyond my bags, commander. Why would I enter the hold? And besides, I would have thought it to be locked.”
“Yes it is,” said the commander, leaning forward. “Did you open the lock?”
“No, commander. I did not, and I would not.”
“But what of magic?”
“I have no magic to see me past a secured door, commander.”
The commander exhaled. “One other item. The, um, deceased has had an ear severed. Did you do that?”
“Surely the commander can see that such an act would draw blood, and I swore my sword free of it.” Inside, his stomach curdled.
“Answer my question! Do you have the severed ear?”
“No, commander. I possess no one’s ear, nor would I wish to own such a trophy. You are free to search my person and my billet.”
“So I shall,” said the commander, “Strip off your tunic.”
Cimozjen complied without hesitation, shaking out his tunic once it was off. Pomindras looked the man over. He was built like an old soldier. The powerful muscles were still apparent, though now they labored beneath a veneer of age-a slight paunch about the middle, a sag to the once-taunt skin. Cimozjen turned in place, arms held out to the side.
There was not a fresh mark on him. Scars, certainly, but no wounds, nothing that would spatter blood on his ship.
“You may go,” said Pomindras, “but mark that my eye will be upon you.” He growled. “Erami, fetch me Rophis Raanel’s Son.”