“I see. Thank you for your time. You’ve been a great help.”
“Don’t forget our date,” she called after him.
The foyer of Warden Towers was laid out in the same arrangement as Daggerwatch, except that a male elf sat behind the desk.
Wren briefly considered using the same tactic, but decided against it. He knew he was charming, but even he had limitations.
He waited until a pair of guards finished processing a prisoner, then approached the desk.
“Excuse me.”
The elf looked him up and down and sighed. “What do you want?”
“A friend of mine was brought in earlier today. I was wondering if I might see him.”
“What for?”
“I’ll be acting as his legal counsel,” Wren said.
“I see. What’s his name?”
“Cutter.”
“Cutter what?”
“Just Cutter.”
The elf pushed himself to his feet. “Wait here. And don’t touch anything.”
Wren raised his hands in the air. “Promise.”
The elf disappeared through a door. When he didn’t return, Wren was about to follow him inside to find out what was taking so long, then the elf emerged with a captain of the Watch. Her long black hair was tied into a braid that fell down her back. She didn’t look pleased to see him.
“What do you want with Cutter?” she asked.
“I’m his counsel.”
“How did you know he was here?”
“I was witness to his arrest.”
“Were you, now? May I ask what you were doing associating with a known criminal?”
Wren frowned. “No, you may not. It has absolutely no relevance.”
“Don’t get smart with me. Unless you want to join your friend in a cell.”
Wren looked over at the elf, but he was studiously reading a ledger and trying to ignore the conversation taking place before him.
“I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand. Are you threatening me?”
“Are you accusing me of threatening you?”
“All I want to do is see my client. That is his right.”
The woman walked forward until she was nose to nose with Wren. “Don’t talk to me about rights, half-elf. You know, I really don’t think I like the look of you. Maybe you should join him in the cell. Then you can talk all you like.” She turned to the elf standing behind the desk. “Sergeant, if you would be so kind as to escort—”
The doors behind Wren burst open and three men stumbled in, two of them falling to the floor at the captain’s feet. She stepped back as two guards came through the door behind them and hauled them up. Wren used the opportunity to slip out onto the street and run.
He thought it a wise move, given the circumstances.
Far from Warden Towers, Wren slowed down to think. Something was going on, and he didn’t like it. The captain seemed too eager for Wren, a witness to Cutter’s arrest, to join him in his cell. Why would she want that? Unless …
Unless it all linked back to the dreamlily theft? Could the Boromars want Cutter eliminated as well? It was very possible. The captain seemed like the type who would be in the pay of the halfling clan.
Wren didn’t like this. Didn’t like feeling responsible for another man’s life—or death, as the case might be. And he was responsible. He was the one who tracked Cutter down. He was the one who got him arrested.
So where was he going with this? Wren thought about it a bit more, then stopped walking and stared at the cobbles beneath his feet. Damn it. Was he really considering it?
He was. He really was.
Wren lifted his eyes to the brightening sky and sighed deeply.
He was going to break Cutter out of prison.
The second day of Long Shadows
Far, the 27th day of Vult, 998
In Wren’s considered opinion, taverns lacked souls. Certain buildings had them. Old historical sites, for example. Even newly built houses occupied by young families had a certain something you could feel as soon as you walked inside. But taverns fed off the spirits of others. They needed people to give them life. The light and the laughter soaked into the walls like water in the desert.
If one wanted to see the truth behind the pretense, one needed only to visit in the cold gray light of early morning, when rooms once filled with raucous celebration became drab, sad places. Sunlight filtered through grimy windows, but instead of adding cheer, it highlighted blemishes and scars best left hidden. Walls were revealed to be patchy and stained. The chairs were threadbare, the bar pitted and sticky. Ashes lay dead in the fire grate.
It depressed Wren to be in places like this. It reminded him of just how disheartening life could be.
And this particular tavern was a perfect example. It reeked of desperation, of money lost and lives ruined. The rugs were littered with betting stubs, each a testament to a desperate hope for a better life, or, since he was feeling uncharitable at the moment, a testament to addiction.
Wren looked around the empty common room. “Callian!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
A muffled thump came from upstairs. Then a scratchy voice floated down. “Who’s there? Go away. We’re closed!”
“Come and see who’s here before I rob you blind,” called Wren. He glanced around the room. “Not that there’s much to steal,” he muttered to himself.
He walked around the tables, avoiding what looked suspiciously like a puddle of vomit, and pushed open the doors that led to the balcony. He stopped breathing through his mouth and leaned over the railing, closing his eyes and inhaling a great lungful of fresh air. He let it go, then took another one, and finally opened his eyes.
A wave of vertigo washed over him as he looked down at the Stone Trees hrazhak field far below him. The huge indoor coarse was littered with piles of stones, clumps of trees, water courses, and anything else the organizers thought would add to the excitement of the shifter game. Wren thought he could see splashes of blood spattered on some of the rocks. His gaze traveled up to the spectator stands that circled to either side of him. They were empty, but they would fill again when the next games started.
