She smelled the great herb market, however, before she saw it. Zarash’ak was a city of pungent, marshy odors, but gradually Dandra became aware of a new scent on the air. The smell was complex: strong and wet, resinous and sharp. It teased at her nose with soft perfumes and bit at it with harsh, peppery notes. She breathed deep, drawing it all in. “Is that the market?” she asked Natrac.
He nodded then led them around a corner.
A wide wooden plaza opened up before them, crowded with people of many races and alive with noise. Human merchants called out from stalls, declaring the freshness and potency of their products. Half-orc and orc farmers and gatherers sat among big baskets, trying to attract the attention of the traders who would buy their crops in bulk. Porters raced among the crowds, sacks and bales balanced atop their shoulders. Buyers strolled the paths of the market, shouting back at merchants and farmers and porters alike. At the center of the market, a round structure painted green and gold rose above the stalls—the shrine Natrac had mentioned, Dandra guessed.
The astounding odor she had smelled before lay over everything, the mingled scent of innumerable herbs. “Amazing!” she whispered.
What? Tetkashtai demanded. What is it?
The presence could see and hear, but she had no sense of smell, only memories of it. The market smells wonderful, Dandra told her. She tried her best to communicate the odor, but Tetkashtai just scowled.
A true kalashtar would find such an unsophisticated stink revolting.
Dandra had to work to keep her anger from showing on her face. I like it.
Of course you do, Tetkashtai said.
Natrac led them across one side of the market. Both Dandra and Singe stared at the plant life displayed in the stalls they passed. Dandra had imagined the market would sell only leafy herbs, but instead all conceivable fragments of a seemingly infinite number of plants were on sale. Leaves of all shapes and sizes. Twigs. Stalks. Bark. Chips and slivers of wood. Flowers. Seeds. Roots. Fresh. Dried. Each stall was enveloped in its own particular scent as well: some peppery, some sweet, some acidic, some utterly foul.
“Where do all of these come from?” asked Singe above the noise.
“Some of the common ones are grown in villages around the city,” said Natrac, “but a lot are wild. Locals gather them, pool them, and send someone into Zarash’ak to sell. A few come from really deep in the Marches or are particularly rare.” He pointed to a merchant who was shaving slices off a big, hard stalk as if it were some kind of woody cheese. “That’s rotto stem. A piece that big probably earned whoever found it enough money to live off for two months.”
“What’s it used for?”
“You cook it in wine, then make a face cream out of it. It takes away wrinkles.”
“Truly?”
Natrac gave him a suffering glance. “No,” he said, “people pay a small fortune just for the pleasure of putting hot mush on their face.”
Dandra looked around them. “Do you think the people who bring the herbs in from the deep Marches will be the best ones to ask about the Spires of the Forge?”
“Not just them,” said Natrac. “Anyone who spends time in the wilds tends to congregate around here—especially members of House Tharashk. Dragonshard prospectors, herb scouts, and bounty hunters all have the same concerns when they’re in the wild and they like to share information.”
He stopped in front of one of the buildings that faced onto the market. It looked strange to Dandra’s eyes—part tavern, part tea room. Through a window, she could see a mix of rough humans and half-orcs sipping gingerly from steaming mugs. “What kind of place is this?”
“It’s a gaeth’ad house. You don’t find them much outside of the Shadow Marches. Just think of it as a tavern.” Natrac stepped up to the door. “Wait here. I may not be long.”
He went inside. Dandra glanced at Singe. “What’s gaeth’ad?”
“The herbs from the Shadow Marches can do more than take away wrinkles,” the Aundairian told her. “Gaeth’ad is herb tea with a kick. A skilled gaeth’ad master can brew a custom tea that will make you feel however you want to. House Jorasco has hired masters to brew sedatives, but mostly gaeth’ad needs to be really fresh to be potent.”
