“We trusted the Marshals once, and look where it got us,” said Minrah. “Nowhere. So I don’t trust you, either.”
Cimozjen reached for the hand that Theyedir had left on the table. He gripped it firmly and stared hard into Theyedir’s eyes. The old Marshal stared back at him, moving nothing but his eyes. After several long moments, Cimozjen released his grip.
“I do.”
“You trust him? After all this? Cimmo, you can’t be serious.”
“I am. And remember, I’m chasing blood here. You’re chasing ink.”
“That’s why I’m the only one keeping a clear head.”
Cimozjen started to say something but held his tongue.
“What?” asked Minrah.
“Being oathbound, I will not allow what so regretfully crossed my mind to cross my tongue. Therefore I will simply beg you to indulge me here, Minrah. He did support our case to the Marshals, and I will not hold him accountable for what they did with it.”
Cimozjen proceeded to tell his entire tale, starting from his encounter with the dwarf thief and continuing to the events of the morning. Theyedir stared at him, never moving, never letting his eyes wander. Minrah, at first reluctant even to acknowledge the aging guard’s presence at their table, could not restrain herself from embellishing those points at which she had firsthand knowledge. Even Fighter shifted closer as the tale unfolded, although the warforged still kept his back to the wall.
Cimozjen told his tale with the succinct clarity that comes with extensive military service. At the end of his narrative, Theyedir nodded. “That’s a fascinating tale, Cimozjen. And you’re doing all this …”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he said.
“Do you still carry Torval’s armband?”
“No, I do not,” said Cimozjen. “I entrusted it to an acquaintance, an old veteran like myself. He swore that he would see it delivered to his family. It’s a tradition. But I do have my own, if you’d like to see it.”
“I would,” said Theyedir, holding out his hand.
Cimozjen rolled up his sleeve to bare the ornate armband. However, instead of taking it off and handing it over, he simply leaned forward. “It cannot be removed,” he said. “Not until I’m dead.”
Theyedir peered at the graven armband, then recoiled. “The Iron Band.” He put his hand to his forehead. “What-what was your purpose there?”
Cimozjen tilted his head defensively. “A recruiter came to Tanar Rath while we were garrisoned there, holed up for winter. I was selected for training, and I managed to pass. Later I learned that the Iron Band was being created as an elite unit. I eventually came to command a talon, until, well, until the course of the War turned in other directions.” He paused. “It’s nothing to concern yourself over, Marshal. The Last War is over, and I’ve no grievances held against those who fought for the other side, let alone those who stood aside to guard the ancient seat of Galifar.”
Theyedir calmed himself. “I suppose you’re right. The Last War is over, and the Iron Band fights on only in tales told by the fireside.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “But-well. Never mind. As for your problem, I am afraid I know nothing at the moment, but I will see if I can uncover anything to help you. Rophis Raanel’s son, you said, and Commander Pomindras-those were the only ones who were not in chains?”
“As near as we can tell, that is the truth of it,” said Cimozjen.
“I don’t make mistakes,” said Minrah.
The conversation hung silent for a long moment, until Minrah spoke up again. “Might the commander have bribed his way out of trouble? With Rophis’s wealth and his station, he-”
“No,” said Theyedir. “The Sentinel Marshals have the honor and reputation of a dragonmarked house to uphold. For a Sentinel Marshal to accept a bribe for any reason, no matter how small the crime, is punishable by public execution.”
“Oh,” said Minrah. “Well, that’s about the only idea I had.”
“Very well,” said Theyedir, rising. “I suggest you stay at the Crownshadow. It’s a good guesthouse. I’ll send word to you there if I manage to uncover anything about this.” He turned to go.
“So what’s your stake in this?” asked Minrah. “What reason do you have to do anything to help us when your fellow Marshals would just as soon spit in our eye?”
He looked back over his shoulder at the recalcitrant elf. “My reason is the same as Cimozjen’s,” he said, “and the same as the Marshals’ should be.”
Chapter THIRTEEN
Fire in Flight
Zol, the 17th day of Sypheros, 998
They boarded at the Crownshadow as Theyedir had suggested. Cimozjen booked a suite. He stayed in one room, and insisted that Minrah take the other. Fighter stepped into the freestanding wardrobe in the common area, even though it was easily too small for his frame. However, he didn’t like the feeling of dread that returned to him when he was inside with the door closed, so he opted to sit inside the open wardrobe, facing the suite’s door.
The Silver Cygnet remained docked at the pier, her helm chained hard over to immobilize her. The trio waited helplessly for a way off the island and searched for any sign of Rophis or Pomindras, or any of the prisoners. Each day, two or three ships docked at Throneport, though most were simple fishing boats, and the rest were headed for destinations other than Aundair.
It was their third day of waiting. Minrah slouched against the wall of the common area, while Cimozjen paced back and forth, pausing to look out the window of his room and scowl at the hobbled ship. Fighter remained as still as a statue, both hands gripping his axe.
“Cimmo,” said Minrah, “we need to find Rophis. He’s hiding something.”
Cimozjen gave a noncommittal grunt. “Many people have secrets. Some because they scheme, others because they’re embarrassed about their vices. I pray he’s just a down-on-his-fortunes merchant who got on the wrong vessel.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Rophis tries to pass himself off as an Aundairian, and he’s no such thing. He’s spent a lot of time in Karrnath, was probably even raised there, but when I pointed that out, he tried to tell me I was wrong. Why?”
Cimozjen shrugged. “Why do you think he’s Karrn?”
“He has a slight accent he tries to hide. And he uses Karrn phrases. He said, ‘I’m in a good company,’ as in ‘I am in a good military unit.’ That’s a distinctly Karrn turn of phrase.” She paused. “In case you don’t know, the rest of the continent says, ‘I’m in good company,’ like folks have come over to visit. He also called it Nightwood Pale, not Nightwood Ale. Again, that’s a very Karrn label. And with the soldier’s gruel, when he talked about how the casks get reused for that earthy flavor, he talked about how ‘they’ did it, not about how ‘we’ did it, and it’s a deeply rooted Aundairian tradition. Even isolated farmers do that for their home brew.”
“Did he say those things? I’d not noticed.”
“Of course not. You’re a Karrn. You don’t hear Karrn phrases.”
Cimozjen chuckled. “So what’s your blind spot?”
“I don’t have one. I’m a child of the continent.”
Footsteps ran up the hall outside the door, and the door to their room burst open. Fighter lunged to his feet and took a long stride to cross the floor, bringing his huge battle-axe around in an arc, the blade whistling as it cleft the air. A small boy ran into the room, breathless. At the last moment his eyes went wide as a full moon. He tried to stop, but his momentum tripped him up. He flopped to the floor just as Fighter’s axe whooshed over his scalp, slicing a swath of black hair from the back of his head and lodging firmly into the doorframe with a heavy thunk.
Minrah shrieked.
The boy screamed and scampered away on all fours, leaving a crumpled roll of parchment wobbling back and forth on the floor.