The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron by Edward Bolme Page B

sleep lightly.”
    Minrah paused in her step, her hand slipping from Cimozjen’s elbow. “Do soldiers actually steal from each other? That’s pathetic!”
    Cimozjen chuckled. “No, they do not. At least not in the Karrnathi army. Well, maybe once in a great while one will try, though I dare say that losing a right hand in the center of camp tends to discourage such activities. Yet soldiers will play pranks.”
    Minrah giggled as she caught back up and took his arm again. “Do they?”
    “Oh yes. Snoring, that’s the killer. It shows you’re heavily asleep. Plus at night, it can give away the location of your camp to an enemy scout, so no one ever truly regrets taking advantage of a snoring man while in the field. I remember one night w—uh, one or two soldiers shaved a general bald as he lay snoring in hisbed. Head and beard, cut to stubble. Left him with nothing but an X for his forelock.”
    “Did you ever get found out?”
    “Minrah, whatever makes you think it was me?”
    She laughed and tilted her head on his arm. “You said you remembered, not that someone told you. And I heard your little stutter. It was you and Torval, wasn’t it?”
    Cimozjen grinned. “In truth, it was. And, according to the general’s orderly, every night afterward he tied a strip of cloth around his head to hold his jaw closed.” He stopped and turned to impel her subtly toward the front door of the inn. “Here we are.”
    Minrah walked up to open the door but paused with her hand on the latch. “You understand that we’ll need a private room tonight. We shouldn’t have others poking around our affairs.” She drew in a breath through her nose. “Don’t carry him like a cord of wood, all right? Cradle him in your arms, and let his head rest on your shoulder. So which side of the door is the owner’s desk on?”
    “I do not remember,” said Cimozjen. “Does it matter?”
    “Of course,” said Minrah. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” She looked at Cimozjen, and he waited patiently for her to explain. “Look, we don’t want the innkeeper to see Torval’s face. Even a stone-cold drunk has more life in his face than he does. Hmm. Just hold him whichever way is more comfortable, and I’ll square him away. Whatever you do, don’t let him shift, or his head might flop down.”
    Cimozjen maneuvered Torval’s body into position, wincing as his wounds and knotted muscles protested the additional abuse. Minrah arranged Cimozjen’s longcoat about Torval’s body, unveiling his head, smoothing his hair somewhat but leaving his dead face concealed.
    “Right,” she said, “just head in and keep walking. Don’t stop. I’ll handle the rest, and I’ll be right behind you.”
    Minrah opened the door and Cimozjen stepped through. She scooted in right behind him, walking straight up to the owner. “I don’t mean to be rude, but our friend here pickled himself in a jugand decided he wanted to drink the river as a chaser. We’ll need a private room, a basin of hot water, and a pail as quickly as you can.” Even as she finished, she pressed a coin into the flustering innkeeper’s palm. “Let’s be quick about it, now, unless you want him to share what he’s been eating and drinking all evening!”
    She grabbed the lantern that sat on the desk with one hand and the innkeeper’s wrist with the other, pulling him along, following Cimozjen to the staircase that led to the rooms. “Quick, quick, which is the closest private room? The longer he’s carried around doubled up like that, the more likely it is that we’ll be squeezing everything out of him. Drunk as he is, that might mean both ends!”
    “The, uh, th-th-the, um, second door—third door! Third door on the left!”
    “Thank you!” said Minrah. She quickly ducked beneath Cimozjen’s elbow to the door and opened it for him. “A pail then!” she said. “Quickly! Maybe two!”
    The innkeeper rushed back downstairs as Cimozjen stepped into the room.