Cimozjen scowled. “You were fortunate,” he said huskily.
He reached out to shake Cimozjen’s hand. “Yes, I was. And I’m glad to know that someone made it through, truly I am. You boys did the Great Sword’s own job there. I swear you did. So let’s see what we can find for you. Happy to help, I am. Anything I can do for one of you boys.” He turned and went into one of the back rooms, muttering to himself, “Gods-cursedest thing I ever saw.”
Four took a step closer to Cimozjen. “I do not understand,” he said. “During the War he was trying to kill you, and now he acts as your friend.”
Cimozjen chewed his lip. “It’s rather hard to describe, Four, unless you’ve served as a soldier.”
“I have fought. Many times.”
“Your style of fighting was different. It was an arranged duel-more of a brawl, really-where you and the other person were trying to kill each other. In war, one tries to defeat the other side, and there is no personal animosity between the actual soldiers. You can respect your foe, even admire him, and still fight to defeat him. That’s a part of what is called chivalry. You fight with honor and courage, but the fight is about the battle, not the other person.”
“Chivalry?” said Minrah. “I never saw any.”
“It is true, there were undisciplined troops, levees and the like, and more of them took the field as the War dragged on. I dare say the only way their officers could get them to fight was to make them hate the other side, rather than fighting out of a sense of duty or honor. And that’s where the shameful things started to happen, like massacring villages and killing the wounded. That is purely and simply wrong-it is evil, in fact-but the more it happened, the more it progressed from the levees to the soldiers to the leaders.” He snorted. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s why the kings and queens finally agreed to the peace. They feared that if captured, they’d no longer get the respect that nobles are due.”
“Your answer does not make me understand any better,” said Four.
Cimozjen took a deep breath as he considered this. “Your style of fighting, what you did, was to win that fight against that person. You had to kill or be killed. If you won, you lived, and if you lost, you died. War is different. For one side, say those of us in Karrnath, for us to win, we had no need to eliminate every other living thing on the continent. Likewise, as soldiers our goal was for our side to win, and not necessarily for us as individuals to survive. Sometimes, by sacrificing his own life, a soldier helps his side to win. And that, Four, is a part of what honor is, to sacrifice one’s selfish needs to serve the needs of others.”
“Sounds like stupidity to me,” said Minrah. “If you’re dead, how can you help them later?”
“Sometimes one can accomplish more in one’s death than one could in the rest of one’s life,” said Cimozjen.
Minrah snorted, but said no more as the one-handed clerk returned to the desk carrying several scrolls tucked under his crippled arm.
“These should have what you’re looking for,” he said.
Together he and Cimozjen looked over the parchments, locating the quartermaster’s master list of manifests of the campaign in question. Then the clerk unrolled a second scroll, and they poured over the lists on it. “Here you are,” he said at last, pointing triumphantly. “List of those captured.”
“We’re looking for Torval Ellinger, of Irontown.”
“Here he is,” said the clerk, stabbing the parchment. “Ellinger, T., head, F.”
“Head?” asked Minrah. “F?”
“Heads wounds, you see a lot of them among prisoners,” said the clerk. “Someone gets himself whacked hard and either knocked out cold or driven too confused to fight, then they get rounded up after the battle is won. The other common wound you see is when they take a debilitating wound that doesn’t cause them to bleed to death. Maybe an arrow in the joint of their shoulder, say, or …” he gestured vaguely with his ruined arm. “The F means he was rated as fit. H means they needed a healer, C means crippled and, well, on down the line.”
“I’m surprised they even bothered to list them by name,” said Minrah. “I’d have expected something like, ‘Twenty-seven accursed usurpers, slain where they stood.’ ”
The clerk and Cimozjen both gave the young elf withering looks. “Fair and equitable treatment of prisoners of civil strife, regardless of station, is required by the Code of Galifar,” said the clerk.
“Allow me to apologize on her behalf, friend,” said Cimozjen. “She knows not of what she speaks.”
“Cimmer-” she huffed.
“Silence!” snapped Cimozjen.
“No apology is necessary,” the clerk said to Cimozjen. “I long since learned to ignore the darts and arrows of those who never fought.” He unrolled the scroll further. “Aha. A detail was assigned to march the able-bodied prisoners to the Daskaran command.”
He returned to the back room for a moment and came out with a large ledger. He flipped through pages and pages of entries before finding the right date.
“Good. Here it says that he was given over to the stewardship of the Custodians at Areksul. Looks like they put him on a timbering gang. That’s good work, you know. Beats being sent to the mines or digging graves.”
“So at the end of the War,” asked Cimozjen, “what happened to those in his timbering gang?”
“I don’t know, my friend. You’d have to ask the Custodians.”
“And they are …?”
“The Custodians of the Fire and Forge. They’re an order of Monks of who revere Onatar. Early on in the war they agreed to handle guarding prisoners and putting them to useful work. It actually worked out for the best for probably everyone. The monks refused to fight, and soldiers hate to stand guard, so the order got to avoid combat, and our boys got to do what they were trained to do. And the prisoners, well, I’d rather be guarded by the friars than a group of bored recruits keen for notching their blades.”
“Very well,” said Cimozjen. “I thank you for your time.”
The clerk smiled, a jagged affair that forced its way across his weather-beaten face. “It was an honor. Dol Dorn bless on your search.”
“Too late for that,” muttered Minrah as they left the office.
From the Military Bureau, the group traveled to the main plaza of the University of Wyrnarn, where Minrah intended to catch herself up on the contents of the Korranberg Chronicle that had been published over the last week.
They moved easily through the streets until Cimozjen caught an aroma wafting on the cool autumn breeze. “Ohh,” he murmured, “sweet cremfels. Oh, how I’ve missed that!” His nose led them to a side street, where a cook leaned out a small window with heavy shutters and watched the street traffic going by.
Cimozjen placed a copper piece on the windowsill. “Cremfels still a crown?” he asked.
“Indeed they are,” said the matronly cook with a smile. “Will you be having cinnamon or preserves on that?”
“Just butter, please.” He watched as the woman pocketed the coin, then ladled batter into a cast-iron fry pan. A new burst of the sweetbread scent washed over him. “It’s been two years, Four. Two years since I’ve had the pleasure of these.” He swallowed hungrily.