Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

“Just … because! It’s not the way they’re supposed to do it!”

“If they had skilled warriors as prisoners, why would they waste them fighting each other, and not free people? And if they wished their slavery to remain unknown, why would they treat any duel differently from any other?”

Minrah tugged at the hem of her jersey, face flustered. “Because that’s not what I thought the challenges were all about!” she wailed.

“What evidence or experience did you base your conclusions on?”

Minrah rounded on her companion. “Quiet, Four! We can’t waste time thinking about that sort of stuff now! Don’t you understand that? There are more important things. We have to find out what happened to Cimmer. If he hasn’t come back, then something really dreadful happened, like he got badly injured.” Her fury spent, she turned and paced helplessly, twisting her fingers around each other. “Or maybe he’s dead. We need to go back and see.”

“We cannot do that,” said Four. “They will not allow me in the building, so that is a part of the adventuring that I cannot participate in. But we can go back to the door together, if that is your wish, and then you can explore inside some more.”

“Without you?” whined Minrah.

“They will not admit me,” he said. Then, with his voice altered to imitate the doorman, he added, “ ‘We do not allow their kind in here. You will have to leave it outside.’ ”

“Fine,” said Minrah. “Let’s go.”

They wended their way back to the entrance to the arena. The rain had stopped some hours before, and only an occasional drip fell from the eaves overhead. Four concealed himself in the alley, while Minrah hesitantly stepped up and knocked. She waited.

And waited.

With a nervous glance in Four’s direction, she knocked again. Waited. Paced, her fingers writhing with impatience and dread. Finally she stopped and turned in Four’s direction. “Why won’t they answer?”

Four stepped out of the shadows. “Perhaps you are too timid in your knock,” he said. “Your muscles and bones are not particularly robust, and are thus ill-suited to making enough noise to attract the attention of the occupants. Permit me to demonstrate.”

The construct walked up to the door, battle-axe in hand. He hefted the weapon and slammed the butt end of the weapon hard into the door. Wham! … Wham! … Crack! And with the last blow, the wood of the door partially buckled under the impact. The warforged inspected the dent and the small split on the wood, nodded in satisfaction, then stalked back over to his hiding place, leaving Minrah staring agog after him.

The view slit in the door slammed open. “Hey!” barked a voice. “What in the ashes do you think you’re doing?”

Minrah whirled back around, and the eyes in the view slit grew wide. She gathered her frazzled wits and smiled as sweetly as she could, given her mental state. “I’m sorry, what was your question?” she asked, stalling for time.

“You-uh … you?” asked the doorman. “Um … you knocked?”

“Why yes, yes, I did. I … had to leave early last night. I wanted to follow up on how things developed.”

“Well, um … almost everyone’s gone, but … um … wait just a moment.” The view slit closed much more gently than it had opened, and after a short time, the door swung wide to admit her.

Minrah stepped in hesitantly, faking a smile that shone bright and warm in contrast to her chilled and fearful heart.

“Ah, Minrah Teamaker,” said a gentle voice, “it is you after all.” She turned and saw the purser from the betting window. He snapped his fingers once, sending an aide running down the hall, then he reached one hand out to her. She extended her hand and he took it and kissed it gallantly.

He smiled and bobbed his head. “I was beginning to fret about your absence,” he said. “The audience departed many bells ago, and you are the only one not to collect her winnings.”

“Winnings?”

“Indeed. You fared quite well this day. Your sole wager bore fruit, and I am pleased to give you your harvest. Quite a crop, if I do say so myself.” Just as he finished his words with a smarmy smile the aide returned, bearing a pouch and a small piece of paper curled tightly and tied with ribbon. The man turned, took the two items from the aide, and presented them to Minrah.

Amazed, Minrah reached out and took the bag. It sagged over her slender hands, heavy with coin. Her fingers clenched, gripping some of the coins through the coarse cloth. She shifted the bag to one hand and took the proffered curled paper. “What’s this?”

“A certificate for the balance of your winnings,” came the reply. “We’ve found that most of our clients like to have the security of a Kundarak-notarized promissory note, but still retain a portion of their winnings in ready coin for various means of immediate celebration.” He chuckled.

“Why … thank you,” said Minrah.

“No, we thank you, dear one, for patronizing our establishment. We do hope that you will choose to return soon.”

“How is Cimozjen?”

“Who?”

“The, uh, the person whom I was lucky enough to bet on. The fighter.”

“Ah. Obviously, he won, but beyond that I am afraid I do not know.”

“But he lived?”

The man shrugged, still wearing his insincere smile. “It is likely, although in fairness I must advance the possibility that he suffered what we call a ‘simultaneous finish.’ In those rare events, the house pays to the side that the judges deem to have prevailed, the actual results notwithstanding. And I find I must also add that even if I did know his status, it is against house policy for family members or employees to discuss or theorize about the health of any competitors. We must maintain our propriety and neutrality, and cannot be thought to be tampering with the odds by means of idle speculation. I suggest you watch the boards; if his name appears, you may draw your own conclusions.”

Minrah nodded, trying not to let her disappointment cross her features. “I see. So … when might I be able to come back? I’m not fully acquainted with your schedule.”

“The second night hence,” said the man with an eager bob of the head. “It’s a smaller event, but should provide quality amusement nonetheless. I’ll be sure to hold an excellent seat for you.”

Minrah smiled as best she could and clutched her winnings to her breast. “I thank you. I shall see you then.”

“So is Cimozjen dead?” asked Four. He had started to ask the question just after Minrah had left the building, but at that time she had silenced him with a gesture. She had led Four to several temples, the House Jorasco compound, and the undertaker’s, all the while demanding his utter silence.

Back in their lodgings, the warforged reckoned it might safe to try asking the question again.

“No,” said Minrah, slouched in her chair. She spoke in a distracted monotone around her thumbnail, which she chewed on as she thought. “I don’t believe he’s dead. Whoever these people are, they kept Torval alive for years, so I don’t think they’d be so clumsy as to let an old warhorse like Cimmer die. Even if he did anger them as he is wont to do.”

“So you believe he is captured?”

“Yes, I do. It was pretty clear from the way the customers behaved at the Flagons that the fighters were free to leave after the fights ended, was it not?” She leaned forward and gestured toward the window. “I mean, look at that snub-faced Jolieni. She barged in swinging a bag of coin and crowing about her victory and ready to celebrate. She was letting herself be carried on the emotion of a fresh victory, probably no more than an hour before.”