Benti stood at the barred window, watching him in silence.
The shock of her unexpected presence and the urgency of what he had discovered ground together inside him. He choked and fought for speech. She beat him to it. “So Biish didn’t know all your secrets after all.”
Natrac just stared at her as he tried to collect himself. There was a faint glow, paler than moonlight and plainly magical, shimmering from a ring on one of her fingers—probably just enough light for her to see in the dark chamber without alerting him. The faint shadows that it cast gave her face a calculating look, as if she was sizing him up and trying to determine how best to use what she had just discovered.
In that moment, two ideas flicked through Natrac’s mind. One was insanely desperate: throw himself on Benti’s mercy and beg her to warn the kalashtar. Biish had sent her out of the room as he and Vennet had talked. She might not know everything the two men had discussed. She was still, however, one of Biish’s people. She almost certainly knew something of what was coming already, and it probably didn’t bother her.
The second idea caught and lingered. If she was looking for a way to use what she had seen, maybe he could find a way to use her. He looked at Benti and tried to think like she must have been thinking, like a young and ambitious criminal with a secret her chib didn’t know.
It was easy. He’d been there once himself. Natrac thrust his jaw forward to show his tusks and smiled around them. “It’s a good spot to listen,” he said. “And to watch.” He tapped the inside of his right forearm meaningfully. Benti’s eyes flickered, and he saw her turn her right arm, the one with the dragonmark, away slightly. He just kept his smile steady, fighting the need for escape, and asked, “Maybe you want to know what they talked about after you left?”
“I can find that out easily enough—although it must have been significant to make Biish leave you.” The outer door of the chamber stood very slightly ajar—Benti had probably left it that way so the sounds of its closing wouldn’t give her away—and Biish’s shouts rumbled through the gap. Benti’s gaze remained on Natrac. “I came up here to talk to you before Biish did, but it looks like I didn’t need to hurry. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll come back to you eventually. He has a long memory.”
“I’m familiar with it,” Natrac said. He didn’t look away from her, but his mind was racing. She hardly seemed more than intrigued by the hidden compartment. Maybe she was bluffing. Maybe she had some other way of listening in to Biish’s private conversations already. The only criminals Natrac had ever encountered who weren’t interested in knowing what their bosses were up to were either terrified or stupid, and Benti didn’t seem to be either. He changed his tactics. “He’s not much more than a thug with luck and a little brain. What brings someone like you to work for him?”
Benti’s delicate eyebrows arched. “Motive. Opportunity. The right talent at the right time.” Then, to his frustration, she changed the topic. “Did you know that the Sentinel Marshals still have an active warrant for you, Natrac?”
“Do they?” Natrac asked. It was a struggle to keep himself calm. Benti knew he wanted to escape, he was certain of it. He was also certain that she knew she had all of the power in their unspoken negotiations—she was the one on the other side of the door. She was toying with him.
There had to be something she wanted though, especially if she’d come up here so quickly after leaving Biish’s side. Natrac stepped right up to the bars. “I suppose you’re wondering why an old ganglord who fled both a rival and the Sentinel Marshals would risk coming back to Sharn.”
“Actually, I was wondering what you knew about our Lord Storm.”
Natrac tried to conceal the surprise that passed through him, but Benti smiled at the slight widening of his eyes. “You want out, don’t you, Natrac? Help me and maybe I’ll help you.” She didn’t wait for a response. Her voice dropped slightly. “Biish was so excited at getting his old nemesis in his hands that he didn’t think to try and find out what you’d been doing in Malleon’s Gate. I asked a few questions though. You were busy last night, Natrac. I don’t know who this green-eyed human you were asking about is, but the half-elf you were looking for sounds a lot like Storm. If you saw my dragonmark through your peephole, then you saw Storm. Is he the one you’re looking for?”
Natrac watched her for a moment, suspicion and mistrust pooling in his belly, then nodded slowly.
Benti’s face tightened. “I know he’s from House Lyrandar—I would have known even without his joke of an alias—but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. Who is he?”
