Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

Then his eyes fell upon a face he recognized-Pomindras, who’d commanded the Silver Cygnet as well as ambushed him in the streets of Fairhaven. He stood at the edge of a luxury seating area, which was cordoned off from the rest of the crowd by a festooned wall that rose to about four feet.

The timbre of the cheers and yells from the crowd started to take an impatient turn.

Cimozjen turned his head away before was caught staring, then walked back to face Tholog. “Who is that man? The bald and bearded one standing by the expensive seats.”

Tholog stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Him? No one knows his name. No one I know, anyway. We call him the Black Shield. That’s how he’s announced when he fights. Speaking of which, Killer from Karrnath, I put my money on winning, not slaying. You seemed decent enough, so I thought I’d give you a chance to survive, hmm?” He readied his warhammer.

“Your money?”

“Of course. You think I do this for fun? It is, sure-I like whacking people with Pounder here-but the pay isn’t enough. So I place a bet on myself whenever I walk the clay.”

“Pay?”

The crowd started to hiss and whistle their annoyance.

Tholog looked at him funny. “Yes. Why, did you get shorted?” He chuckled. “If so, you need a pounding for being a buffoon.”

Cimozjen planted his staff on the clay, but did not draw his sword. Instead, he placed his hand on his hip. “You know that I’m being held against my will.”

“Quit talking.” Tholog shifted his grip and moved his weapon into an attack position. “The crowd’s getting restless.”

“I’ve not left this building since I fought Jolieni. They’ve kept me in a cage.”

“They what?”

“They imprisoned a friend of mine since the end of the War, making him fight,” said Cimozjen. “Wore peasant’s garb and an iron armband. He died two weeks ago. That’s why I’m here. Now they have me.” He studied Tholog’s reaction. “Minrah. Remember that name. Minrah. She’s at the guesthouse on Chandlers Street near the lightning rail station. Find her and tell her I’m here.”

Tholog shook his head. “No … no. You can’t be telling the truth.”

The crowd’s displeasure grew louder, more insistent.

“Minrah! Remember it! She knows not where I am!”

“Don’t lie. This is all volunteer. You knew what we were getting into just as much as I did.”

“Do you distrust me? Look at my right boot. Look at the marks the shackles made.”

Tholog glanced down.

Cimozjen struck, whipping the dagger from the small of his back, flipping it in his hand, and plunging it with a back-handed stab into the nape of Tholog’s neck.

Tholog’s eyes bulged. He dropped his hammer and clawed at the wound as blood spurted forth.

Cimozjen forced him to the ground, not a difficult proposition as the hobgoblin was quickly bleeding to death. Eyes glaring, Cimozjen leaned his face right into the hobgoblin’s. Tholog’s eyes rolled back in his head.

Cimozjen hunkered over the body for a few moments. The crowd went silent, wondering if he were smothering the hobgoblin or possibly working other atrocities with his dagger. At last he straightened up and shoved Tholog away. He wiped off his dagger, stropping it several times on Tholog’s sleeve, then wiped the blood from his fingers on the material as well.

He stood and raised his arms to the crowd in acknowledgement of his victory, holding his red-stained hands aloft. He took a bow, his bloody holy symbol swinging like a pendulum and his dagger glinting in the light. He retired to his cage to the hissing and catcalls of hundreds of angry spectators.

Rophis the Winemonger wrenched a leg from the magebred turkey that sat steaming in the center of the table. He tore some of the meat from the bone with his teeth, breathed in and out to cool it a little with the passing air, then gobbled it like an alligator.

The Blinking Hippo was an experiment, a Ghallanda eatery supplied with magebred animals of every sort from the best breeders of House Vadalis. Odd animals they were, like this turkey with four fat legs, but very tasty indeed. They promised to deliver a six-foot long rack of ribs for him next week.

He was looking forward to it. Life had turned very, very good.

The door to the private dining room opened, and a familiar figure stepped in.

“Pomindras!” said Rophis around the half-chewed chunk of turkey that was still in his mouth. “Come! Sit!”

He patted the back of the empty chair at his right hand. Rophis had held the chair open for him, a gesture of appreciation for his assistance in capturing the damnable paladin who’d disrupted the operation of the Silver Cygnet in Thronehold and just as swiftly had galvanized the house’s clientele as the most hated man in the arena. After they’d debarked from the Fire Flight , Pomindras had been excluded from the table as punishment for allowing the troublesome Karrn to board the Silver Cygnet in the first place, but Rophis was a forgiving man, happy to reward those who overcame their own failures. Rebuke and reward. It was a powerful combination to bend people to his will.

Pomindras came around the table and sat down, his pleasure evident. He placed a sheaf of high-quality Karrn paper to the side.

Rophis gestured with his mangled turkey leg. “Try some.” He bit off another large, greasy mouthful and chewed, rolling his eyes back in pleasure. He followed with a hearty swill from his large mug of stout. “Mm. Wonderful.”

Pomindras did as he’d been bidden, cutting off a large chunk of breast, though truly it required no measure of loyalty or obedience to sample the savory bird.

Rophis smacked his lips and waved one hand vaguely. “Glad to have you here at last, Pomindras. You may begin.”

Pomindras set down his knife, wiped his hands and took up the papers. “Attendance continues to grow, lord, at roughly the same pace. Wagers have risen more rapidly, as have participants, and despite a few setbacks, we are profiting well.” He switched to another page. “I’ve been keeping my eye on several potential candidates who may be valuable additions. However, Alain-you remember him, the albino lad? — we’ve confirmed that he’s in touch with the gnomes, so I’ve arranged a special event for his benefit.”

Rophis chuckled. “Excellent. Monsters are always a good draw. Tell me, what sort is it?”

Pomindras smiled. “I’d rather it remained a surprise, lord. Trust me, though, it’s a good one.”

Rophis looked aslant at Pomindras, then laughed. “A surprise, eh? Pomindras, that sounds like-”

The door to the private dining room opened, and an unfamiliar figure stepped in.

“You have the wrong room,” growled Pomindras.

“Oh, no, I do not,” said the small elf gaily. She winked at Pomindras. “In fact, as soon as I saw your bald little head bobbing on in, I knew I’d find myself in the absolute right room.” She blew a kiss to Rophis. “How are you faring, O winemonger son of Raanel?”

Rophis leaned to his right, an incredulous twist to his lip. “I know that face. Who is she, Pomindras?”

“You wound me,” said the elf, clutching her heart with melodramatic anguish. “On board the Silver Cygnet , you said I was a lovely creature with a radiant face, and now you don’t remember me?” She sighed and sagged against the doorframe. “But that’s fine, because I remember you, and now, thanks to the Chronicle , the whole of Khorvaire will soon know what you’re doing.”

“Now I remember you,” said Rophis. “You’re the Karrn’s bit of sleeve lace. And you’re our mysterious narrator, too?”

Minrah curtsied. “Indeed I am. And now you’re holding my friend. Cimozjen, in case you’ve forgotten. Let him go before nightfall, or I’m calling the Marshals down on you.”