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.”
“Time to wake up, Cimmer,” said a musical voice.
Cimozjen’s eyes fluttered open, and he groaned with relief. “My, but the sun is bright,” he said.
“It’s overcast.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said, rubbing his face. He groaned. “All night long I dreamed of falling axe blades chopping me up. It’s nice to wake up in one piece.” He rose, walked to the window, opened it, and leaned out to take a breath of autumn air.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” said Minrah.
“I am happy that I did not sever your head,” said Four.
“Enough,” said Cimozjen. “Believe me, I have already thought enough of such things for this day.” He stood and stretched his back. “Very well, here we are. We’ve found a tavern that might be a source of information. But until it opens, what’s on the top of your minds?”
“I’d like to catch up on the Chronicle,” said Minrah, “see if there’s anything that might help me. I mean, us. Plus I want to see if we can find Torval’s shoemaker.”
“And I want to find out what happened to Torval from the last time I saw him during the War.”
After a short pause, Four said, “I want no one to attack me.”
Minrah laughed, and Cimozjen turned from the window and said, “That, friend Four, is why I like you.”
The streets were still wet from the previous night’s rain, and much of the urban grit had been washed from the cobbles. The autumn air was brisk, though not quite so cold that plumes of breath could be seen.
Cimozjen, Minrah, and Four stood at the foot of the stairs that led to the Military Bureau, a massive edifice between Castle Fairhold and Chalice Center that served as the central administration for the crown’s army. The main double doors sat nestled between thick fluted columns, which in turn supported a huge marble slab that bore the army’s crest, as well as beautiful basrelief sculptures of half-nude Aundairian heroes from the past, all carved in the flowing, elegant style for which Aundair had become famous during the Golden Age of Galifar.
Minrah pointed as they climbed the steps. “Hoy, look at that hunk of humanity up there,” she said. “Is your torso muscled as tough as that? He looks about your age.”
“My muscles are not quite so hard as his,” said Cimozjen. “His are made of pure marble. Mine just look that way.” He winked as he and Four pulled open the massive doors of the bureau.
Minrah walked in, her laughter echoing in the large wood-paneled main hall of the building. Cimozjen entered and walked over to one of the doors, waving off the offer of assistance from a greeter.
“You seem to know your way around here,” said Minrah.
“I have seen it often enough.”
He led the three of them to a smaller office off the main hall and ushered them in. Inside a room brightly lit by everbright lanterns, several clerks worked at desks. Fine wood shelving covered the entire back wall, parsed by dividers into small slots. Carefully marked scrolls filled each of the cubbyholes. Two open arches on the back wall led to more scroll storage.
Cimozjen stood in front of one clerk, an older man missing the majority of his left forearm. With his stump he held a scroll open, and with his other hand he copied the contents onto a new scroll. Cimozjen noted that he was copying only those names that had been crossed out.
The clerk neither looked up nor stopped writing on the scroll he had before him. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked as the nib of his pen scratched across the parchment.
“Please forgive me, but I do not. I wish to inquire after the disposition of foreign prisoners.”
The clerk grumped. “You’ll need an appointment.”
“If you please, I have just last night arrived from Karrnath, seeking to discover the fate of one of our soldiers. I have reason to believe that he was taken prisoner, and I hope to find out what happened to him after that.”
“Mm. I see. And you’re not going to go away until I help you, are you?”
“If I lived closer,” said Cimozjen, “I would make an appointment and await my turn. But it’s rather a long trip back home.”