As the kobold scrambled off to do his bidding, Thecla looked over at Elix.
“So, tell me, Captain. What’s a Marshal like you doing working for the Aurum and protecting the interests of a drug runner like Arach?” He jerked his bald head in Sabira’s direction. “Her, I can understand; she has a reputation. But you? You don’t get to be a captain of the Sentinel Marshals by flaunting the law.”
Elix shrugged, that same apologetic shrug Sabira knew so well.
“What can I say? Men are fools when they’re in love.”
Thecla grunted.
“Isn’t that the truth?” he muttered. Then, seemingly satisfied, he motioned for his men to stand down. Hotch returned with a chest full of healing potions and other medicines, and Sabira knelt down to hold Mountainheart’s head while the kobold popped corks and poured. But her mind wasn’t on the dwarf; it was on Elix’s words. Try as she might, she just couldn’t tell. Had he meant what he said, or had he still been playing the game?
Once some color had returned to Mountainheart’s face and his breathing was somewhat less labored, Sabira allowed the crew members from the Inheritance to take him down to what was supposed to have been her cabin to rest, giving them strict instructions to take turns sleeping and not to leave him alone, even for a moment. Thecla might have bought her story for now, but she didn’t trust the dwarf not to try something, and she couldn’t be everywhere at once.
“So,” Irlen said, walking back up toward the wheel. “Where to?”
Sabira favored him with a pitying smile.
“What, tell you now so Thecla can just kill us all and claim some ‘unfortunate but unpreventable’ calamity? I don’t think so. For now, just head toward Taer Valaestas.”
“Valenar? There’s no market for dreamlily there!”
“Exactly.”
The next few days passed in a blur of paranoid exhaustion. Either she or Elix was always with Irlen at the helm, making sure the half-elf didn’t decide to take some unauthorized detour. They traded off in six-hour shifts, sleeping in the crowded cabin with Mountainheart and the others when they weren’t on deck. They ate out of their own stores, only supplementing with communal food and water that they’d seen the Dust Dancer’s crew consuming. It was a tense, boring trip, with no opportunity for anything resembling a real conversation between them, a fact that both relieved and vexed Sabira. Part of her wanted to question Elix about the truth of what he’d said to Thecla, and part of her just didn’t want to know.
When they were still a little less than a day out from the capital of Valenar, Sabira told Irlen to start bearing northward.
“Atur?” he guessed. “Krona Peak? You’re going to run out of viable cities sooner or later, and then we won’t have to guess where we’re headed. Then what?”
She just smiled in reply and shrugged.
“Wait and see.”
But the truth was that she had no idea.
That is, until Hotch handed her one on a wooden platter the very next day.
They’d been skirting the edge of the dead-gray mist that rose up from the Mournland and had just started out over the open water of Lake Cyre when Elix relieved her at the helm. She headed down to the galley in search of some food before trying to squeeze in a few hours of sleep. The kobold was there, serving up some sort of pungent soup to the crew. As she got closer, she recognized the distinctive aroma of ironspice.
“Give me four bowls,” she said. “And don’t spit in them this time, if you know what’s good for you.”
It was impossible to tell if the kobold blanched under that sickly green skin, but he hurried to comply, dishing up four bowls with nary a slosh and placing them on an ornate darkwood tray.
“As Lady say! Friend of Arach is friend of Hotch!”
Sabira just rolled her eyes. She took the platter and walked carefully back to the too-small cabin she shared with the others. By the time she got there, her eyes were watering from the strength of the spice and she had the glimmerings of an idea.
She passed out the bowls to the crewmen of the ill-fated Inheritance—Demos, the Deneith ballista operator, and Ari, a new recruit fresh out of Rekkenmark—then gulped down a few quick spoonfuls herself before setting her bowl aside and tending to Mountainheart.
The dwarf had yet to regain consciousness, though his color was good and his breathing even. Probably a good thing, considering what Sabira was about to do to him.
She held his head up with one arm and carefully spooned the ironspice soup into his mouth, stroking his throat after each bite to stimulate the swallowing reflex. She fed him about half the bowl that way, then laid him carefully back down on the cot and returned to her own soup, waiting.