He heard footfalls on the stairs behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Callian appear in the doorway behind the bar. The gnome looked like an ancient raisin left out in the sun for a few decades. Wren had known him for years, and he’d always had the same deep wrinkles, the same limp in his right foot. Although …
“The eye patch is new,” he said. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” said Callian, joining Wren on the balcony. “It impresses the ladies.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. They think I’m windswept and interesting.” He squinted at Wren, and must have seen the look of doubt on his face. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I don’t have needs.”
Wren raised his hands in surrender. “Something I don’t want to get into, thank you very much.” He paused. “It’s good to see you again, Callian.”
“Of course it is. Now what do you want?”
“A favor.”
“Yes, obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. What kind of favor?”
Wren sighed and stared into the deserted stands below him. “I’ve got myself into a bit of a mess.”
“Always knew you would. Illegal?”
“Not yet.”
“Ah. Is Torin involved?”
“Not in what I’m about to do.”
“Good. Keep him out of it. He’s got a family to think of.”
“I know.”
“So … are you going to tell me what you need?”
He turned to face the gnome. “I need you to get the old crew together.”
Callian’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why?”
“Because I need to break someone out of Warden Towers, and this is the only way I can do it. Now, here’s what I’ll need …”
At midday, Wren was seated at a table atop a magically stre
ngthened glass platform that floated a hundred feet above the center of the hrazhak field. Callian said it was so honored patrons could watch the game without having to mix with the common folk. Wren had to admit that it afforded stunning views of the playing field. He could see the employees—mostly ogres and bugbears—rearranging the piles of stones and huge logs in preparation for the night’s games.
Wren had never been interested in the sport himself. He considered it barbaric and lacking in subtlety. It involved two teams of shifters beating each other to a pulp while trying to get hold of the opposing team’s wooden idol so they could deposit it in their goal. Of course, this being Sharn, hrazhak was fast becoming one of the city’s most popular sports.
He lifted his face to the warm rays of the sun, feeling the heat sinking pleasingly into his bones. It was a refreshing change after the past few days of steady rain.
He hoped he had made the right decision. Getting the old crew together could be a colossally bad move. He’d thought about contacting his one-time protégé, Soneste Otansin, but had ultimately decided against it. It had been a while since he last saw her, but he’d heard she was working for Thuranne d’Velderan’s Investigative Services. That meant she was working legitimately, and Wren was hesitant about getting her involved in something illegal. Especially since she was enjoying a small amount of fame as a result of a recent case. She even managed to get a mention in the Inquisitive.
It was a shame, because she was really good at what she did, and he would have liked to catch up with her again.
The sound of distant voices caused him to look across to Callian’s inn poised above the grandstands. A soarsled had just left the balcony and was approaching the viewing platform, the round disc teetering slightly beneath its heavy load. Wren couldn’t help smiling when he caught sight of the ragtag group it transported. At the front was Bex, half-orc and druid. Wren noted that he still wore clothing bright enough to cause blindness in the unwary. And Salka was there. Wren’s smile faded. She was human, so he knew she would age quicker than he did, but she looked a lot older than he remembered. It seemed as though life had been tough on her since they’d parted ways. Behind her sat Callian’s nephew, Dalen. Wren breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the gnome. His whole plan depended on a good illusionist to cause a realistic distraction. Without Dalen, he didn’t think they’d be able to pull it off.
A new face was in the group as well, a young shifter Wren didn’t recognize. She stood at the side of the sled, her bearing tall and proud. No, Wren amended. Not pride. The set of her face, the look she gave the others—was arrogance.
Wren rose from the table. The sled slowed, ready to bump against the platform. While it was still an arm’s length away, Bex leaped across the gap, a huge grin on his broad face. The half-orc lifted Wren from the platform and clasped him in a painful hug.
“Wren! Good to see you! Didn’t think we’d hear from you again. Heard you’d gone legitimate.”
“I have,” Wren said.
Bex dropped him back to his feet and went to investigate the food laid out on the table.
Wren turned his attention to Salka as she stepped onto the platform. “Salka.” He leaned forward to hug her. She grasped his back tightly and held on for what seemed like a long time. “How are you?” he whispered into her ear.
“Later,” was all she said, before releasing him and taking a seat.
Dalen hopped onto the platform and shook Wren’s hand. The gnome couldn’t speak. His tongue had been torn out decades before in the War, and he refused to let a cleric heal it. No one had the guts to ask him why. He now communicated with his magic.
The shifter held back while Callian hopped off the sled and approached Wren.
“Who’s she?” asked Wren.
“That’s Ravi. She’s on one of the teams here. She’s good.”
“She looks like trouble.”
“Trust me,” said Callian. “She’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s a good person to have watching your back in a fight.”
Wren was still unsure.
“You’re going to need all the help you can get on this one, Wren. Let her come.” Wren sighed. “Fine.”
Callian turned and gestured for her to leave the soarsled. Wren noticed she did it with an arrogant slouch as if to say, I’m coming because I want to, not because I was given permission.
