“Torval would never stoop to such an act.”
“Such an act,” echoed the captain, nodding. “That was a curious choice of words.”
“Robbing unarmed womenfolk does not merit the word ‘deed.’ Deeds should be great, or noble. Those endeavors that are vile are ‘acts.’ ”
Yorin gave Cimozjen a dubious glance and snorted. He turned his back and paced over to the fire. “Let me understand this properly. You were walking along, this very night, alone, mindful of nothing but your own business. You … chanced upon a thief robbing a young lady, and intervened-this itself a deed quite brimming with nobility and valor, to say nothing of good fortune for yourself. You battled the thief-the would-be thief that is-defeating him, and then quite mysteriously set him free despite his nefarious intent. Likewise the mysterious maiden you peremptorily excused from your presence. Do I have this … rendition of events accurately stated?”
“That is an over-brief but essentially accurate understanding, yes.”
Yorin laughed, a choppy and supercilious snigger. He turned, his lips pursed in a mocking grin and one eyebrow raised as he gestured toward the body at Cimozjen’s feet. “Then tell me why this … this derelict mess appears nowhere in your tale!”
Cimozjen sucked on his lips for a moment to compose himself before answering.
“Torval Ellinger had nothing at all to do with the attempted robbery, nor with the woman,” he said, speaking as clearly as he could. “However, the knave that I defeated had Torval’s armband in his possession. I prevailed upon his better judgment to lead me to the place where he’d acquired the armband. Thereat he led me to Torval’s body, which lay at the water’s edge past the westernmost dock of King’s Bay. I wrapped the body in my coat and brought it here.”
There was a brief pause, broken only by the popping of the fire.
“Oh, that was spectacular,” said Yorin at last.
“Excuse me, captain?” said Cimozjen.
“Did you see that, lads?” said Yorin, arms spread, turning slowly about to gather all the assembled White Lions in his gaze. “Did you see that? A pause, the briefest of pauses, one so brief that only a trained observer like myself would have noticed, and in that fleeting breath he spun the essential strands of this new embellishment! Then, did you also note the ponderous cadence of his reply, the slow nature of which was designed to give us the illusion of clarity, but in which he was able to embroider his tale with detail to give it that … that clear sound of truth? I tell you, this man is a master orator!”
He clapped his hands and chortled, then raised one admonishing finger. “Ah, but what gives it away? For one, the mixture of ambivalence and superlatives. Note that the body was at the water’s edge-floating or ashore, he does not commit himself to the one or the other-and yet he clearly avows that the body was past the end of the westernmost dock! Such juxtaposition is a clear sign of fabrication!”
“Hold there-” interjected Cimozjen.
“Note also that this thread leads in a new and entirely different direction from everything else he has mentioned!”
“Captain, that is because that’s all you asked me about!” snapped Cimozjen.
Yorin turned back to face Cimozjen, a supercilious smirk twisting his youthful face. “You try to foist your error on me? Ha! It’s everything you talked about! And now what do we have? The only thread connecting this whole sorry account is the would-be thief.” He chortled. “Indeed, gone are the robbery, the maiden and, with them, civilian, your credulity.”
Cimozjen stared at him in disbelief for a moment. “The word,” he said at last, “is credibility.”
Several of the guards snickered.
“Silence!” barked the captain. He looked back at Cimozjen and snapped his fingers. “Papers.”
Cimozjen pulled a small hinged brass folder dulled with tarnish from his haversack. Opening it, he removed a neatly folded parchment, opened it, and handed it to the White Lion.
Captain Thauram raised his eyebrows and pushed out his lower lip. “Provisional papers?” he said. “I see.”
“It’s a complicated story,” said Cimozjen, “and one that has no bearing on Torval’s murder.”
“Of course,” said Yorin. “All manner of vagrants and deserters have gotten provisional papers since the war.” He looked at the papers again. “You claim a home a few leagues east of … where in the depths is Vurgenslye? Lads? Anyone?”
There were shrugs all around.
“So a person whose home and citizenship that cannot be proved, hailing from somewhere near a hamlet no one has ever heard of. Indeed.” He tossed the paper back at Cimozjen, and it fluttered to the floor. He took a few steps, turned, and sat on the corner of a table to address his guards, completely ignoring Cimozjen. “What I see here is simple. This man is a stranger in town. Possibly a blacksmith by trade, or more likely a deserter, either of which explains his musculature, his lack of scars, and his rather subservient bearing.
“So tonight this timid, if robust, old man is wandering the streets of a strange city, whereupon he gets set upon by a vagrant, who, wracked by hunger and soaked by the afternoon’s rain, was in dire need of food and fresh clothing to survive the night. By some stroke of luck, or perhaps because the vagrant was too weakened by starvation to be able to strike a telling blow, this old man manages to overcome the vagrant, and, in a moment of panicked frenzy, actually slays him. Now, those who have never known the bravery or discipline of the army can be undone by the act of taking a life. This being the case, he brings the body here with a carefully woven tapestry of events that accentuates his own heroism in the matter. It is a simple case of self-protection on one hand and fear of discovery on the other.”
He looked over at Cimozjen and drummed his fingers on his knee. “Still, I could be wrong. This may indeed be an actual murder. Hold him here, and send a rider to the other wards to see if there are any reports of trouble that might involve this man. And toss that … thing out in the street. I don’t want to see it any more. Let the corpse collectors fetch it in the morning.”
Two guards grabbed Torval by the ankles and started dragging him to the door.
Cimozjen shook his head in disbelief. “You …” he began, but managed to hold his tongue before he shared any more of his thoughts.
The half-elf slid off the table and glided over to where Cimozjen stood. He placed his hands on his hips, looked at Cimozjen and said, “You hate me now that I’ve uncovered your fear, don’t you?”
Cimozjen noted that although the half-elf looked at Cimozjen’s eyes, he didn’t actually look in them, hence he saw only what he wished to see.
“I tell you the truth, you know not what I think,” said Cimozjen.
“Oooh,” said Yorin, in a sing-song taunt. “I’ll bet I do. Right now you wish you had the courage to strike me, don’t you? But you’re too unsettled by the blood on your hands, and you’re too afraid of what will happen to your precious skin. But you’d love to fight me.”
Cimozjen smiled. “I cannot harm you, captain,” he said, so quietly that only he and the half-elf could hear, “for I am sworn to protect the weak and the foolish.”
The captain’s countenance flared into a snarl, and he swung a backhanded slap at Cimozjen face. It was a slow-developing strike as Yorin cranked his arm back for maximum force, and Cimozjen saw the blow coming. He ducked his head and turned into the blow, so that the back of the elf’s hand landed on the heaviest portion of Cimozjen’s skull.