She’d just finished the last mouthful when the spots began to appear, first around his mouth and then spreading rapidly to the rest of his body. His skin turned flush and he began to sweat profusely. She said nothing, waiting for one of the others to notice.
Ari was the first to see it.
“What’s wrong with Orin?” he asked in alarm, setting down his bowl and hurrying over to the dwarf’s side.
Sabira made a show of coming over to examine him then turned to look at the others gravely.
“You’d better go get Thecla. Tell him Mountainheart’s been poisoned.”
The first mate was, predictably, not happy about being summoned away from his own meal.
“What is it now? Has Arach now decided we need to fly up to Dravago or one of the other twelve moons to deliver his cargo?”
Sabira bit her lip to keep from snorting. If she broke character now, the dwarf would weight them down and toss them overboard, cheering along with his whole crew when they sank forever beneath the dark lake waters.
“Funny. No, we need to stop at the nearest city. Orin’s been poisoned, and he needs the antidote soon or his death is going to be on your hands.”
Thecla scoffed. “Poison? Dragon Above, woman, but you’ve got an imagination! Why would I bother poisoning him when I could just have the lot of you thrown over the rail and let the carvers and the threehorns take care of you?”
“I didn’t say it was you who poisoned him. It could have been anybody on this ship. It could even have happened back in Stormreach for all I know—the poison could have been magically altered not to activate for a certain number of days to throw off suspicion. I don’t know how, or who, or why, but I do know dwarfbane when I see it, and I know he’ll be dead within a day if we don’t get him help.”
Thecla goggled, taking an involuntary step backward. “Dwarfbane?” One of the few poisons that could fell a dwarf in his tracks, the lethal substance was as rare as a Flamer with a sense of humor. “How do you—?”
“I was working as a Defender in the Holds during the Last War, Thecla. Believe me, I’ve handled enough poison to make a living as an assassin if I really wanted to. I know what the last stage of dwarfbane poisoning looks like, and this is it.”
Well, minus the spots and the flush, and add in a fever, but close enough.
“We’re near Gatherhold—”
“I said ‘city.’ Gatherhold’s nothing but a House Ghallanda inn and a bunch of tents. They’re not going to know how to handle dwarfbane.” She surreptitiously jabbed a finger into Mountainheart’s gut, eliciting a small moan from the unconscious dwarf. “No. It has to be Vulyar. And soon.”
Thecla frowned, obviously displeased by this new development but unable to see a way out of stopping.
“Very well. I’ll let Irlen know.”
It was laughably easy after that. They docked in Vulyar early the next morning and she and Elix carried Mountainheart off the ship on one of the Dust Dancer’s life rings, just to make sure Thecla didn’t get any crazy ideas about leaving while they saw to the envoy’s healing. After making sure Mountainheart got to the House Jorasco enclave, she and Elix returned to the Dancer with two dozen House Deneith soldiers and placed the entire crew under arrest, confiscating the dreamlily and the dragonshards in the name of
Baron Breven.
As Thecla was led down the gangplank in manacles, he stopped to spit at Sabira’s feet. “I knew you were lying. I should have gutted you when I had the chance.”
“A lot of people make that mistake.”
“Arach will have you hunted to the farthest corners of Eberron for this.”
Sabira gave him her fakest look of sympathy. “Oh, and you really believe that, too, don’t you? I guess it is easier than admitting your employer betrayed you.”
She leaned close, as if to whisper in his ear, but she made no effort to keep his crew from overhearing her next words.
“Just some advice: The next time you decide to stick your hook in your boss’s coffers, try to leave the rest of the boys out of it, hmm? No reason they should have to suffer for your greed.”
Angry murmurs came from the prisoners as Sabira’s words were passed down the line, undeterred by the dwarf’s loud protestations of innocence.
Sabira motioned for the guards to keep them moving, then turned to Elix, who was regarding her with an odd look of disapproval and admiration.
