She purposely stepped into the path of a harried shopper and used the resulting exchange of insults as a distraction while she glanced surreptitiously behind her. There were many cloaked figures hurrying about, but none stood out as the cause of her unease.
Apologizing absently to the woman she’d bumped into, Sabira moved on, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched and followed.
She snuck glances back at every corner, but saw nothing. Still, the itchy sensation at the back of her neck refused to go away.
On a hunch, she detoured into the Jester’s Haunt, taking a right at The Rusty Nail. The road curved and then dead-ended; very few people had business here and it was the perfect place for an ambush. She slipped into a recessed doorway and pulled her urgrosh off of her back, waiting to see if someone else would follow her into the blind alley or if she was just being needlessly paranoid.
Long moments passed, and she was just getting ready to step out of the doorway when a cloaked figure paused in front of the Nail. The gray sunlight filtering through the clouds did not reach here between the close-huddled buildings, and as the figure stepped into shadow, he—she, it? Sabira couldn’t tell from this distance, but she had a gut feeling her stalker was male—moved to the side, presumably so that his eyes could adjust to the gloom. Then he started cautiously down the street, avoiding puddles and loose cobblestones that would give away his position. He was on her side of the alley, which meant she’d have only one chance to surprise him.
As silently as she could, she inched her way up the doorstep until she was standing with her back pressed up against the wood of the door, knees slightly bent to pounce. A tiny splash followed by a dripping sound and a soft curse alerted Sabira to her pursuer’s nearness, and she tensed. Whoever he was, he was obviously not native to Stormreach or he’d have known to avoid walking too close to the buildings during a downpour. Most had no rain gutters to speak of, and the chance of getting doused by roof runoff was at least as high as that of getting drenched in the street, and far more random. As her stalker had just discovered.
Well, that ruled out one of Sollego’s men come to collect early, or anyone from the Deneith enclave. She had time to wonder if she was simply dealing with a footpad who’d picked a most unwise target. And then he stepped in front of her hiding place, and it was time to act.
Even as Sabira sprang soundlessly from the doorstep, she realized there was something wrong about her hunter. Her low-centered leap should have taken him square in the stomach, knocking him backward and away, but instead she rammed hard into his shoulder just as he turned and saw her. As they crashed together onto the rain-slicked cobblestones, the man’s hood fell back, revealing the long braided beard and ruddy features of a dwarf.
They scrambled apart and Sabira gained her feet first. She lashed out, kicking him in the same shoulder she’d collided with and slamming him back down so hard that his head hit the street with an audible crack.
She placed one foot on his heaving chest and rested the dragonshard tip of her urgrosh over his heart.
“Now, dwarf, you’re going to tell me why you’ve been following me, or—”
“No, Saba, wait! Don’t!”
Elix?
Sabira looked up disbelievingly to see the Karrnathi Sentinel Marshal running down the street toward her, panic plain on his face. The dragonmark on his jaw glowed blue, blindingly bright in the shadows.
She shook her head, thinking for a moment that she had finally lost her mind and fallen headlong into the refuge of delusion. Then Elix—who was surely no specter, for what otherworldly apparition would drip sweat with every step?—clearly misreading the gesture, shouted again, and she felt a sharp stinging in her foot as a magical shield came into being around the dwarf’s inert form.
“Saba! Stop!”
What was Elix doing here? And why was he using his Mark of Sentinel to protect the dwarf?
Elix reached her side, panting, and Sabira looked from him to the dwarf and back again, pulling back her shard axe a hair’s breadth and no more.
“What are you doing here, Elix? And why in the name of Khyber are you protecting this dwarf? He’s a common cutpurse at best—maybe even a spy for the Aurum. Why would—”
“No, Saba,” Elix said with the throaty laugh she remembered so well. “He’s not any of those things. He’s the Mrorian Envoy to Karrnath. And he’s your next client.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mol, Nymm 9, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.
This day just kept getting better and better.
