Cimozjen forced himself to sit up. There in the corner were his staff and his sword, just as he remembered leaving them, and just out of his reach. With a grunt, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. What had happened next?
Next he’d … woken up.
They had done something to him.
He put his hand to the small of his back. His dagger was gone.
He stood up and shuffled his way across his cell as far as the chain would let him. There, on the ground by his other weapons, was his dagger. That was why they had struck him unconscious. Somehow they’d known he hadn’t given up his third weapon, and some house wizard had felled him like a tree. He shuffled back over to his pallet bed and sat heavily. He turned his hands over and looked at them.
They wanted him unarmed.
But why? One obvious answer was that he could kill himself with his dagger. Still, he could probably commit suicide by hanging himself with his belt or ankle chain, or by starving himself, or even just by falling on his sword in the arena.
Then he remembered Torval. Torval had used a sharp object to cut into his skin and create a scar. Perhaps they didn’t want that to happen again.
Cimozjen pushed up his sleeve and looked at his bare forearm. What kind of message was Torval trying to send?
He traced his fingers along his skin. S … I … And then he realized: it’s wasn’t an I. It was an L. Torval had been writing Slave, but something had stopped him from completing it.
He looked up, at the three weapons that lay in the corner, just out of his reach.
No wonder.
Minrah and Four walked across town to the outpost of the Sentinel Marshals, located in a corner tower of one of the Aundairian government buildings along with the speaking stone station operated by House Sivis and the Kundarak Banking Guild-an above-ground service desk for their subterranean operations.
Inside, the Sentinel Marshal outpost was actually welcoming. While well furnished, it had neither the pomp of royalty nor the ostentatious hubris of the dragonmarked houses. The power it projected was quiet, much like, it was told, had been the case with the early kings of Galifar. The dark wood had been warmly polished to have a deep luster reminiscent of coals burning on a winter night. Papers were posted about containing splendid renditions of wanted criminals, some of them created with magical glamers that seemed as true to life as one could possibly want. A map of Khorvaire dominated one wall, peppered with tiny flags and pins, and opposite that hung a detailed map of the streets of Fairhaven, likewise peppered with little colored flags and notes.
A clerk sat at a high desk, scribing gear all about him. He looked at Minrah as she and Four entered the room, his fingers laced at the edge of his desk.
“Good morning to the both of you. Do you have a criminal complaint, or are you seeking some other service?”
Minrah smiled as she walked over. The desk was just a tad too high for her to peer over, so she slipped to the side. It also helped her flirting to stand closer to her target. “It’s rather more complicated than that,” she said, gazing at him from the corner of her eye as she feigned timidity.
“Indeed? How may I be of service?”
“My name’s Minrah Hunter,” she said with just a trace of coyness. “And you are …?”
“Sorn d’Deneith, at your service.”
Minrah’s fluttered her eyes and faced him more fully. “I’m sorry, Sorn …?”
“Of House Deneith,” he said. “My apologies if it wasn’t clear. Sometimes that double ‘D’ comes out sounding like a stutter.”
“Deneith. Right,” said Minrah. She tried to force her smile back, but her furrowed brow smothered it as a thunderhead stops the sunshine. “House Deneith. But I thought … aren’t the Sentinel Marshals an … independent … force?”
“Of course we are. It’s part of our charter, just like the Blademarks Guild and the-”
“And the Defender’s Guild. Right.” Her expression went from anxious to vacuously sunny in an instant. “That’s why I’m here. I was looking to hire a bodyguard. Would that be possible?”
“I’m sorry, miss,” said the clerk. “That’s not what we do in this office. We only handle criminal investigations here. Contracts for the Defenders Guild are handled through the main House Deneith enclave.”
“Was I mistaken?” gasped Minrah. “I am so sorry.”
“Not a worry. It can be a little confusing sometimes. We Marshals keep ourselves physically separate from the rest of the house to help maintain our neutrality. If you’d like, I can give you directions.”
“That won’t be necessary. I know where I’m going.”
“No problem, young miss,” said the clerk with a respectful nod of the head. “Happens all the time. Truly.”
Minrah left quickly, grabbing Four’s arm as she departed. She dragged him behind her until they had exited the tower, walked half a block, and then ducked in an alley. No sooner were they out of sight than Minrah leaned against the wall, trembling, squealed a high-pitched cry and grabbed at her hair with clawed hands.
“Are you ailing?” asked Four.
“Yes!” said Minrah. “I am so stupid!”
“Ah. Your brain is damaged, then?”
“Four,” said Minrah, “don’t you see? All this time we’ve been looking at who might have sway over the Marshals, but who has more sway than their own people? House Orien isn’t behind this! It’s House Deneith!”
“But you said they were rigidly neutral and true to their pledge, and would not want to risk their reputation.”
“Obviously, I didn’t think it through all the way. But it all makes sense now. Who’s better to take control of soldiers than soldiers, who’s more likely to promote fighting than mercenaries, and who’s less likely to hold to the law than sellswords? No wonder Rophis was so unruffled when I threatened him with the Marshals raiding his gambling arena. Just think about it. The Sentinel Marshals are one arm of the house, and they always uphold the law and vanquish the wrongdoer … unless doing so crosses their own! They can’t very well cut the purse that pays them, can they? That’s why the Marshals let Pomindras and Rophis go free on Thronehold, Four. They were letting members of their own house off the hook.” She snorted. “Meanwhile, the people they hired or duped-the passengers, and that Kundarak moneycounter-they get arrested and prosecuted for their part in the slave trade.”
“Great!”
Minrah looked up at him, confused and disgusted. “What?”
“That is great. Great as in large, ominous, and far-reaching.”
Minrah placed her face in her hands. “We really need to work on your language skills.”
“You have said that before,” said Four, “but you never follow up with lessons.” He paused, and seeing no response was forthcoming, asked, “So what is our next step?”
Minrah rubbed her face, then looked to the steely autumn sky. “Since we can’t go to the law, we go to the power.” She stood erect, brushed her hair back, and regained her composure. “We go to the crown. Queen Aurala will be ill-pleased to hear that people are being enslaved in her fair land.”
Striding out the other end of the alley, she spoke to Four over her shoulder. “Let me be realistic,” she said. “We’re not going to see her. We’ll see some low-ranking administrators that will be ill-pleased on her behalf. But on the bright side, maybe they’ll have some magic for us, something we can use to our advantage.”
The view slit slammed shut. And, after a moment, the bland gray door opened to admit Tholog into the front rooms of the arena. He nodded to the door guard and went down the passageway to the right, thinking about how all door guards seemed to like to slam view slits.
He entered the booking area, walked up to one of the barred wickets, and rapped his knuckle on the wooden counter. “Seneschal!” he called, lisping the sibilants.
The only person within the booking room was an older human, checking ledgers. He looked up. “Ah, yes, may we help you …?”
“Tholog.”