“What of your wife?” asked Four. “Do you not miss her as you miss your sweet cremfel?”
“I do indeed. I have searched across Karrnath for her since the War ended, and spent not a lick of time thinking of this. Yet the cremfel is here, and she is not, so I can at least allow myself this small indulgence.”
“I’m here,” said Minrah, “but I don’t see a lot of indulging coming my way.”
Cimozjen shook his head. “I swore a vow, that for good and for ill, we would remain together.”
“And yet you are not together,” said Four. “Have you not broken your vow?”
“In truth, we are together, Four, because I treasure her memory in my heart and behave in all ways as if she were right here with me.” He glanced pointedly at Minrah. “She swore the same, and wherever she is, she is doing the same. Thus her memory holds my hand, and mine hers.”
Minrah snorted. “You must not want to hold her all that much, if you haven’t found her in two whole years.”
Cimozjen gave her another meaningful look. “Before the end of the Last War, I had not set foot on Karrnathi soil for twenty years. During a war, a lot can change in twenty years. Just look at Cyre. I searched our homestead. I searched the neighboring villages. I’ve-” His voice broke and he took a moment to recover. “That’s why I was in Korth, you know. Do you know how long it takes to search a city of eighty-odd thousand for a single woman?”
“So you don’t even know if she’s still alive, and you still won’t bunk me?” asked Minrah with a touch of a whine.
“Host, I pray she is alive. The alternative is too terrible to contemplate. Until I know otherwise, my vows remain unchanged.” He licked the last of the melted butter from his fingers, then placed another crown on the sill. “One more, please,” he said. “I’ll indulge myself a bit more as we walk to the University.”
“Did you find anything interesting?” asked Cimozjen as Minrah exited the University’s chronicle repository.
“Yes, I did,” she said with a smile. “No one has yet claimed the gnomes’ reward.”
“Why would someone want gnomes as a reward?” asked Four.
“No, silly, the gnomes are giving a reward. A few months ago, they spread the word that they wanted information on some sort of Aundairian monastic secret society or something. And I intend to collect it. Oh,” she added, handing Cimozjen a folded broadsheet, “I grabbed this for you. Some Brelish hero saved his dwarf servant and a bunch of orphans from a nasty beast in the Cogs of Sharn. Thought you might like to read it. Like you, he looks to be one of those dashing save-the-children hero types that chroniclers love. Kind of an old story, but if you’ve been spending all your time chasing your wife, you might have missed it. Thought it might keep your spirits up as we go about our business.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon trying to track down the Custodians of the Fire and Forge, only to find out that their monastery was hundreds of miles to the southwest, between Passage and Arcanix. For the five-score years of struggle that had been the Last War, the order had produced simple but utilitarian weapons for battle, and to meet their needs, they’d had groups of monks deployed across the country gathering materials. During this time, they had all but lost their ability to produce the masterful goods that reflected their spiritual growth. With the advent of peace, many of the monks had returned to their monastery, and were only too happy to begin restoring the art in their handicraft to its antebellum quality.
The information was rather dispiriting. “We’ll have to shelve a trip to the monastery,” said Cimozjen. He scratched the back of his head. “For now, in any event. It’s probably a good day’s ride by rail to Passage, another day to visit the order, and another back, and I’ll not waste three days when I feel like we might be close to our goal right here in Fairhaven.”
“Agreed,” said Four. “This is the place. The air is right.”
Cimozjen turned his head. “Do you mean it smells right?”
“I do not understand.”
“No,” said Cimozjen, “I guess you’d not, after all. Well, it’s getting dark. Shall we head back to the Flagons?”
Minrah grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
They arrived at the Dragon’s Flagons earlier than most. Four stood, holding his battle-axe at the ready if not quite-thanks to Minrah’s supplications-in a position of being ready to strike. In consideration of this, Cimozjen and Minrah took seats at the end of the long bar, where Four could have his back to the wall and be as far removed from the public view as was possible.
They supped on boiled meat with an onion-wine sauce and baked potatoes with coarsely diced chives and butter, but unlike the previous night, the tavern was largely empty until shortly after ten bells, when a group of four rough and rowdy customers burst through the door.
“Wham! Whack! That was great!” said the first. “But that shield … can you believe that shield? I’ve never seen anything that black. On my sword, I don’t think anything could touch him!”
“Serves me right for betting against him,” said the second. “You’re buying tonight. Again. I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.”
“Now that sounds interesting,” said Minrah. She watched the group as one of them bought a round of drinks and ordered some food, then followed them as they made their way to a table.
Their talk silenced as she drew close and pulled up a chair. “Hoy there,” she said with her most winning smile. “Do you big strong men mind if I just take this one little chair?”
One of them looked her up and down, a potential sneer of contempt shading his features, just waiting to erupt on the surface of his expression. He turned to his friends. “Bar whore,” he said.
“I most certainly am not!” snapped Minrah. “I just thought you were rather-”
“Don’t see them around here much,” said the man’s friend.
“That’s because there’s no reason to treat them as well as we treated the camp followers,” said a third. “At least they’d wash the blood out of your clothes.”
“And sew up the rips,” agreed the second.
“If I’m intruding-” said Minrah.
“I’d say that those that eavesdropped on private conversations of the Regent’s Halberdiers would have to be a spy, wouldn’t you agree?”
The third nodded. “Aye, preparing to renew the war for one of the other kingdoms, I’d say.”
“Spies are killed, aren’t they?” asked the second. “Drawn and quartered?”
“We ain’t got horses,” said the fourth, the biggest of the group, with a heavy gravelly voice to match. “We’d have to do it ourselves, after we were done, of course.”
By the time he had finished his sentence, Minrah was already making her way back to Cimozjen, her nose in the air and trying to carry herself in such a manner that she did not appear to be afraid. She reclaimed her stool, safely sited between Cimozjen and Four’s ever-watchful glare. “They’re not my type,” she said.
Cimozjen tried to suppress a laugh, and failed.
“They’re tight as a flock of cannibal stirges,” she said, “all feeding on each other. They might as well be one foul man with eight armpits.”
“Brothers in arms,” Cimozjen said. “No woman can draw them apart.”
“You mean they’re …?”
Cimozjen shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean.” “But then-”
“Forget it. You’ll never understand.”
They looked up as another assortment of rowdies entered the tavern, grinning widely. They talked quietly amongst each other, their conversation punctuated by shoves, punches, and head butts.
“This looks like it may turn out to be an interesting night,” said Cimozjen.
“But why now?” asked Minrah as the door opened yet again to admit another half dozen locals. “Why suddenly now?” She leaned forward to get a better look around Cimozjen. “Hoy there,” she said in quiet but urgent tone. “That’s the one from the ship. The commander, what’s his name? Pomindras. That’s him, Cimozjen, isn’t that him?”