Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

Cimozjen turned toward her fully, his curiosity piqued. He started to say something, then rethought and said, “I’m not entirely certain that that makes any sense.”

“Simple. I am an independent researcher. I look for interesting things. If possible I make those things more interesting or more intriguing, and then I write about them. That done, I bring them to the offices of the Korranberg Chronicle , the Sharn Inquisitive , or whichever chronicle I think might purchase the story from me. I guess you could call me a bard of the broadsheet.

“This story, your story, it intrigues me. A veteran soldier like you-you are a veteran soldier, right?”

Cimozjen nodded.

“I knew it. A veteran soldier finds an old compatriot dead on the streets, murdered. He seeks justice in his native land, but the keepers of the law betray the respect that he and his friend should have earned through their years of service. That is a compelling tale of woe, and done properly I could sell it for ten, maybe fifteen crowns to the right buyer.

“But”-she reached out and gripped his forearm for emphasis-“what if that soldier were able to unravel the secrets that his dead friend had to tell? What if, despite being spurned by those whom his society entrusted for their safety, what if that man were able to overcome the difficulties, find his friend’s murderer, and bring that craven brigand to justice? Now that, my good man, would be a story! I’d write it in sections, sell each of the sections for a sovereign or two each, then, just as we approach the heroic climax, the final chapter, the desperate final act that everyone awaits … I hold out for a galifar or more! I could easily make ten, twenty times as much with a story like that! That’s why I am willing to help you. I want that story to have a bloody, vengeful climax every bit as much as you do. And, I might add, by being a voice in the narrative I would make a name for myself, a name known to the common people.”

Cimozjen furrowed his brow. “The common folk? I mean no disrespect, for they are the bone and muscle of the land, but I think you would find the ear of a noble to be far more valuable than the fawning of a farmer.”

“For one such as you, a great warrior, that is surely true,” said Minrah. “But for us bards, who live by our wit-more or less honestly, that is-the acclaim of the crowd is a golden sound. A noble may gift you with gold, but a crowd can shower you with a cloudburst of copper, and they are far less fickle a patron. The day that the people look through a chronicle for a story written by me, or dare I say that they even demand one, that, ohhh, that my friend, is the day I become a true bard of the pen!”

Cimozjen leaned back and laughed, a genuine, warm laugh that resounded in the otherwise quiet room. He swiped his knuckle across the bottom of his nose. “If it brings Torval justice,” he said with a wry smile, “who am I to complain if all of Khorvaire knows his story? Very well, Minrah of no family name, we have ourselves an understanding, and a deal.”

“Here now, what’s all this?” said a guard, stepping closer and squashing the mood that had developed.

“It’s nothing, White Lion,” said Cimozjen, “simply-”

“I’m just telling him the story about the ogress, the duckling, and the justicar of the Silver Flame,” said Minrah, nudging Cimozjen surreptitiously with her foot. She turned back to Cimozjen. “Here’s another one for you. What did King Kaius the First say when he executed his court jester?”

“Truly I cannot say,” said Cimozjen, caught unprepared by Minrah’s ploy.

“I’m at my wit’s end!”

Cimozjen laughed as realistically as he could.

“Or this. How many Darguun halberdiers would you need to take Cyre?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” said Cimozjen.

“We’ll never know,” said Minrah, starting to laugh. “Even they don’t want it anymore.”

Cimozjen tried to laugh again, but found he couldn’t force out much more than a wheeze, so instead he doubled over and thumped the table to conceal his mediocre emoting.

The guard rolled his eyes and walked away.

“My apologies, Cimozjen,” said Minrah, leaning in close, “if you loiter here long enough, you’ll learn every tired and terrible joke in town. I can’t tell you how many new recruits I’ve seen try to impress the old hands with that last one.”

Cimozjen laughed, and this time it was genuine, for there were many such painful jokes from his time in the military, as well.

She leaned forward. “So let’s begin. I’m curious. Why didn’t you just tell the captain that you were of the Iron Band? Wouldn’t that make him want to help you?”

“How do you know I’m of the Iron Band?”

Minrah grinned. “By the way you treated your friend, you had to have served in the Last War together. I made a guess, and you’ve just confirmed it. So why not tell him?”

Cimozjen rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen enough of his kind. Garrison gargoyles. I wanted to know if he would help me because it was right. If not, then by revealing my service, all I could truly garner would be the illusion of help as he tried to curry favor.”

“You’re absolutely right on that one.”

Cimozjen cocked his head. “You seem to know these people rather well,” he said. “Do you come here often?”

Minrah shrugged. “Whenever I’m in town, yes.”

“And our preening cockerel puts up with you?”

Minrah held up her palms helplessly. “I wrote a work once that cast young Thauram in a good light-I make things up when I have to, no surprise-and as a result, he tolerates my presence. This is the worst of the White Lion troops, the most pathetic soldiers guarding the least desirable location, so this is where the best stories come.” She punched him playfully on the arm. “And you’re my proof of that tonight!”

At that reminder, Cimozjen’s heart became somber again. He felt his face fall, and a part of him was sad to see what was left of the jovial mood pass away as had his friend. “Tell me how you can help me find justice, Minrah.”

“Simple,” said Minrah, picking up the conversation with a businesslike tone. “I’d start now, but your friend-Torval was it? He’s much too big for me to drag around by myself, so we’ll have to leave him in the street for the moment.” Minrah pulled her knees up and hugged them to her, a strangely girlish act for such a mature conversation. “We just wait here until the rider gets back. When he does, Yorin Thauram the Second-Rate will let you go, and you can take me somewhere private.” She smiled knowingly. “Where I can find out what your friend has to say, that is.”

“I fear he has little to say anymore,” said Cimozjen.

“Not to the casual acquaintance, no. But I’ll get him to talk to me. See, I look for things. And when I look, I find them. Little things-threads, marks … clues. Then I-well, this time you and I together, we piece together what we know from those clues, and then we look for more clues based on that. It’s kind of like untying a tangled spool of thread. And at times, it’s just as frustrating.” She reached out and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But I believe we can do it. You and me, together.”

Cimozjen glanced at the door that led outside. “I do hope you are right, else my heart will never be settled again.” He blew out a heavy sigh, puffing his cheeks. Memories stung his eyes. “Would that you had known him the way I knew him. He-” Cimozjen stopped for fear his voice might crack, and roughly rubbed his free hand across his mouth and chin to regain control.

“I know,” said Minrah, gripping his hand tighter. “Believe me, I know.”

It was nearing midnight before Yorin Thauram II, with a mix of reluctance and relief, let Cimozjen leave. Cimozjen tenderly rewrapped his friend’s body, gathered it up, and hoisted it over his right shoulder. Minrah picked up a small pack, a bag, and Cimozjen’s staff, and then, without asking, slipped her hand into the crook of his left elbow and snuggled into his arm. Together, the two of them walked through the darkened streets of Korth.