Skein of Shadows (dungeons and dragons) Page 4

  “Turn it over.”

  Sabira did. On the back was an inscription, with a date.

  It was the final couplet from Theodon Dorn’s popular poem, “The Marshal and the Maiden.” Every Deneith knew it, and could recite it by heart, especially the last two stanzas:

  The Marshal saw that time had fled

  And though she pleaded and implored

  Tears cutting worse than any sword

  “Farewell, my heart,” was all he said

  She knew then in her deepest core

  He was Deneith, trueborn and bred

  And even if they one day wed

  He’d always love his duty more

  But Sabira saw that some of the words had been changed, and they altered the meaning considerably:

  He swore that if they one day wed

  He’d never love his duty more

  Below the two lines had been inscribed a month and a year. Aryth, 991 YK. The same month Ned’s remembrance service had been held, in this very house. Where Sabira had embarrassed herself by getting very, very drunk and Elix had taken her to his rooms so she could sleep it off before she could do something she’d wind up regretting. Only she’d wound up in his bed with him instead, and had fled Karrnath the next morning, unable to face either Ned’s death or Elix’s need.

  He’d likely commissioned the betrothal bracelet that very day, not realizing she wouldn’t be coming back for another seven long years. In ’91-two years before he even met Tabeth.

  She raised her eyes up to his and the fear she saw there nearly choked her.

  “Tabeth was beautiful and strong, a credit to the Marshals, and I will admit I was attracted to her-but only because she reminded me of you. I almost kissed her, once, at some function we had here. That’s what my father was talking about-he saw that part. He didn’t see what happened after I called her by your name.”

  Sabira snorted, amused in spite of herself.

  “You couldn’t walk for a week?”

  “Or see out of my left eye,” he said ruefully.

  With a laugh, Sabira leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, a familiar and welcome warmth spreading through her as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close.

  “That’s nothing compared to what I would have done to you,” she murmured after a moment.

  “Promises, promises.”

  “Ahem.”

  Sabira pulled back reluctantly and turned to look over at the doorway where Wilhelm’s steward stood, looking decidedly embarrassed.

  “Your pardon, Captain, Marshal, but there’s a coach here waiting to take Sabira to the docking tower.”

  Breven certainly hadn’t wasted any time.

  “Tell them I’ll be right out.”

  She turned back to Elix.

  “You be careful in Thrane. To them, you’ll always be a Karrn first and a Marshal second. And we all know how much they hate anything Karrnathi.” Which made his being summoned there by the Keeper of the Flame-the head of the Church of the Silver Flame herself-all the more unusual, and all the harder to refuse. Though he’d tried, when he’d learned of Breven’s plans for her. He’d wanted to cancel the trip and go with her to Xen’drik instead, but the Baron had expressly forbidden him to do so. The needs of the House came first. As always.

  “You, as well.”

  Sabira carefully replaced the mithral bracelet back in its box and handed it Elix, who took it reluctantly, the question he wasn’t willing to voice plain in his gaze.

  “Keep that safe for me, won’t you?”

  His relief was almost palpable, and his smile could have outshone the sun.

  “Always.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK

  Sharn, Breland.

  Sabira reached the City of Towers four days later. Normally, the journey from Vulyar didn’t take that long by air, but the crew of the Cantrip had refused to fly over the dead gray mists of the Mournland, opting instead to follow along its northern edge until they reached Thronehold, then bearing southwest from there. Irritating as the delay was, the annoyance was somewhat counterbalanced by the knowledge that even Breven couldn’t compete with the power of superstition.

  It was late afternoon when she arrived, but she’d already been able to see the lights of the city for miles. Located in the middle of a manifest zone linked to the plane of Syrania, the Azure Sky, which enhanced magic related to flying and levitation, the city grew to impossible heights, reaching from the Cogs deep underground to the floating island district of Skyway, home to the wealthy and powerful. And every level was lit up by everbright lanterns that had been twisted into fantastical shapes to advertise both business and pleasure, the riotous colors making the city look like a crystal sparkling in the sunlight. Either that, or a floating oil slick. Sabira could never quite decide.