Natrac’s business inside the house took almost no time at all. “We’re in luck,” he said as he emerged. “There’s a Tharashk bounty hunter in the city at the moment who’s supposed to know western Droaam. He favors one of the other gaeth’ad houses, but the person I spoke to thinks he might be there now. I’m told he’s the best available.”
“That sounds like a good start,” said Singe. “Let’s find him.”
The gaeth’ad house that Natrac led them to had a crooked hunda stick like Orshok’s hung over the door to serve as a sign. Unlike the previous house, its windows were covered in slat shutters that allowed air to circulate but gave those within a greater degree of privacy. Dandra paused for a moment inside the door to let her eyes adjust. The interior of the house was a dim, quiet room broken up by screens made of coarse paper. The screens made it hard to judge how many people might have been in the place—perhaps half of the tables that she could see were occupied, though she couldn’t always see whether their occupants drank their tea alone or in the company of someone else. The atmosphere was thick, humid even for Zarash’ak, and laced with a sweet-acrid smell.
Natrac walked up to the bar, a long polished counter that stood in front of jar-lined shelves more suitable to an apothecary’s shop, and spoke in Orc to a young half-orc on the other side. A few coins changed hands, disappearing into her sleeves, and she nodded. She pointed deeper into the maze of screens. Natrac turned back to Singe and Dandra.
“He’s here,” he said. “Follow me.”
Behind a screen at the very back of the house, a high-pitched voice was speaking softly in a harsh language Dandra didn’t understand. Every few minutes, a deeper voice would add something in the same language. Natrac paused just beyond the screen and cleared his throat. The high-pitched voice broke off and Dandra was certain that she heard the soft whisper of a dagger being drawn.
“Yes?” called the deeper voice.
“I’m looking for Chain d’Tharashk,” said Natrac.
“Come through,” said the deep voice. “All three of you.”
Dandra felt a trace of unease. She held up the three fingers to Singe and mouthed silently, how did he know?
The wizard looked unimpressed. He lifted a foot and pointed to it. Chain had heard their footsteps, Dandra realized.
“Old trick,” Singe murmured as Natrac disappeared around the screen. Singe gestured for Dandra to follow the half-orc, then fell in behind her.
The man who sat at the table on the other side of the screen was large. No, Dandra thought, “large” didn’t do him justice. Standing up, he would be taller than Natrac, maybe as tall as Ashi. His muscles were nearly as thick as Geth’s, bulging out from beneath a stained, sleeveless leather shirt. Nearly obscured by hair on his left forearm, a small dragonmark twisted and turned in a slash of color. The thick stubble on the man’s face matched the length of the stubble on his shaved head. Beneath heavy eyebrows, his eyes were dark and alert. “You’ve found me,” he said. “I’m Chain.”
His voice matched the rest of him—dark, heavy, and threatening. Any doubts Dandra had about leaving Geth and Ashi behind vanished immediately. Chain was a walking challenge. She didn’t think either the shifter or the hunter could have even spoken to him without starting a fight.
There were two chairs before the table. Natrac took one and Singe gestured for Dandra to take the other. She seated herself, shifting her spear out of the way. There was a fourth chair, but it was occupied by the source—or so Dandra assumed—of the high-pitched voice she had heard before. A goblin crouched in the chair, his slight frame tensing as Dandra touched the shaft of her spear. Reddish eyes in a flat face the color of dirty parchment watched each of them closely. One of the small creature’s hands was hidden by an enormous accou
nt book. Dandra guessed that it was holding the dagger she had heard drawn. She made a show of moving her hand away from her spear and he relaxed. Slightly.
Chain sat back, his chair creaking under his weight, and looked them over with such intensity that Dandra felt as though he was committing their appearances to memory.
As soon as Natrac had finished introducing himself and them, Chain asked, “So what do you want?”
Singe was just visible out of the corner of Dandra’s eye. She saw his face tighten. “Blunt, aren’t you?”
“People don’t hire me for my charm. You want charm, hire an elf.” The big man reached out and picked up a mug of gaeth’ad. “You want the best, hire me.”