Sabira stepped off the dwarf and held out a hand to help him up, which he pointedly ignored. Climbing to his feet, the dwarf attempted to clean the mud from his cloak, succeeding only in dirtying his hands in the process. With a growl, he finally gave up and wiped his be-ringed hands fastidiously on his pants. Only when they were dry did he turn to face Elix.
“Captain. Perhaps the Sentinel Marshals aren’t the best people for this job, after all.”
Captain? When had that happened?
“Please, Your Excellency. Let’s go to Sentinels Tower, dry off, and discuss this over a snifter of Onatar’s Blood, shall we?”
Sabira didn’t know whose manner put her off more—the dwarf’s, full of ire and contempt, or Elix’s, oozing suavity and placation. What had happened to him?
“Very well,” the dwarf sniffed after a moment, casting a dark look at Sabira.
“Good,” Elix replied, his relief almost palpable. “We’ll meet there at, say, the third bell?”
“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” the dwarf responded impatiently. “I will be there. Provided I am not attacked on the way to my rooms.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode down the street and out of sight.
“What’s he got to be mad about?” Sabira muttered, returning her shard axe to its harness. “He’s the one who was following me.”
“Saba.” Elix put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. The sun chose that moment to break through the cloud cover, brightening the gloom and making his face shine. “Let me look at you! Host, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen you!”
He pulled her into a rough hug, burying his face in her wet hair. “Too long,” he murmured softly, before releasing her and stepping back.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Sabira said and meant it. And it was. Just not here. Not now. “So, do you want to tell me what a Mrorian Envoy is doing stalking me through the streets of Stormreach? Or what you’re doing here? Or, for that matter, when you got promoted to captain and what happened to Jayce?”
Elix’s laugh was rueful.
“I’ll explain everything back at the House enclave. For now, let’s just get out of this rain, shall we?”
“I don’t think so, Elix.”
He cocked an amused eyebrow at her.
“So you like being sopping wet? That’s new.”
“I’m serious.”
His easy smile faltered, replaced by a look of confused concern.
“What is it, Saba? What’s wrong?”
“I’m guessing you two have been following me since I left the Phiarlan enclave. If you found me there, then you know why I was there. Because I’m not welcome at our enclave.”
Elix frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
Sabira shook her head in exasperation.
“You mean they didn’t tell you?”
He gave her that apologetic shrug she used to find so annoying when she was his training officer, back when they were both still members of the Defender’s Guild. It didn’t bother her now; she’d changed too much. So had he, it seemed, in ways she couldn’t yet begin to fathom.
“Tell me what?”
Sabira took a deep breath, unable for a moment to form the words. It was one thing saying them to Greigur, whom she’d known for only a year and whose opinion was of little concern to her. It was another thing entirely to say them to Elix, who was not only her p
rotégé but Leoned’s cousin. And a dear friend. She could only imagine his disappointment.
It might actually rival her own.
“Elix. I resigned my commission and gave up my brooch. I’m not a Marshal anymore.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”
Sabira stared at him, openmouthed.
“What? Then why—?”
“Please, Saba. I told you I’d explain everything, and I will. Just not here, in the middle of the street, with Host knows who listening in.” He took her arm and guided her, unresisting, out of the alley and back into the light.
Sabira sat in a comfortable chair before the fire, her cloak drying on the hearth while she warmed her feet and sipped Onatar’s Blood from a short-stemmed glass. She and Elix were alone in one of the private sitting rooms in Sentinels Tower, waiting for the Mrorian Envoy to arrive. In addition to the two high-backed chairs by the fireplace, which were separated by a small table, the thickly carpeted chamber held another, much longer table surrounded by somewhat less comfortable seats. Bookcases filled with heavy tomes of law and military history lined one wall, and a crystal-fronted cabinet holding an array of decanters full of various potent libations rested against the opposite wall. Twin maps of Xen’drik and Khorvaire hung above it, and detailed depictions of each of the Five Nations graced the other two walls—though Cyre’s map was, of course, sadly outdated.