  Sharn was situated on a series of five plateaus bounded on two sides by rivers and on the other two sides by cliffs. It was divided into districts not only by plateau, but also by height. Sabira was supposed to meet Lord Boroman ir’Dayne, the head of the Wayfinder Foundation, at the foundation’s office in Korran-Thiven, one of the many financial districts in Upper Central Plateau. The Cantrip docked nearby, in Highest Towers, and Sabira disembarked, trying to orient herself amidst the tall buildings. Before she’d done more than identify north, a gnomish boy came running up to her, envelope in hand.

  “You the Shard Axe?”

  Host. Could she escape that name nowhere?

  At her short nod, the boy handed the envelope over, then stood by expectantly, obviously waiting for a tip. Sabira dug in her pouch, found a copper crown based on feel alone, and flipped it to him. From the boy’s frown, it was clear he was used to more from customers in the wealthy upper city, but a glare sent him scurrying without complaint. Considering the Sivis message station was just around the corner, he was lucky she hadn’t sent him scurrying with a boot to his rear.

  She opened the envelope and read the short message.

  Saba,

  I found you a partner for your expedition. Meet him at the Glitterdust around the sixth bell. He’ll be the one fleecing the customers at the card table. Try to make sure you’re not one of them.

  — Agg

  Wonderful. After having most of Arach d’Kundarak’s men arrested for drug smuggling on her way from Stormreach to the Mror Holds, the last place in Sharn she wanted to go was the Glitterdust, where members of the dwarf’s crew often spent their shore leave. While she was sure most of the crew of the Dust Dancer were still in custody, Arach was a member of the Aurum’s Gold Concord. He had the resources to replace men faster than they could be apprehended. He probably already had a new airship and a new supply of dreamlily to peddle. And a bounty on Sabira’s head worth twice what he paid for both.

  Still, unlike Tilde, she wasn’t going to be able to go into Tarath Marad with a contingent of hand-picked Blademarks-not that it had done the sorceress any good. If she knew Breven, she wasn’t going to be able to rely on anyone from Deneith at all; the Baron wouldn’t want to risk Greigur’s involvement. Which meant Sabira was going to need all the help she could get, and she couldn’t afford to be too picky about details like who they were or where they came from. Or where they wanted to meet.

  By her reckoning, that gave her about an hour to get down to Deathsgate, an unremarkable adventurer’s quarter in Middle Tavick’s Landing. Unremarkable, save for the Glitterdust, nestled under the massive Bridge of Giants that connected the district to the necropolis of Haldren’s Tomb. Though the rest of the quarter served the lower class inhabitants of the district, the Glitterdust catered exclusively to those with far heavier pouches. She could only hope Aggar or the mysterious unnamed partner had thought to put her on the guest list, since she didn’t have enough coin on her to bribe her way in, and the Glitterdust didn’t take letters of credit.

  She hailed a skycoach, one of Sharn’s graceful boatlike vessels that sailed through the city’s airways, lit from with
in and without by glowing blue everbright globes. She gave the driver her destination, ignoring the skeptical look he gave her in return. Sabira knew she was hardly dressed for the place, but she had a fashion accessory he didn’t know about, if it came down to that.

  As they descended into the city, the ubiquitous rain began again. It wasn’t actual precipitation, of course-only Skyway and the upper city ever got that. No, the rain experienced in the middle and lower levels of Sharn was actually runoff from the upper wards-brackish water that flowed down daily when the streets of the wealthy were cleaned, dousing those below so that those above wouldn’t have to risk dirtying their expensive shoes. Sabira knew there were other, architectural reasons for the false rain, but she wasn’t an architect, so she didn’t really care to learn them. She was just grateful for the charm that kept the inside of the skycoach dry and warm and somewhat free of the urban cacophony as the vessel threaded its way between other coaches and lifts, thin gaps between towers, and even the occasional gargoyle or griffin.