She was holding something back, he knew. Biish hadn’t seemed to care who Lord Storm really was, and Natrac had to admit to himself that if someone using an alias had come to him with enough gold while he’d been in Biish’s position, he wouldn’t have cared either. And Biish wouldn’t be happy if he discovered his captive had escaped, but Benti was still willing to risk it to find out Vennet’s identity. Natrac ground his teeth together, then thrust his jaw forward. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.
Benti looked into his eyes, her face utterly expressionless, then turned away. The floor seemed to fall out from under Natrac as she walked to the door of the outer chamber.
“No!” he shouted and flung himself at the cell door, clutching at the bars of the window. “Benti! Benti, come back! I’ll tell you. Let me out! I need to get out!”
But the chamber door closed behind her and didn’t open again.
CHAPTER
10
Dandra had hoped to go to Nevchaned’s and examine Erimelk early in the morning—as early as was polite and possibly even earlier. Unfortunately, by the time Singe and Ashi had returned and relayed the tale of their brush with Mithas d’Deneith and their discovery of Natrac’s past, the night was almost over. They’d decided to sleep for just a little while, to give Natrac a little longer to come back from his mysterious errands, before going to Nevchaned’s house.
A little while had turned into a long while. The sun stood at noon, blazing directly over Sharn’s heart. The new day was as bright as the previous day had been dark. Natrac had still not returned.
“Should we look for him?” Ashi asked.
Dandra shook her head. “Where would we start?”
“He could be in trouble.”
“We’re in trouble too,” said Singe. “Natrac will have to wait.” He put away his spellshard—a fist-sized dragonshard imprinted with the arcane texts of his magic—and stood up. “I’m ready.”
The time he took with the spellshard when she wanted to be gone rubbed at Dandra, but the wizard argued for the necessity of studying more sleeping spells in case they needed them against Dah’mir’s herons. Dandra hoped they wouldn’t need the spells. She knew her hope was probably misplaced. Before they left the apartment, she slid her short spear into the harness across her back.
The people in the streets of Fan Adar seemed no less on edge in the bright light of early afternoon than they had in the gloom of evening or the dark of night. Now that she knew what was happening, Dandra could feel the way that they hung back, not just from strangers but out of wariness born by the unpredictable violence of the killing song. Dandra couldn’t blame them. Had the council of elders done the right thing by concealing the killing song? Would knowing that a song lay behind the madness and murders in the community ease Fan Adar’s fears or just make them worse?
She, Singe, and Ashi walked with their heads raised, scanning the skies and high places for the black herons. Nevchaned did good business with the other inhabitants of Overlook district, and his home and shop were just beyond the limits of Fan Adar. Once they were beyond the Adaran neighborhood, the herons might be less of a concern, but until then, they had to be careful. Maybe Dah’mir wasn’t watching for them in particular, but there was no point in taking chances. Dandra was so focused on keeping her eyes open for the birds that she didn’t see Hanamelk until he was right in front of her.
“Dandra?” he said.
The soft word startled her as much as a shout, and she stumbled. Singe and Ashi closed around her, but she gestured them to ease as she recognized the lean, scholarly elder. “What are you doing here, Hanamelk?” she asked.
“I was on my way to look for you. I’ve been waiting with Nevchaned. We expected you earlier.”
If he noticed her embarrassed blush, he said nothing. Instead, he looked at Ashi and Singe, recognizing them from the memories she had shared through kesh. Dandra introduced them properly. The elder’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“Natrac isn’t with you?”
“He’s making inquiries of his own,” Singe said. He still had one eye on the skies. “If we’re going to talk, we should find somewhere covered.”
Hanamelk smiled. “Are you worried about Dah’mir’s herons? We’ve found a solution to them.”
“What kind of solution?” asked Dandra. “Selkatari didn’t convince the elders to kill them all, did she?”
“She came up with a more clever solution.” Hanamelk looked into the distance and pointed. “Look there. Do you see on that tower with the green windows?”