“So … when did you become captain?” she asked when it seemed clear Elix wasn’t inclined to talk, let alone explain what either of them was doing there.
He looked at her for a long moment over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable. The smiling Elix from the Jester’s Haunt had disappeared—if, in fact, he had ever been more than a public mask put on for the envoy’s benefit.
“I sent you a letter,” he finally responded, his voice utterly without inflection.
She winced at that. He’d sent her several letters over the years, via other Marshals, Defenders, Blademarks, anyone who might be traveling west of the Brey River who’d have reason to stop by the nearest Marshal outpost. Sometimes she didn’t get them for months after they were sent—once it had even taken two years for his message to catch up with her. But he always seemed to have a general idea of where she was going to be, and when she least expected it, there’d be a letter waiting for her along with her fee when she brought someone in.
She’d stopped reading them years ago, soon after he’d made Marshal. It was just too painful watching him follow in the footsteps Leoned should have taken.
“I move around a lot,” she said by way of apology.
“Apparently.”
Then he shrugged, as if to say her years-long silence didn’t matter to him anymore—and maybe, after all this time, it really didn’t. The thought hurt more than she cared to admit.
“I became captain about the same time you left Khorvaire. A Lyrandar heir went missing in the Blade Desert—a member of the Raincaller’s Guild. Esravash, the House matriarch, wanted the Marshals on it. Since Vulyar has the closest outpost, it fell to me, Jayce, and another Marshal I don’t think you know, Tabeth d’Sark.” He paused for a moment, gazing into the fire, remembering. As she watched him, Sabira couldn’t help but notice how much he looked like his cousin. He had Leoned’s strong jaw and wavy hair, though his eyes were light where Ned’s had been dark. And of course there was the dragonmark; Leoned’s had been on his lower back, where few ever saw it.
“We lost Tabeth to a Valenar war party on the way down and Jayce … Jayce stayed behind to create a diversion so I could get the Lyrandar to safety.” He looked up at her then, his mouth twisted in an unexpectedly bitter smile. “They promoted me after that, thanks in no small part to Esravash’s … generosity. But, then, you know how that is.”
She did, indeed.
Sabira hesitated to offer her congratulations; she didn’t think he’d want them, all things considered. But she felt she should say something—let him know she was proud of him, at least. That Leoned would have been proud. But as she opened her mouth to speak, a knock sounded on the door.
“Ah. That must be our guest.”
They both stood and Elix crossed over to the doorway, glass still in hand.
“Envoy Mountainheart,” he said warmly as he opened the door. “Please come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The envoy strode past Elix in what was no doubt intended to be a dramatic huff, but Sabira thought it just made him look like a bit of a fop. The basket-hilted rapier he wore at his side only added to that image, but she knew better than to judge a fighter by his arms. She’d once seen a dwarf swordsman in Frostmantle use the needle-thin point of his rapier to pin a fly to a cutpurse’s eye with one hand while downing a mug of highale with the other. Any weapon was dangerous in the hands of a dwarf, even one as puffed up and self-important as this Mountainheart.
“Please be seated,” Elix said.
Sabira, who’d trailed him to the door, did so immediately, wishing she’d thought to fill her glass again before the envoy had entered. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
As if privy to her thoughts, Elix crossed over to the cabinet and set the decanter of Blood on a tray, along with his own glass and a second, larger snifter, the kind traditionally used to imbibe the potent drink back in the Holds. The snifter was larger than a typical wine glass, and was specially crafted to keep the liquid inside at the same temperature as actual blood, since dwarves preferred the spirit served warm.
While Elix readied their drinks, Mountainheart stood by his chair, unwilling to sit before the Marshal did. Sabira wasn’t surprised—it was a common dwarven diplomatic ploy. By being the last to sit, the dwarf ensured he would be, if only for a moment, the tallest person in the room. Since many races equated size with power, the shorter-statured dwarves thus subtly gave notice that they, too, were a race to be reckoned with. Just in case the axes on their backs weren’t convincing enough.