  Residents of the City of Towers often joked that it took about an hour to get wherever you were going in the city, regardless of whether it was from one district to its neighbor or from Skyway to the Cogs. The truth of the matter was, of course, that it took however long the coach drivers decided it was going to take, and an hour was about what most people were willing to pay for before they started getting unruly.

  Sure enough, the sixth bell was sounding throughout the city as the driver pulled up near the Bridge of Giants. Having lived in Xen’drik, which had once been the home to actual giants, Sabira always found the grandiose title of the massive stone edifice amusing. It might be large by human standards, but it would have been dwarfed beside a true relic of the Age of Giants, like the statue of the Emperor that stood guard over the Stormreach harbor.

  Digging out gold from her pouch this time, Sabira stepped off the coach and was immediately enveloped in a fine mist that smelled vaguely of feet. She hurried over to the spiral wrought-iron staircase under the bridge and wound her way down, the wail of shardhorns and the scent of Thunderherder bacon rising up to greet her before she’d made it halfway.

  The door to the club was guarded by hobgoblins in ornate armor, but the blades at their sides were practical enough, and Sabira found one pointed at the middle of her chest before she could so much as open her mouth.

  “Name?”

  She knew from experience that this wasn’t the greeting most of the club’s clientele got, but then most of them didn’t look like they’d gotten lost on their way down to the slums of Lower Dura, either.

  “Sabira Lyet d’Deneith.”

  The hobgoblin who’d kept his sword sheathed made a show of looking at the list he held in one clawed hand, but it was clear he had no intention of letting her in, whether her name was on it or not.

  “Sorry. Better luck next time.”

  Sabira gave the green-skinned oaf her most provocative smile.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to get inside?” she asked, tossing her coppery hair over her shoulder coyly and licking her lips.

  The bouncer with the list snorted indelicately, but the one with the sword lowered it an inch or two to get a better look, his fanged mouth widening in a lascivious grin.

  “Show me what you’ve got under that shirt and we’ll see.”

  Sabira’s smile widened.

  “Oh, I was so hoping you’d say that.”

  She reached slowly for the top laces of the simple tunic she wore over her armor. The moment the hobgoblin’s eyes focused there instead of on her other hand, she slapped his blade away and was inside his guard, her urgrosh out of its harness and its Siberys shard spear tip pressed up against the hobgoblin’s throat. Then she carefully pulled her Marshal’s brooch from underneath her armor, making sure the light of the club’s everbright lanterns caught its enameled surface so there was no missing the Deneith chimera it bore.

  She held it up on its leather cord so the other bouncer could see it as well.

  “I’m thinking maybe you might want to check the list again?”

  The other hobgoblin didn’t even bother glancing at the paper in his hand. He pushed the club door open and waved her in.

  “Welcome to the Glitterdust, Marshal. Enjoy your stay.”

  Inside, the club was divided into two distinct areas. On the left was a dim dining area filled with wealthy patrons busily feasting on all manner of delicacies prepared by the House Ghallanda chef that the club’s owner kept on retainer. In addition to the Glitterdust’s signature bacon-wrapped shrimp, Sabira could make out the aromas of roast threehorn from the Talenta Plains, honeyed chicken in panya leaves, and even the distinct tang of dwarven ironspice drifting up from something that looked like it might once have been an alligator. But as tempting as the club’s menu was, Sabira turned her attention to the right and the lounge.

  Even more poorly lit than the restaurant, the lounge boasted leather-upholstered booths and tables, a large dance floor already filled to overflowing and a stage on which the gnome Hart Brantby was currently performing with his band, the Jumping Horns. Luminous red and purple glitter snowed steadily from the unseen ceiling and in the sparkling light, Sabira searched for the card tables.

  Though the Glitterdust didn’t officially sanction gambling, players in the know could always find a game here. Sabira had played here herself, and won big more than once. But tonight she was more interested in the players than the stakes.

