by Rich Wulf
“Come out, d’Cannith,” Eraina shouted.
The cabin door opened and Dalan stepped out. He held a breadstick treat in one hand, chewing absently. He looked at Eraina and her soldiers without concern. “Good afternoon, officers,” he said. “May I help you?”
“You heard me,” she said. “Order your crew to stand down and surrender.”
Dalan bit the last scrap of bread from the stick, tossed it in a pail nearby, wiped his hands on his jacket and took a scroll case from his pocket. He looked past Eraina at the soldiers with a bland expression. “Which of you is the commanding officer?” he asked.
“I am,” one said, stepping forward.
Dalan offered the man the scroll. He stepped forward and accepted it, looking at Eraina in confusion. Removing it from its case, he studied the parchment for several moments, rolled it up, and handed it back.
“My apologies, Marshal,” the soldier said. “This man has been granted immunity by the King.”
“What?” she spat.
Dalan smiled.
“My apologies, Master d’Cannith,” the soldier said.
“Not necessary,” Dalan said pleasantly. “You’re merely doing your duty. You are a tribute to your rank, country, and king.” The man smiled proudly. “Now if you would excuse us, we’re preparing to depart.”
The soldier nodded, saluted, and turned to leave. The others followed in his wake. Eraina remained where she was, scowling at Dalan.
“Let me see those papers,” she demanded.
“Why?” he asked, looking at her. “Your jurisdiction extends beyond any diplomatic immunities. You are still perfectly free to find non-Brelish troops to aid you, or arrest us on your own.” He looked at Omax and then smiled at her again. “If you believe you are able.”
“You know Boldrei grants me power to sense falsehood. You refuse to show me your papers because I will see them as the forgery they are.”
“How insulting,” Dalan said with a mocking grin. “Is this the diplomacy of House Deneith?”
“This is not over,” Eraina said. “You will not escape me. I will find allies and stop you.”
“Is that so?” Dalan asked. He looked past her for a moment.
She looked back just as Zed Arthen clubbed her across the temple with the hilt of his sheathed sword. She staggered, attempting to ready her spear.
“Sorry, Eraina,” he said, punching her across the jaw.
The paladin struck the deck with a thud. Seren looked at Dalan in shock, as did everyone else but Zed.
“Arthen what in Khyber have you done?” Tristam shouted. “You just assaulted a Sentinel Marshal!”
“She went down a little more easily than I expected, too,” Zed said, looking at her limp form with some surprise. “I thought Omax would have to help me for sure.”
“That Sentinel Marshal threatened to cause a great deal of trouble for us,” Dalan said, turning back toward his cabin. “Get us out of here, Captain. Zed, return the Marshal to her cell.”
Zed loaded the unconscious paladin over his shoulder and climbed below deck. As Karia Naille swiftly rose above the city of Cragwar, Seren wondered if staying here had been a mistake.
Old Merkin pushed the battered shutter aside and looked outside again. The street was empty, as it usually was this time of day. Zed Arthen preferred things clean and quiet, so most of the Black Pit citizens avoided doing business here. Everyone feared Arthen, though Old Merkin wasn’t really sure why. Arthen had a way of turning up dirt, rooting out secrets, and in Black Pit most folks preferred secrets to stay right where they were. To Merkin, that just meant that Arthen was making waves. People who did that inevitably got put down. No one could stand alone forever.
Until then, of course, there was money to be made.
At the far end of the street, Old Merkin saw the familiar, stocky figure, leaving a trail of pipesmoke in his wake. The coat and clothes were new, but it was definitely Zed Arthen. Merkin waited for the inquisitive to walk down this way, past his window and approach his office. Arthen looked around warily, as he always did. He didn’t see Old Merkin, but of course he never did. Merkin chuckled quietly in self-satisfaction.
After Arthen’s door closed, Merkin left his home, shrugging into his thick canvas jacket as he walked. He rapped loudly on the door of the inquisitive’s office and waited, hands tucked in his pockets as he peered around, alert for any nosey passers-by.
