Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

Rophis stared at her blankly. “The Marshals.”

“That’s right,” said Minrah. “The Sentinel Marshals. So you might want to give me the answers I want before they wring them from your tortured body.”

“Pfft!” snorted Rophis. “Empty threats.” He waved a turkey leg. “Pomindras, deal with her.”

Pomindras stepped around the table. His hand went to his belt, but of course House Ghallanda had required him to surrender his sword upon entry into the Blinking Hippo. So instead he flexed his arms and cocked one meaty fist by his shoulder. “All right, youngster …” he said.

The elf slid back and pushed the door open a bit wider. A large warforged stepped through the door and adopted a protective stance.

“This is Four,” said the elf.

Pomindras swaggered a little as he approached. “It’s for … what?”

“This,” said the warforged. He threw a fast punch from the waist, catching Pomindras right below the ribs. Pomindras doubled over, gasping for breath, and he staggered and fell to the floor, pulling a chair over on top of himself.

“Seeing as you have markedly little hospitality,” said the elf, “we’ll be on your way. Free Cimozjen by sundown. I’m giving you one last chance.”

The two of them departed, and the warforged pulled the door closed behind them.

“More than I’ll give you,” muttered Pomindras. He rose and set the chair upright again. “I’ll fetch some others and we’ll-”

“You’ll do nothing,” said Rophis waving him off with the bone. “Not yet. Ambush her in the streets, and the chronicles will hear of it. That would be bad, because it makes her story all the more compelling. We need a way to eliminate her without adding to her influence, and-” He stopped in mid-gesture, then a jaded smile slowly spread across his face.

“Sit,” he said.

Pomindras sat. “What’s your plan, lord?”

“We’ll send her an invitation that she won’t be able to resist,” he said. Then he returned his attention to his turkey leg.

Lying to the Authorities

Mol, the 2nd day of Aryth, 998

Do I know how to work a crowd, or don’t I?” Minrah smiled as she saw the people assembled around the latest edition of The Korranberg Chronicle , where it was plastered to a large, blank wall. The top of the broadsheet featured the fourth installment of her story, and was the subject of much animated discussion.

“If you wanted an angry crowd, you have succeeded,” said Four.

“Indeed I have. Now that we have the crowd behind us-or at least behind the thought of righteous revenge-we need to talk with the Sentinel Marshals.”

“I do not understand. If you are relying on the Sentinel Marshals, why do you want the crowd excited?”

“Two reasons. The first is so that the Marshals feel the pressure. If they know that every face they meet on the street wants to see Torval avenged, they’re more likely to help. That way they’re less likely to pull some limpid sort of trick like they did at Thronehold, leaving the guilty to go free.”

“And what is the second reason?”

“I want the crowd personally involved. There’s nothing like a lynch mob to get a job done right. Once the crowd realizes they’re a part of the story, that they’re involved with history as it’s being written, they’ll get the revenge they all want, laws and Marshals notwithstanding.”

Four considered this. “Might not there be some casualties, if an angry mob were to attack the Marshals and House Orien?”

“Most assuredly,” said Minrah. “And that makes for an even more exciting story. We just have to make sure we keep ourselves safe. Come, Four. We’re off to see the Marshals.”

Cimozjen woke up with a groan. His head ached, an ugly taste had encamped in his mouth, and when he opened his eyes the world looked fuzzy.

He lay on his pallet bed, clothed and armored and very stiff. He’d been there for a while. He remembered defeating Tholog and, as he hadn’t wanted to face the guards with their electrified spears again, walking out of the arena with his weapons in hand. He’d gone back into his cage like a trained animal.

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.”