  She found two tables in the corner of the lounge farthest from the stage. At one, three elves were playing a game of Elements with the corresponding four-suited deck. Though it was popular among dabblers, true gamblers preferred the more challenging five-suited games, like her own personal favorite, Jarot’s Bluff.

  The players at the second table were engaged in a regional variant of the game that involved progressive betting. It was a particularly aggressive form of Jarot’s Bluff that could yield enormous pots in a very short amount of time-and equally enormous losses. Breven’s letter of credit weighed heavy in her pack as she felt the familiar itch to join in the game, but she fought the urge, contenting herself with examining the players instead, wondering which of them could be Aggar’s friend.

  None of them were dwarves, which made identifying the likely candidate a bit more challenging. Two of the players-humans-had respectable stacks in front of them, and a third-a female shifter-was not far behind. The last two players at the table, a gnome and a smallish warforged, looked like they only had half-a-dozen antes left between them.

  As she focused on the two humans, trying not to draw any unwanted attention to herself, someone jostled her, and her hand closed reflexively around her pouch. She turned to see a heavily-muscled half-orc whose tattoos, ritual scarring, and mohawk identified him as a member of the Jhorash’tar clan from the Ironroots.

  He was eyeing her shard axe with a derisive look.

  “Funny,” he said, somehow managing not to lisp around those oversized tusks. “You don’t look like a dwarf.”

  “Funny,” she replied in kind. “ You do.”

  Implying that a dwarf might have mated with an orc was an insult so profound to both races that she was lucky there were no dwarves within range to hear it. As it was, the half-orc’s eyes went red, and she barely dodged the fist he sent sailing at her mouth.

  So much for keeping a low profile.

  She responded with a kick to the half-orc’s knee, which he couldn’t quite twist far enough to avoid, and she followed it up with an elbow to his jaw which probably hurt her more than it did him. As she shook her arm to relieve the shooting pain, the patrons at the surrounding tables scrambled away, going just far enough not to get hit by any bodily fluids. Sabira could already hear bets circulating; the Jhorash’tar was a ten-to-one favorite.

  “You’ll pay for that, you Karrnathi whore,” the half-orc growled, spitting a mouthful of blood at her feet. Nice to see she’d done some damage, after all. Unfortunately, she didn
’t really have time for a bar brawl, as fun as it might be to teach this buffoon some manners and watch a score of pampered nobles lose money because they were stupid enough to bet against her.

  With a regretful sigh, she flashed her brooch.

  “That’s ‘Sentinel Marshal Karrnathi whore’ to you,” she said brightly as a groan of disappointment went up from the gathering crowd. “So unless you want to spend the rest of the night in some dank little cell that smells like piss, with a roommate who probably smells worse, I’d suggest you go find someone else to lavish with your oh-so-considerable charms.”

  The half-orc actually looked like he was considering his options for a moment, so she casually reached behind her and unharnessed her urgrosh.

  “Do you have any idea what it takes for a human to be awarded one of these? No? Do you really want to find out?”

  The half-orc bared his teeth at her in frustration, but as she watched, the scarlet hue slowly faded from his eyes. Apparently he took after his human side when it came to brains, because he shook his head once then turned and stomped toward the dance floor, shoving a hapless waiter out of his way as he went.

  As people returned to their tables and small pouches of coin changed hands, Sabira heard the sound of light applause behind her. She turned to see a male dwarf with a wild tangle of blond hair, a short, neatly trimmed beard and piercing brown eyes. He wore a blue silk shirt, its bloused sleeves rolled up to display the corded muscles of a master smith, though Sabira highly doubted that was the smug-looking dwarf’s true occupation. One wrist boasted a finely wrought golden band studded with tiny silver charms. At his waist was a similarly-crafted scabbard bearing the Kundarak manticore, though the hilt emerging from it was strangely curved, with a flask of some type of glowing liquid built into its pommel. Sabira regarded him curiously as she replaced her shard axe in its harness, her not-so-subtle way of telling him she didn’t regard him as a threat.