“What? I’d been lying to him the whole trip. Why start being honest now?”
CHAPTER NINE
Sul, Nymm 15, 998 YK
Vulyar, Karrnath.
Back at Vulyar’s Sentinel Marshal headquarters, the first thing Sabira did was commandeer a room and ask for a bath to be drawn. Only after she’d scrubbed the last traces of yrthak blood out of her hair and changed into the clothes she’d been saving for Krona Peak did she wander back down to the captain’s office.
Elix’s office.
Even empty, the room was warm and inviting in a way Greigur’s hadn’t been, with a small fireplace and two high-backed chairs holding court before it. Between them sat a table that bore an ornate Conqueror board. Beside the hearth was a small door that likely led to a bedchamber, but after what had happened in Stormreach, she wasn’t about to try and confirm that guess. The mantle and the walls on either side of the chimney were adorned with souvenirs from the places he’d traveled. A pirate flag won from some ship in the Lhazaar Principalities, a set of matched Talenta boomerangs, an obsidian dagger she imagined came from Q’barra, even an old Cyran spyglass, though whether it was from pre- or post-Mourning Cyre, she couldn’t say.
A round window took up most of one wall, giving a view of the Deneith enclave across the wide cobbles of Conqueror’s Road. Sabira could see the familiar yellow and green pennants flapping in the stiff wind. That sight, more than any other, brought home the fact that she was back in Vulyar, in Karrnath, where she had sworn never to return. She looked away quickly before the thought could make her sick.
A large, cluttered desk with a third, purely utilitarian chair dominated the rest of the room. Behind it stood a set of shelves that held more dust than books. A quick perusal showed no volumes of poetry; that was a side of himself Elix liked to keep private, it seemed. Probably a wise choice, considering his position.
And given pride of place on the wall opposite his desk, where he could not help but see it hundreds of times a day, was Ned’s naked sword, polished to a brightness that bespoke daily attention.
Sabira stared at the weapon, thrust suddenly back to the last day she’d seen it, unable, here in this mausoleum of memory, to deny the past she’d been trying so very hard to forget.…
Zor, Sypheros 26, 991 YK
Frostmantle, Mror Holds.
She and Leoned sat on a bench outside the heavily warded and isolated cottage where they were hiding Aggar. They’d moved him here after two of Toldorath’s scions were murdered in their own heavily guarded family home and another was killed inside a Deneith safehouse. Aggar was the sole heir to a large portion of Tordannonhold, and the clan was taking no chances with his safety.
They’d been sent to the Holds almost a year ago to protect the young dwarf. It wasn’t an unusual assignment for the neutral Defender’s Guild; throughout the Last War, kidnappings and assassination attempts on members of the dwarven Iron Council and their families had become commonplace. Usually the bodyguard stint only lasted a few months, until either the threat was removed or the assassination was successfully carried out, which happened with far more regularity than House Deneith cared to admit. But it was a difficult and thankless task; the dwarves wanted the aid of the Defender’s Guild but still considered the Deneith warriors outsiders and were frequently as much of a hindrance as a help. Sabira and Leoned had been more fortunate than most in that regard. They’d been in the Holds long enough that they were starting to gain acceptance, which made watching over their charge that much easier. “Easier” being relative, of course, considering that Aggar didn’t particularly want to be guarded.
The wily dwarf spent as much time dodging her and Leoned as he did avoiding his clan’s enemies—or he had, anyway, until Nightshard showed up. An assassin of unknown affiliation who seemed to be targeting the families of influential clan members within the southern holds, Nightshard had slain more than a dozen dwarves since midsummer. Sporting two dragonshard rings, the assassin had been dubbed “Nightshard” by the one Defender who’d actually gotten close enough to attack him, and the name had stuck. He had so far defeated everything they’d thrown against him, including the combined protections of Houses Deneith and Kundarak. Even this cottage, which had more security than some palaces she’d seen, might not be enough to stop him.
“Olarune is full tonight,” Leoned remarked, looking up into the dark velvet sky to see the pale orange moon rising over the Hoarfrost Mountains. “Good omen.”
