“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?”
Minrah giggled. “Words can have more than one meaning. Great can mean good, or it can mean vast, like the Great Talenta Plains. Or it can mean powerful, like a great king. Or it can mean all of those at once. And terrible, well, it means something that can inspire terror and awe. Bad things do, but so do huge things. There can be a terrible storm, for example. Or sometimes terrible can mean extreme, like that poem that says, ‘ ’Twas terrible a price to pay / In blood for them to win the day.’ ”
“I think I understand. The world is large, and it is filled with extremes. A great and terrible place.”
“Right. And it’s a damned sight larger than that crate you called ‘home.’ ”
“But I liked my home. It was comforting.”
Minrah shrugged. “For a long time, my home was in a caravan. And I felt it was safe and comfortable, until”-she dropped her eyes-“well, until I found out differently.” She sucked on her lips for a moment. “But you get used to it.”
Cimozjen downed the last of his bread, and said, “I tell you the truth, if you want things around you to give you peace and security, you’ll have neither. Your, uh, home was comforting, but you never knew when they’d open it up and you’d have to fight. Am I right? So even when you were snug in your home, you lived with a sense of dread, did you not?”
The warforged nodded.
“I thought as much. Listen. If you want to have both freedom and safety, you will never achieve your goal. Before you can have true freedom you must have confidence in your own abilities, and set your sights on ideals that are higher than you. You’ll find faith in the Sovereign Host invaluable.”
Minrah rolled her eyes.
“Take my advice for what’s it’s worth,” Cimozjen said. “And, if you would be so kind, give us a name.”
“You are Cimozjen, and you are Minrah.”
Minrah laughed, and Cimozjen smiled in spite of himself. “What I mean is, please tell us your name.”
The warforged considered for a moment. “I have none.”
“Sure you do,” said Minrah.
“Perhaps not, Minrah,” said Cimozjen, “Remember, he’s probably been kept in a crate since he was made.”
“But they had to call him something, didn’t they?” said Minrah. She thought about it for a moment, then asked, “Did you hear anything right before they opened your cr-er, home? Something consistent all the time?”
“I did,” said the warforged. “It sounded like this.” His voice buzzed with a roar like an ocean, and within the noise a voice yelled out, crying “Fferrrrdurrrahnn!”
“Could you repeat that?” asked Cimozjen.
The warforged did.
“That’s an impressive imitation,” said Minrah. “But what does it mean? I couldn’t make it out.”
“Fighter N?” offered Cimozjen.
“The last part sounded like ‘drawn,’ ” said Minrah, “but that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Perhaps it was ‘thirty-one,’ another number in the manner of that creature’s ear.”
“Perhaps, but that sound rather put me in mind of someone calling out to a crowd, and calling out numbers just doesn’t seem compelling.” The elf grumped, deep in her throat. “Well, we’ll just call you Durn for now. Is that all right?”
“No, it’s not,” said Cimozjen. “You’re not going to use even a mild expletive as a name. We’ll call him Fighter for now. At least that’s an accurate description of his skills.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” groused Minrah.
She looked up. “Hoy there, Cimmo,” she said, having espied a procession that made its way along the thoroughfare to the castle. “I’ll wager those are the Marshals’ prisoners now.”
“So that’s where the crowd went off to,” said Cimozjen. “Come on, then, uh, Fighter. Let’s show you one of the better aspects to this world-justice. The sergeant of the Sentinel Marshals said we could attend the questioning of the ship’s officers and the other passengers.”
“That’s terrible,” said the warforged.
“What?” said Cimozjen. “No it’s not. I should think it will be very interesting.”
“The projection of authority upon those in bondage is sure to evoke awe and terror, is it not?”
“Of course it does, Fighter,” said Minrah, “but-oh, right. You know the definitions, but we’ll have to work on the application of your language skills.”
By the time they reached the main road, the procession had already passed by. It was a long, single line of people shackled together. One long chain ran from cuff to cuff on their left ankles, and another ran from right wrist to right wrist. The shuffling of feet and chinking of chains made for a very depressing sound, even to the normally ebullient Minrah. Sentinel Marshals paced along both sides of the line, barking at the prisoners and occasionally jabbing at slow ones with the butt of a spear.
Unburdened by either chains or dread, the trio set a faster pace and gradually began to pass the line as the guards urged it forward. Every time they passed a prisoner, the three would turn their heads to look at his or her face.
“That looks like just about everyone on the ship, agreed?” said Cimozjen as they perused the line, his face showing a mixture of satisfaction and compassion. “Well, I suppose the innocent will be free of this whole situation soon enough.”
“It’s not the innocent that I’m concerned about,” said Minrah, looking toward the head of the line.
“The Sentinel Marshals will sniff out the guilty, I assure you.”
“Then explain this, Cimmo,” said Minrah. “Why isn’t the commander among the prisoners?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone we’ve passed so far has been a passenger, have they not? Look, there’s that old man from Breland, and there’s that pair of brothers from Aundair. The one in the rear came from Flamekeep, if I remember right.”
“How is it that you know so much about these people?” asked Fighter.
“I haven’t sequestered myself in our cabin like Cimmo or been caged like you have, friend,” said Minrah. “I’ve spent hours and hours on a ship with them, and I try to talk to a lot of people. You never know when you might find an interesting story.” Minrah pointed. “See, Cimmo? Look there. There’s that dwarf lass, Erami d’Kundarak. Why is she in the line and not commander Pomindras?”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” said Cimozjen, his voice edging.
“Let’s get to the head of the line. I want to see if there’s anyone else that’s been lucky enough to avoid the chains.”
The trio picked up their pace and quickly moved to the head of the line, taking note of every face they saw.
“You know who else we’re missing?” asked Minrah.
Cimozjen stroked his chin. “Rophis the Winemonger.”
“That’s right. Him and the commander. Judging by the number of prisoners, that’s a complete accounting of those missing.”
“That’s a grave concern. Sergeant!” he called. He trotted over to the Sentinel Marshal that headed the procession. “Sergeant!”
The Sentinel Marshal ignored him until Cimozjen tapped him on the shoulder. “What?” he snapped.
“I am wondering, my good man, where the ship’s commander is, as well as a certain passenger-”
“They have been taken care of,” said the Marshal.
“Do you mean executed?” asked Cimozjen. “But we had-”
“They have been taken care of,” repeated the Marshal.
Cimozjen looked at him oddly. “Perhaps you mean they were brought up to the castle earlier, and quietly so. I can certainly understand your desire for discretion, but as you should well recall, I am the one who exposed their smuggling and slavery to you. May I ask, then, when and where the prisoners will be questioned?”