Dandra looked and picked out the ragged form of a heron just coming to perch on a ledge. It had barely settled, however, before it rose again with a screech and flurry of greasy feathers. Down on the street, a cheer went up from a group of children, and they ran to follow the harried bird.
“The children of Fan Adar,” Hanamelk said, “have a new game today. We should still be cautious, but we don’t need to be as afraid of being watched.”
He led them onward. “The other elders have also been busy. I went to the shrine of il-Yannah this morning.” He nodded toward a tall, elegant tower that rose up above the buildings a few blocks away. “The shrine is tended by my mentor, the seer Havakhad. He bends his thoughts toward seeking out Dah’mir.”
“Has he had any luck?” asked Dandra.
“Not yet, but he seems confident.” A wary smile grew on Hanamelk’s lips. “I believe his words were ‘Every dragon in Sharn believes he moves unseen.’”
Ashi flinched. “There are other dragons in Sharn?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Singe said. “It’s a big city. Don’t worry, Ashi. Dah’mir probably doesn’t want any other dragons finding out what he’s up to either.”
They put Fan Adar behind them. With the celebrations of Thronehold imminent, there was a festive mood in the other streets of Overlook. The banners and flags that had been on display the day before had been bolstered with reinforcements. Tavern doors and windows stood wide. The cries of peddlers and the songs of minstrels filled the air. If any herons were watching the district beyond Fan Adar, they would have been hard pressed to follow anyone in the swirl of crowds. Singe leaned closer to Hanamelk and said over the noise, “Do you know what the plans are for the celebration?”
The elder shrugged. “It hasn’t been of much concern to me. I’ve heard that the Lord Mayor intends to make them extravagant. There have been rumors that the elves of House Phiarlan and the gnomes of Zilargo are sponsoring a display of illusion over the city tonight. That will probably attract a lot of attention elsewhere.”
“But not in Fan Adar?” Dandra asked. “I’d think people would welcome the diversion.”
“Thronehold is a celebration of other people’s peace,” said Hanamelk. “We still fight a war.”
The street they followed gave onto a broad square at the edge of one great tower. Nevchaned’s home lay across the square, along an open side that offered a spectacular view of the heart of Sharn. In the towns and cities that Dandra had visited with Singe and Geth—Bull Hollow, Yrlag, Zarash’ak, and Vralkek—she’d found that the usual arrangement among merchants and craftsmen was to operate their business on the ground floor of a shop and dwell in rooms above. As was often the case, though, things were sometimes done differently in Sharn, and she felt a guilty pleasure in watching Ashi stare in confusion as they approached the small, single-story buildings that lined the edge of the square like bumps on the rim of a goblet. Beyond them was nothing but sky and the long plumes of smoke that streamed from a couple of the shops. It was a long stone’s throw to the next tower.
Dandra couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Look here, Ashi.” She drew her to the low wall, a barrier along the open edge of the courtyard, that ran between Nevchaned’s shop and the next building and leaned over.
The small shops were the roofs of tall, narrow buttress-towers that ran like veins up the side of the greater tower. Windows pierced the stone and doors opened onto another street a good dozen stories below. In other cities, a craftsman lived above his shop; in Sharn, it was entirely possible to live below it. Ashi gave a curse of amazement and stepped back. Dandra laughed again and turned to tug on the rope that hung beside Nevchaned’s door.
Somewhere inside the building, a chime rang. The door opened before the sound had even begun to fade, and Nevchaned gestured them inside. The shop was warm and smelled of hot metal. Examples of Nevchaned’s craft lined the walls—from spears and swords to daggers and arrows, to the more domestic metalwork of kitchen knives. “You weren’t seen?” Nevchaned asked as he closed the door behind them.
“I don’t think we were,” said Hanamelk. “The children are keeping the herons off balance.”
Nevchaned looked relieved. He nodded to Dandra. “Kuchta. Hanamelk found you?”
“Kuchtoa. We found each other. I’m sorry we’re late.” She introduced the others to Nevchaned, and the elder nodded respectfully to each of them, then went to one of the shop’s narrow windows and turned a sign from open to closed.