To the naked eye, Olarune—the moon known as the Sentinel—appeared to have a sort of fringe around its edges when full, which gave it the appearance of a round shield defending the heavens against attack. As such, the moon was considered auspicious by wielders of the Mark of Sentinel. As far as Sabira was concerned, it was only lucky if it gave you light by which to see your enemies.
She glanced over at her partner, studying him as he sat leaning up against the trellis, the brown and gold ivy leaves crackling with his every movement. The orange light gave his features a warm glow, like he’d just spent a pleasant evening in his lover’s bed. Or so she imagined; in the four years they’d been together, a bed was probably the only thing they hadn’t shared.
They’d grown close over the years, so much so that when they fought, they anticipated each other’s moves perfectly. If she feinted to draw an opponent in, he’d flank and attack. If she went low, he’d go high, and vice versa, all without speaking a word. They shared a synchronicity of purpose that made their partnership something greater than just the two of them working together. And it had only grown more intense here in the Holds, where they were outsiders in an insular and sometimes hostile society, with only each other to rely on and confide in.
Sabira gave him a coy look through her lashes. “The only omen I consider good is when the guy across from me re-raises after I’ve just flopped a fourth dragon.”
Leoned laughed.
“So young, and yet so cynical. You’re going to make a great Marshal when the time comes.”
Sabira was glad to see him smile; he’d done it seldom enough since this Nightshard business began. But it faded quickly, replaced by worry lines on his forehead that made the small scar over his left eyebrow stand out in sharp relief.
“Me? With my penchant for annoying the wrong clients, the only way they’ll give me a brooch is if I agree to get on a ship to Xen’drik and never come back. You, on the other hand—you’ve received more accolades than half the teachers at Rekkenmark. I’m surprised you haven’t made Marshal already.”
He laughed again at that, the left corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“They tell me my partner is holding me back.”
Sabira punched him in the arm, hard enough she knew it would bruise.
“Very funny.” Though she wouldn’t be surprised if he had been told that. She knew her aggressive style was an acquired taste—one her superiors had
not yet developed a predilection for, though Leoned seemed to like it just fine. And that was all that really mattered to her.
Leoned took a deep breath and turned to look at her.
“Saba, I’m never going to be a Marshal.”
“What?” she asked, perplexed. Saying Leoned wouldn’t become a Sentinel Marshal was like saying that dwarves would give up mining come daybreak: You could utter the words, but no one in their right mind would believe them. “Why? Because your mother gave up the Deneith name? No one cares about that, Ned. As far as the House is concerned, you’re still one of ours.”
“No. Nothing like that.” He leaned forward and took her hands in his. “Saba, I’m quitting the Guild. When this mission is over, I’m going back to Vulyar to marry Rhania. Her father is going to give me a job overseeing security for his breweries.”
Another of his jokes. She played along.
“You’re never going to make it into a Dorn song that way.”
His laugh this time was short, almost bitter.
“Maybe not, but at least I’ll be happy.”
Sabira’s smile faded.
“You’re serious?”
He looked up into her eyes earnestly, his tone almost pleading. “It’s not so different from what I do now, except I’ll be guarding kegs of Nightwood Ale instead of people. Hopefully, they won’t argue as much, and it’ll definitely pay better.”
It was a weak attempt at humor, but neither of them was laughing now.
“You’re leaving the Defender’s Guild?” Sabira repeated, hearing the words but certain she must be misunderstanding them. “Leaving … me?”
“Oh, Saba, don’t think of it like that. I know we’ve been partners for a long time, but you’ll get another soon enough. Maybe even Elix—you know he worships you.”
Sabira shook her head.
“No, Ned. He worships you. He envies me—because I get to be with you.” But Elix wouldn’t be jealous of her for much longer, because Leoned wouldn’t be with her anymore. He’d be with Rhania, that simpering blonde with eyes like a bug, so thin she made saplings look plump. What could she possibly offer Leoned that he couldn’t get from Sabira? The woman couldn’t even lift a sword, for Dol Dorn’s sake!
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