“The Host bless you, miss, if’n you please,” came a tremulous voice from a nearby alley.
Minrah stopped and sneered at the beggar. “Pardon me?”
“The Host bless you,” the old man said, holding out a weather-beaten hat at the end of a skinny and underclad arm.
“Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?” she asked.
“No, miss, I just only asked for the Host to bless you, that’s all. I need me a new coat for the winter, afore it gets too cold, if’n you please, miss.”
“Well, you can keep your prayers and see if the gods’ blessings keep you warm this winter,” said Minrah. “See how much they care for your piety.”
Cimozjen stepped forward, fishing in his coin pouch. He took a pair of copper crowns but did not drop them in the man’s hat. Rather he kneeled, set the man’s hat back on his head and placed the coins in his open palm. “Winter’s coming soon, good man.”
“Yes it is. Host bless you.”
“Still, you’ve a decent enough hat and”-Cimozjen paused to draw in a sharp breath-“and you have a pair of good shoes.”
“They’ll do with the right stockings, yes they will, Host bless you.”
Cimozjen stood up, hands clasped behind his back. “Minrah, you agree that these are excellent shoes, right?”
“Mm. Beggars’ shoes.”
“Minrah,” said Cimozjen. “Look at these shoes. Are. They. Not. Excellent.”
Minrah rolled her eyes and moped her way over to the beggar. Her eyes went wide, but only for a moment. “Yes, I guess I’d have to say they are,” she said, then turned and walked back to stand near Four, her back to Cimozjen.
“Tell me, old man,” said Cimozjen, kneeling down. He pulled a sovereign from his coin pouch and toyed with it idly. “Where did you get those shoes?”
“Outside of town, if you please. There’s a farmer’s family, the Valleaus, and his second son, he’s good with the leather, you see. Sometimes I do work for them, bring them things, or carry something into town for them, and one day he gave me these. He said he din’t need them.”
Cimozjen moved his hand toward the coin pouch, ready to drop the coin back in. “And how might I find the Valleau farm?”
“Easy, sir, biggest farm out the Galifar Gate, it is. Follow the road down the river for about two hours ’til you get to the burned stump of a giant oak tree. That marks the corner of his property, and you’ll see a rock wall. Take that road inland for about a half mile to the gate. It’s got two whitewashed pieces of wood on it that form a V when it’s closed. The path to the right gets to their house.”
Cimozjen flipped the coin to the old man. “Our thanks, old man. Stay warm this winter. And the Sovereign Host bless you, too.”
The man clutched the coin in both hands, rocking back and forth in glee. “They already have,” he said, “They already have!”
Cimozjen walked back over to Minrah and Four. He looked at each of them in turn and smiled with quiet satisfaction.
“Host bless you ag’in!” called the old man after him.
Cimozjen nodded at Minrah.
“Coincidence!” she snapped, and stomped off in the direction of the Dragon’s Flagons.
On their third day of visiting the Flagons, they finally convinced Four to sit, but they could not get him to let go of his battle-axe. They sat at a corner table of the tavern, with Four occupying the seat right in the corner. Cimozjen sat to the right of the warforged, keeping a good eye on the tavern, while Minrah sat across from them, comfortable that they would keep her safe.
“We’re not going to have an easy time getting to know these people if we keep sitting in the corner with an axe-carrying warrior,” said Minrah.
“That is true,” said Cimozjen, “but at least he no longer comes across as actively looking for a fight. And if you and I were to sit in the middle of the room away from him … well, I’d rather we stuck close by each other. Especially here.”
They picked at the bones of half of a poorly cooked chicken. Not only did it have no seasoning, but the skin was burnt and the deepest meat barely cooked.
“It appears that I am impeding your progress,” said Four. “You should have talked to that person you recognized yesterday, instead of staying with me.”
“Pomindras from the Silver Cygnet?” said Cimozjen. “No, I still think it would not have been a good idea.”
“Absolutely,” said Minrah. “Whatever is going on with all this, he knows about it. He’s probably hoping we’re still ignorant. If we’d shown that we remembered him from the ship, he might abandon any pretense of secrecy and take more direct measures to preserve his little diversion, and that would be bad for us.”
“Because he’d want to put me back in my home.”
“That’s right,” said Cimozjen.
“So instead, we watch and wait,” added Minrah. “If he comes back tonight, maybe we can find out what they’re up to.”
Four continued to scan the crowd, as was a habit for him. “But he has not returned,” he said.
“Not yet, no,” said Cimozjen. “But the night is not over. He may return. Or better yet, some other people from the ship, who’d be less inclined to recognize us. So pray that we may yet spot someone through whom we can unravel this knot.”
“And cross your fingers,” said Minrah.
“What good would that do?” asked Four. “It would lessen the strength of my grip on my weapon.”
Minrah patted his arm. “That’s right, my warforged warrior Four, it would. I’ll take care of the finger crossing for all of us, right?”
“Ho there,” said Cimozjen. “That friend of Jolieni just walked in, and he’s coming over.”
“Here?” asked Minrah.
“That’s right. Walked in, took a look around, and here he is.”
The Aundairian walked up, grasped the empty chair at the table, turned it around, and sat, draping his arms across the backrest. “Evening,” he said. He extended a hand to Cimozjen. “They call me Boniam.”
“Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service,” he said, gripping the proffered hand firmly.
Boniam turned to Minrah. “And you are …?”
“Minrah the Drover,” she said. “Pleased to meet you … in a more congenial manner.” She batted her eyes.
“Well. Yes. That’s uh, that’s quite a warforged you have there, Hellekanus,” said Boniam.
“Friend Boniam,” said Cimozjen, “he is not mine. He is his own person, per the Accords of Thronehold.”
Boniam shook his head as if to clear it. “Of course. I am sorry. Fifteen years in the army gave me some bad habits regarding the ’forged, I’m afraid. And what is your name?” he asked, extending one hand. “Fighter, was it?”
“Yes, it was,” said the construct without moving.
“Be kind, and shake the man’s hand,” said Minrah. “It’s a greeting custom among equals. And introduce yourself.”
Four looked at her, then at Boniam’s hand. He took one hand off his axe, reached out, and shook. “My name now is Four. It may change again if it is shown to be troublesome.”
Boniam clenched his jaw, and his face slowly turned red. “Four,” he grunted. “Right. You can let go now.” As soon as his hand was freed, Boniam exhaled explosively. He took it back to his lap and massaged and flexed it. “That’s quite a grip.”
“It is my hand,” said Four. “It grips things.”
“Yes, yes it does.” He nodded to signal the serving girl, and ordered a loaf of bread, some butter and salt, and a round of drinks. He gave his hand one final spidery flex and leaned on the chair’s backrest again. “So tell me, what brought you three here?”
“The lightning rail,” said Four.
Boniam laughed. “That’s not what I meant. What I mean to ask is: this is hardly a place that people seek out, especially fair young women. Why are you here?”
“To-” started Four, but Minrah put her hand over his mouth and he silenced himself.
“We’re not exactly sure, I suppose,” said Cimozjen. “The standard diversions of the city, they … they’re just lacking. At least here you see real life being played out. So I guess you could say we’re here looking for excitement. Visceral excitement.”