The door opened after a moment. Zed Arthen looked at Merkin with a hawk-eyed gaze and stood quickly to one side. Merkin grinned and sauntered in.
“May I help you?” Arthen asked in a low voice.
“Perhaps you can,” Merkin said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I saw your little trip into the woods the other night, Arthen. Smart money says you were meeting someone from that Lyrandar charter ship. Care to share the secret?”
Zed did not answer immediately. Instead he moved to the window beside his door, looking curiously outside. “You came here alone?” he asked.
“Like I need any protection from you,” Merkin said. “I’m the one man in all of Black Pit that knows you’re all talk. Now tell me what you’re up to, Arthen.”
“I have a better idea,” Arthen said, locking the door. “Let me offer you a proposition.” He turned to face Merkin, but the man who faced Merkin was no longer Zed Arthen. His features were smooth and gray. The left cheek twisted with a swirling burn scar. He looked at Merkin with dead white eyes.
“Khyber,” Merkin swore, drawing a dagger from his belt. “Get away from me, faceless!”
“Please,” the changeling said. He backed away from the door, holding his hands out to show he held no weapons, only the key to the door pinched between the fingers of his right hand. “The term is ‘changeling,’ not ‘faceless.’ If you cannot call my race by a respectful name, then simply address me as Marth.”
“What are you doing here?” Merkin demanded. He glanced around for any escape route, but the changeling blocked the only unlocked door. “Did you kill the real Arthen?”
“That is what we do, isn’t it?” Marth said with a deep sigh. “Changelings come in the night. They murder the innocent and steal their lives, like parasites. Spies and assassins, all of us. No. I did not murder Arthen. He is alive and well, as far as I am aware, and far from here.”
“Oh,” Merkin said, not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. “Then what are you doing pretending to be him?”
“Zed Arthen is an old associate,” Marth said. “I came to him regarding a matter of some discretion. He left abruptly, leaving no clues as to his destination. Rather than dig randomly for information in a place like this, I thought that assuming his identity would lead me to those who knew him. And so it has.” Marth gestured broadly at Merkin.
“Arthen and I aren’t really friends,” Merkin said fearfully. “But it doesn’t surprise me that he runs with a diseased faceless.”
“I never said I was seeking his friends, nor that I was one of them,” Marth said. “I seek only information, and I am willing to pay.” Marth opened his left hand, palm out, to reveal a platinum coin.
“Well that’s different,” Merkin said, sheathing his dagger with a lewd smile. “How can I help you, Master Marth?”
“First of all, tell me who you are,” the changeling said. “What common ruffian speaks to Zed Arthen as boldly as you did when you entered?”
“I’m Merkin, a courier for some of the local businesses,” Merkin said. “I live next door.”
“An informant,” Marth corrected. “The local cartels pay you to spy on Arthen, to find out what he’s up to, to report which of them he may be investigating next?”
Merkin smiled. “A man has to make an honest living.”
“But that’s not all,” Marth said. “I wager you work for Arthen as well. He pays you to filter the information you pass on to your superiors. You came here hoping to perpetuate your web of blackmail.” He looked at Merkin seriously. “Have I hit the mark?”
&nbs
p; “Pretty close,” Merkin said. “Impressive.”
“Arthen and I were friends once,” Marth said. He tucked the coin into his pocket, leaving his hand there. “I know the way the man thinks. I can assure you that any control you believe you maintain over him is an illusion. He is too clever for you by far. You believe you are blackmailing him, but I wonder how much he has learned about your superiors from your churlish thuggery. Look what I have already divined, Merkin, and I am not even trained as an inquisitive.”
Merkin’s face drooped into a worried frown. He began replaying earlier meetings with Arthen in his mind, trying to remember what he had said, and wondering how much he had accidentally revealed.