Chain’s manners grated across Dandra’s nerves worse than Tetkashtai’s bitterness. “We didn’t say we wanted to hire you,” she said.
“Then you’re wasting my time.” Chain turned his head and nodded to the goblin. The little creature look back to the account book and began babbling in his harsh language as he ran thin fingers down a column of close-written text.
Natrac winced at the dismissal and shot Dandra a glare. She felt her stomach flinch—and Tetkashtai’s silent derision—at her misstep.
Natrac leaned forward. “Poli, Chain—my friend tends to talk before she thinks. We do want to hire you. We’re told you know the western barrens of Droaam better than anyone.”
“I know all of Droaam,” Chain said. The goblin paused as soon as his boss spoke, one finger still pressed against the account book.
“I’m sure of it,” Natrac agreed quickly. “But the west is really all that—”
“Just get to the point. Who do you want found?”
Natrac coughed. “Not who. What. We’re looking for a place.”
Chain’s eyes narrowed and he looked them over again as he drank from his mug. The goblin pursed his lips and spoke a few words. Chain nodded, his face darkening. He sat forward and slammed the mug down on the desk. “You’re treasure hunters.”
“What?” asked Dandra. “What makes you think we’re treasure hunters?”
“By the look of you, you’ve seen a lot of traveling very recently, but if you’re looking for some place in Droaam, you’re not finished yet. And you’re an unlikely mix—a well-dressed half-orc who’s been through rough times, a kalashtar, and an Aundairian who, unless I’m wrong, has served with the Blademarks.”
Dandra saw Singe stiffen.
Chain snorted. “Don’t look surprised. You sweat Deneith discipline.” The bounty hunter leaned back and crossed his arms. “Treasure hunting and war are the only things that bring together a mix like that and as far as I know, the war is still over.”
“Fine,” said Singe. “Call us treasure hunters. Does it make a difference?”
“Rates go up. I help you, I get a cut of whatever you find.” Singe raised his head and gave Chain a hard look. “That’s mercenary.”
“You’ve worked for Deneith. You should know all about that.” Chain rubbed a rough hand across his chin. “What’s on the schedule, Preesh?”
The goblin flipped ahead in the account book, checked a column, and said in words Dandra understood, “You’re clear.”
Chain leaned across the desk. “Tell me more.”
Natrac glanced at Singe and Dandra, then looked back to Chain. “Have you ever heard of a place called the Spires of the Forge?”
Chain rapped his fingers against the tabletop. “Ten silver,” he said.
“What?”
“Ten silver,” Chain repeated. “Sovereigns, trade bits, matching weights—I don’t care. You’ve just asked me a question. You want an answer, it’s ten silver.”
“You said to tell you more,” Dandra protested.
“Tell, not ask.”
“Ten sovereigns is a steep price for a simple answer,” said Singe. “Either you’ve heard of the place or you haven’t.”
Chain picked up his mug and took another drink. “You’re taking up my time,” he said. “A man needs to eat and Preesh doesn’t work cheap. Ten silver could clear this all up right away.”
Singe grumbled under his breath and looked to Natrac. The half-orc reached into a pouch and produced ten silver sovereigns, pushing them across the table to Chain. “There,” he said. “Now—have you heard of the Spires of the Forge?”
The big man scooped up the coins. “No.”
Dandra stared at him. “No?” she said in shock.
Chain shrugged. “Never heard of them.” He raised his heavy eyebrows. “They were what you were looking for?”
“Yes!”
“Then we’ve just saved ourselves a lot of trouble.” He drank again.
Dandra rose to her feet, fury and the close air of the gaeth’ad house making her head pound. “You just took our money!”
“You paid for an answer. I gave it to you,” the big man said. “Don’t blame me if it’s not the answer you wanted to hear.” He remained seated but the goblin had tensed again.
Singe put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy,” he said. “He’s right.”