Sabira took the opportunity to scrutinize the dwarf a little more closely. Mountainheart wore reds and browns, but the earthy hues had little significance other than to show his own personal taste. While the various dwarven clans did have familial colors, just as the dragonmarked Houses did, any given dwarf had ties to so many clans and their affiliated families that wearing livery would be pointless.
Dwarves used other means to signal their loyalties, such as their beard regalia, though it was extremely rare to see them wearing the customary ornamentation outside of the Holds. Even here in the dwarven enclave—called Coasthold by some, in deference to the original thirteen Holds—use of the regalia was virtually unknown. Sabira had to wonder why Mountainheart had chosen to wear it now. It had to be for her benefit. She doubted Elix understood the significance.
The carved metal and gemstone beads woven into the braids of a dwarf’s beard served as a complete biography for anyone who knew how to read the signs. Mountainheart, for instance, wore symbols for both the Tordannon and Mroranon clans and House Kundarak, as well as for many of their affiliated families. Other beads were battle tokens, proving that he was just as capable with that rapier as Sabira had supposed. His beard also boasted a smattering of civic bibelots that could indicate anything from brokering a particularly lucrative business deal for his clan to finessing some delicate diplomatic situation—though, given his behavior thus far, Sabira somehow doubted he’d received many accolades for the latter.
And one bead, a faceted platinum bauble set dead center in the middle of his beard, indicated he’d recently been married, though the union had yet to produce any children. That surprised Sabira. The months—and sometimes years—following a dwarven wedding were usually spent trying to produce an heir, a practice that harkened back far into the dwarves’ history on the icy continent of Frostfell, where cold, predators, and tribal rivalries killed them off faster than they could be born. It was rare to see a newlywed outside of the Holds, unless some dire need drew him or her away from home.
&
nbsp; Whatever else Mountainheart’s task for her might be, it was obviously extremely important to him. Which meant his comment about not using the Marshals for this job had been a bluff. Good to know.
Of course, since she wasn’t actually a Marshal anymore—a fact Elix evidently had not shared with him—she wasn’t sure how much good that knowledge would do her.
But she’d play along with Elix’s little charade, for the brandy, if nothing else. At least for now.
Elix returned and sat before refilling Sabira’s drink and passing Mountainheart’s snifter over to him. The tactic allowed the envoy his momentary height advantage and showed that the new captain was perhaps more familiar with dwarven idiosyncrasies than Sabira had given him credit for.
“Onatar’s Blood, Your Excellency? I could probably dig up some Frostmantle Fire, if you’d prefer, but they don’t seem to have any stocked.”
Mountainheart waved the suggestion away as he took his seat.
“Hate the stuff. The ironspice makes me break out in spots.”
Elix smiled politely and raised his glass.
“To rich veins, then,” he said, inclining his head to Mountainheart.
“And richer coffers,” the dwarf replied, completing the traditional dwarven toast for the start of a successful business venture. He raised his own snifter and looked expectantly at Sabira, who was momentarily riveted by the silver rings he wore on each finger.
She hadn’t dealt with the Aurum since leaving the Holds, and now she’d met two of its members in the span of a single day? That couldn’t be a coincidence.
After a pause long enough to be just shy of insulting, Sabira lifted her glass. The three drank in unison, though while Mountainheart and Elix only sipped their drinks, Sabira downed half of hers in two quick swallows.
The heady warmth tingled on her tongue and burned her throat, but it wasn’t even close to enough to get her intoxicated—not after her recent binge on Bor’s Bog. Thankfully, it was enough to loosen a knot or two in her neck, which was probably the most she could hope for, under the circumstances.
The Shard Axe: An Eberron Novel (Dungeons & Dragons) Page 6