“The great irony is this, Merkin,” Marth said. He traced the fingers of his right hand along the edge of a nearby table as he paced slowly around it, his eyes on the floor. “You fear me. You distrust me. You call me faceless, for no doubt you have heard the legends. Every village spins the tale of the changeling killer who murders a noble son of the nation and slides effortlessly into his life. We are spies. We are demons. We are monsters unworthy of trust or respect.” He looked at Merkin intently. “Yet look at yourself. Every word you use to describe yourself is a lie. ‘Courier.’ ‘Honest living.’ At least my face is my only lie, Merkin. You lack the imagination to be truthful.”
Merkin shrugged. “Listen, I don’t need the lecture. What else do you want to know about Arthen?”
“Nothing,” Marth said. “You have already told me all I need to know. If your own relationship with him is any indication, Arthen has covered his tracks with his usual prowess. I doubt you have anything useful to offer me.”
“Then what about my money?” Merkin asked irritably.
“Still yours for the price of one question,” Marth said. He looked at Merkin intently, empty white eyes staring at his chest. “That coat you wear. It looks familiar. Is it part of a military uniform?”
Merkin nodded. “Only good thing the army ever gave me,” he said with a laugh.
Marth offered a thin smile. “What nation did you fight for?”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Merkin said.
“You are a deserter,” Marth said. “A betrayer.”
“You said only one question,” Merkin snapped. “So pay me and unlock the door.”
Marth frowned and drew his hand from his pocket. Instead of a coin, he now held a long amethyst. Merkin swore and dove toward Marth with his dagger, but not quickly enough. There was a brief flash of green light, and then pain so intense that Merkin could not even draw the breath to scream. He curled up on the ground, arms and legs twitching, spittle boiling from his mouth. Marth forced Merkin onto his back with one boot, leaving his foot on the old informant’s chest.
“There are few things more reprehensible than a man who would abandon his country,” Marth said, looming over the man as he twitched uncontrollably. “A nation that cannot rely upon its sons and daughters has nothing. It is doomed to be crushed under its own weight, consumed by the greed and ambition of its neighbors. You humans call my kind ‘diseased’ because of our sickly pallor.” Marth moved his boot forward, placing it squarely on Merkin’s throat. “But it is traitors like you who are a true disease upon all of Eberron.”
Marth leaned forward, pressing his weight on Merkin’s throat. Marth stared into the man’s helpless eyes until he stopped moving. He waited a minute more, just to be sure, then put the wand back in his pocket and stepped away. Assuming Zed Arthen’s face once again, Marth exited the inquisitive’s office and returned to Kenshi Zhann where she hovered in the forest nearby.
As he climbed aboard the airship, two of the soldiers greeted him with nervous smiles.
“Captain Marth,” one said, saluting. “We are glad you have returned. Black Pit is no place for any man to be alone.”
“Worried, Neimun?” Marth said, returning the salute. “I was in no danger.” He felt a scrutinizing presence behind him, and did not even need to look to realize Brother Zamiel had entered the room. He quickly dismissed the soldiers to their duties.
“You seem in high spirits, Captain,” Zamiel mused, falling in beside Marth as he began his march to the bridge. A humming pulse ran through the ship as she began to lift into the sky. “Such contentment is very strange for a man who has spent the night alone in an unfriendly village, disguised as one of his deadliest enemies.”
“What do you want, prophet?” he asked. “To lecture me for being in a good mood?”
“Quite the contrary,” Zamiel said. “Your bravery is an example to the men. I doubt even the murder you just committed would lessen their opinion of you.”
Marth prepared a sharp retort, but it died on his lips. The prophet was, as usual, not only remarkably aware of events he had no way of witnessing, but entirely sincere in his macabre praise.
“Unfortunately I learned very little,” Marth said instead. “Arthen still keeps others at a distance. He weaves lies to catch the truth like a fisherman. It was a mistake to let him live when he distanced himself from this. I should listen more closely to your advice, Zamiel. Mercy for old friends will be my undoing.”
“I never said to set mercy aside entirely,” Zamiel said. “I said it was a luxury, and luxury brings harm only when indulged in excess. Kept in its proper place, in moderation, a luxury grants opportunity.”