“We won’t be disturbed,” he said. “Come with me. Erimelk is”—his face wrinkled in distaste—“restrained in a storeroom below.”
“You don’t like restraining him?” Singe asked as Nevchaned led them to a staircase that descended through the floor to the living levels below. Nevchaned gave him a sideways glance.
“I know what is necessary,” he said. “Even if I don’t like it. Dandra said you were a veteran of the Last War?” Singe nodded and the old man sighed. “Then you’ve seen war torn—men and women who saw and did such things that although their bodies might have been whole, their minds and souls were wounded.”
Singe’s face wrinkled. “I’ve known war torn.”
“As have I. I learned my trade with Breland’s armies, sharpening their swords. A smith seldom sees battle directly, but I saw the aftermath of too many.” Nevchaned paused before a door at the bottom of the stairs. “Tell me, would you lock up someone who was war torn?”
“If they were violent,” Singe said. “House Deneith had some experience in dealing with mercenaries who’d become war torn. It’s better to try and bring them back into the unit—or the community. Often that’s the healing they need.”
“I think that’s what the victims of the killing song need as well. They’ve seen something in the killing song that breaks them.” He looked meaningfully at Hanamelk.
“The other elders don’t share this opinion?” Dandra asked.
“No,” Hanamelk answered.
Nevchaned shook his head. “Erimelk was my friend,” he said. “I’ve seen the war torn recover given time and care. I’ve never seen them recover when they’re shut in prisons.”
He pushed the door open. The apartment beyond, striped by the afternoon light that fell through the windows, was simple but clean. The air, however, was tainted by the sound of a muffled voice. At first, Dandra thought it was someone screaming, but then she realized it was someone singing hoarsely. It was wordless and largely tuneless, but definitely singing.
“We gag him,” Nevchaned said, “but he sings anyway.”
“Light of il-Yannah.” Dandra wanted to stick her fingers in her ears, not that it would have helped. The song seemed to penetrate right through her skull, bypassing her ears to take up residency in her head. Careful concentration dispersed the feeling. “How can you live with it? How can the other elders who hide the falle
n kalashtar live with it?”
“Each new victim seems to act a bit differently, though there have been patterns,” said Hanamelk. “Recent victims fell quickly, but seemed to retain a certain cunning. Erimelk hid himself from us for days until you appeared. Earlier victims fell slowly, as if the song took time to have an effect, but when they became violent, they were mindless. The first to fall to the song that we knew of, Makvakri, was moody and sang quietly for a few days before she turned violent. Ultimately, she killed herself before we could intervene.”
“The first that you knew of?” Singe asked.
“We know of seven victims, but three kalashtar have been missing since nearly the same time that the song began.” Hanamelk folded his hands. “We think that they suffered a fate similar to Makvakri and took their own lives, although there was no sign of her slower degradation.”
Singe pressed his lips together. “If there is someone or something behind the killing song, it almost seems like they’ve been tuning the song like an instrument, trying to find the right pitch.”
“That’s an unpleasant way of putting it.”
“Veterans have a way of facing the unpleasant, Hanamelk,” Nevchaned said. “This way.”
The song grew louder as Nevchaned ushered them along a short corridor toward another set of stairs. Before they reached the stairs, however, another door opened along the corridor, and Moon stuck his head out. The young kalashtar was still dressed in the clothes he had worn the previous night, including the Brelish blue vest. His eyes looked red, as if he had just woken up. Maybe he had—Dandra caught a glimpse of displeasure in Nevchaned’s face. Moon’s gaze darted between them all, then settled on her. For a moment, she thought she saw something flash in his eyes. Heat spread across her cheeks, and she looked away.
The young man’s red eyes had been soft with adoration. Il-Yannah, Dandra thought incredulously, he’s in love with me? She tried to remember saying or doing anything at the Gathering Light that might have encouraged him. Maybe he’d liked the way she handled the elders or the un-kalashtar manner of her behavior. Either way, there was something distinctly odd in the way he’d stared. She almost felt a chill—not a bad chill, but a shiver of familiarity.
The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III Page 13