Everyone took seats at the table and poured chilled fruit juice from the chipped glass pitchers Callian had provided. Wren sat at the head of the table and looked them over. It felt good to see them again. Except for a few extra wrinkles and lines, it was almost like the old days.
“So, half-elf,” said Bex, speaking around a mouthful of food. “What’s so important?”
“Yeah,” said Salka. “Thought you were too good to associate with us?”
“Now, Salka. We all agreed to keep contact to a minimum after that last job went … sour.” Wren grimaced slightly.
Bex barked a loud laugh. “That’s one way to put it. Another way is ‘catastrophic failure.’ Or ‘suicide run.’”
Wren smiled. “Fair enough. I’m afraid this one isn’t much better. I won’t hold it against any of you if you don’t want any part of it.”
“Danger comes with the territory,” said Ravi in a low voice. “Anyone who’s scared should get a proper job.”
The old group glanced at each other. Dalen raised his eyebrows at the shifter.
“What?” she growled. “You got a problem with me, gnome?”
Dalen smiled sweetly then lifted his hand into the air. Everyone stared at him, waiting for some kind of magical illusion.
Dalen slowly arranged three fingers in a gesture used during the War as an insult when vocalizing was not possible. Everyone burst into laughter, except for Ravi. She rose in her seat and looked ready to lunge across the table, but Callian held her back.
“Sit!” he snapped at her. “I vouched for you, Ravi. Do not embarrass me in front of my friends. I won’t stand for it.”
The shifter reluctantly sat down, but not before pointing a clawed finger at Dalen and mouthing, Later, to the grinning gnome.
“Right,” said Wren. “If we’ve all finished posturing, I’d like to get started on this. First off, I’m going to tell you your pay.”
“It’s not a robbery, then?” asked Salka.
“No, it’s not. And the pay is five thousand galifars each.”
Silence ruled the table as everyone digested this. Even Callian looked shocked.
“Five thousand?” asked Bex. “Who’s putting up the money?”
“I am,” said Wren. “I’ll leave it with Callian in case anything happens to me. You can collect after the job. I’m telling you this now because the job is dangerous.”
“So what is it?” asked Ravi. “For five thousand, I’d kill the king himself.”
“I’m sure you would. But thankfully, regicide is not part of the plan. I want to break a prisoner out of Warden Towers.” Silence greeted his statement.
“With the guards all present?” asked Bex.
“Most of them, yes.”
“When do you want it done?” asked Salka.
“Tonight.”
Bex burst out laughing. “Wren, you really know how to keep life interesting. Gods, but I’ve missed you.”
Wren grinned and glanced around the table. “Everyone in?” Those gathered nodded in turn. Wren clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Callian, the plans?”
Callian hopped onto the soarsled and picked up a leather folder, which he handed to Wren. Wren untied it and pulled out a small pile of vellum. Intricate sketches covered each piece. Wren spread them out on the table and placed the cups and glasses over the edges to keep them from blowing away.
“Plans for Warden Towers,” he said. The others leaned over the table to get a good look. Wren pointed to the middle section of the tower. “The cells are here, right in the center. On the bottom floor is a lobby, where everyone is brought in for processing
. Here’s the mess hall, then the baths and recreation area.” Wren pointed to the floor above the prison level. “Above the cells are the barracks, interrogation rooms, offices, and such.”
“So how do you plan on getting us in?” asked Salka.
“Through the roof.” He tapped the top of the tower. “Warden Towers has a couple of hippogriffs. Not as many as Daggerwatch, but they stable them up here, with access into the tower.” He paused and leaned back in his seat. “One thing I want to make clear. This is a rescue operation. There’s to be no killing.” He held up his hands to forestall any protests. “Think about it. We’re breaking one person out of jail. He’s nothing to them. If they can’t find him quickly enough, they’ll drop it. They won’t want it known that Warden Towers is breachable. But if we kill one of them, they’ll keep after us until we’re all dead.” He looked around the table. “Agreed?”
Reluctant nods from most. He stared at Ravi. “Ravi? This is the deal. Agree, or you’re out. I’m not saying we don’t get physical—we may have to. Just don’t kill anyone.”
Ravi nodded, a brief dip of her head.
“Right. I need to gather some supplies. I suggest we meet back at Callian’s place at midnight.
The large skycoach slid through the night, flying as close to the rooftops as possible. Wren fingered the delicate embroidering sewn into the seats, then opened a small compartment in the door. It held a bottle of wine.
“Where did you get this coach?”
Bex grinned over his shoulder. “Best not to ask.”
Wren’s eyes widened and he pointed to the front. “Careful!”
Bex turned and smoothly pulled the skycoach upward. Wren peered over the side as a thin spire receded behind them. “You almost hit that one.”
“Do you want to drive?” asked Bex.
“No. I’m just saying.”
“And I heard you. Now keep quiet. I’m concentrating.”
Wren looked down to make sure that the enchantment woven into his shiftweave clothing was attuned to its natural state of darkweave, the shadows woven through the fabric concealing them from casual observation. It was the fourth time he’d checked, but he couldn’t help it. Nerves were getting the better of him.
The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows Page 11