“More riddles, prophet?” Marth asked as they stepped onto Moon’s large enclosed bridge. The helmsman was already here, working the controls and plotting a course. “You urge me to kill Tristam but show no rancor that I let Arthen slip away so long ago?”
“Arthen is not a threat like Xain is,” Zamiel said. “The fallen knight still has a part to play.”
“I disagree,” Marth said. “Tristam may be useful; he has both ambition and curiosity. Arthen is dangerous. If we find him, we must kill him.”
“Then you may soon have your chance,” Zamiel said. “My spy has contacted us again, via speaker post.”
Marth looked at Zamiel with interest. “What news?”
“Karia Naille is bound for the Talenta Plains,” the prophet said.
“Overwood,” Marth said with a scowl. “So they have found her.”
“An unexpected development,” Zamiel answered. “I did not expect this to happen so soon. While you deal with this I shall have to return and consult the prophecy, to determine what I may have misread. You will have go to Talenta and deal with them yourself.”
Marth was lost for a moment in thought. “If they find her,” he mused, “they will tell her what I have done. Do you think she will believe them?”
“A pointless question,” Zamiel said, settling into his chair. “If so, I will trust you to deal with it.”
What amazed Seren the most wasn’t how callously Zed Arthen had knocked out Eraina and locked her in her cabin. What disturbed her was that the rest of the crew did not seem surprised or concerned. After the ship left Cragwar, everyone returned to their normal duties. The only differences were that Omax occasionally took a plate of food to the paladin, and every time Seren entered the hold she saw the marshal’s spear and shortsword lying atop the food crates. No one even mentioned Eraina, and Seren was not about to bring up the matter.
Tristam spent most of his time in his own cabin, absorbed in research or perhaps depression. Gerith was always busy tending the ship, cooking meals, or scouting the area on his glidewing. Seren felt increasingly alone. She didn’t trust Dalan or Zed, and still wasn’t sure what to think of Omax. That left her with the mystery that was Aeven.
After all this time, she still had not met the last mysterious member of the crew, only heard her mentioned. Seren began to wonder if there was really an “Aeven” at all. The fishermen and riverboat captains she knew in Wroat were the most superstitious people she had met. It stood to reason that airship sailors were no different. Perhaps Aeven was just some sort of guardian spirit or minor goddess who protected airships?
The lush forests of Breland had gi
ven way to the broad green plains of Thrane. Having spent the entirety of her life in dreary Ringbriar or overpopulated Wroat, it was fascinating to see so much of the world in so short a time. Seren spent her free moments on the deck, watching the landscape fly by and occasionally commenting on the more interesting things she saw. If Aeven was real, Seren reasoned, it couldn’t hurt to talk to her. If she wasn’t real, then there was no harm done.
At noon on the second day of their journey, Eraina d’Deneith emerged from the hold, accompanied by Omax. The paladin went directly to Dalan’s cabin. Seren heard muffled voices for several minutes before Eraina finally emerged once more, her expression somber. She immediately went to work helping Gerith with the ship’s maintenance, not offering any word of explanation. The captain regarded her with suspicious curiosity whenever she was on deck, but otherwise kept his attention on flying the ship.
“Figured that would happen sooner or later,” Zed Arthen commented dryly. The inquisitive had been sitting on a barrel nearby, slowly working his way through a chunk of beef jerky he had scavenged from the hold.
“What happened?” Seren asked. “Why did Dalan set her free? Why is she helping us now?”
“Vow of honesty,” Zed said, taking another bite. “Makes the Spears do stupid things. That’s my best guess.”
“Why would her vow of honesty have anything to do with it?”
“You ask a lot of annoying questions,” Zed said.
“You’re an inquisitive,” Seren countered. “Don’t you ever ask questions?”
“Sometimes,” Zed said, “but they’re not always the best ways to get answers. If you want to know why Eraina is here you should probably talk to her yourself. Or just stop bothering me. I really don’t care.”