She could tell from the sound of his voice that he wasn’t happy either. She glared at Chain. “What about the Hall of the Revered? Have you heard of that or is it going to cost us another ten sovereigns?”
Chain’s shoulders tightened, making his muscles bulge. “I’ll throw it in for free,” he said. “No. I’ve never heard of the Spires of the Forge or the Hall of the Revered.”
“Thank you,” said Natrac. The half-orc rose quickly. “We’ll be on our way, then. Maybe someone else—”
Chain moved with a speed that shocked even Dandra, surging up out of his chair to lean across the table and snap in Natrac’s face. “You try,” he said. “You just try. But here’s another free answer: if I haven’t heard of a place in Droaam, then it doesn’t exist. You ask any other bounty hunter, prospector, or scout and they’re not going to be able to help you either. You’ve already come to the best. If I can’t help you, nobody can!” Natrac flinched back. Chain flung up an arm, pointing back out of the gaeth’ad house. “Get out.”
“I—” Natrac started to say, but Singe grabbed the half-orc with his other arm and hauled both him and Dandra away. Dandra caught a last glimpse of Chain as the big bounty hunter slammed himself back down into his chair. Curious faces peered at them as they hastened out of the house and back into the herb market.
“Twelve bloody moons!” cursed Singe. “What a—”
“What a dahr!” said Dandra through clenched teeth. She looked at Natrac. “Do you think he was lying?”
He shook his head. “That was business, Dandra. He had no reason to lie.”
“What about trying other people? Do you think it was just his ego talking when he said no one else would know anything?”
“It doesn’t look like he would admit to having rivals, does it?” said Natrac. He shrugged. “There’s no harm in trying to find other sources, but Chain was supposed to be the best in the city right now. If he doesn’t know, maybe House Tharashk isn’t the answer.”
“We were only gambling that Tharashk would have the answers we need, Dandra,” Singe pointed out. “There’s still Natrac’s historian.”
Dandra took a deep breath, trying to cool her rage at Chain’s grating manners, and lifted her chin. “But we’re gambling on that, too, aren’t we?” she said with determination. “I’m not going to give up on Tharashk that easily. I don’t think Chain knows as much as he thinks he does.”
“We’ve got time to ask around.” Singe squinted up at the sun, still high in the sky. “We’re not supposed to meet Geth and Ashi for a long while yet.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Twelve moons, we might as well have had them with us all along!”
Dandra glanced at him. “I don’t think that would have helped.”
“No, but I would have enjoyed watching them beat down Chain. That would have been worth ten sovereigns.” He smiled wistfully.
“Do you really think we fooled them?” asked Ashi.
“He is clever,” Orshok pointed out.
Geth gave the young orc a glare but bared his teeth in a grin, too. “When you’ve known Singe for as long as I have, you get used to him. You can tell when he’s up to something. I would have known he was trying to get rid of us even you hadn’t said anything, Orshok.”
The druid looked vaguely disappointed. “You would have?”
“A clever man is most vulnerable when he’s trying to be clever. Someone wise told me that.”
“Who?” asked Orshok suspiciously.
“Robrand d’Deneith, the man who recruited me and Singe into the Frostbrand company of the Blademarks when we were your age. One of the greatest commanders to ever lead a Blademarks company.” Geth let out a little snarl of satisfaction. “He had Singe figured out. The old man could keep him in knots if he wanted to.”
Ashi’s face darkened. “So we fooled Singe by doing exactly what he wanted us to do?” She looked down at Geth. “How is that outwitting him?”
“Because we chose to do this ourselves.” He stretched his arms out in the bright sunlight. His ancient Dhakaani sword was a weight at his side, but he’d left his great gauntlet behind. There was no need for it and the day was too pleasant to worry about armor. “I like House Tharashk—they tend to be more honest than other dragonmarked houses—but I don’t want to spend all day going from tavern to tavern talking to them.”
The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II Page 4
