by Jeff LaSala
She turned her head sharply, just in time to see something dark and winged fly past the window. She heard the driver shout and felt the coach lurch to a stop. A heartbeat later, the entire conveyance shook as something solid and heavy landed atop it. Scarla gasped, dropping her book in favor of keeping her seat.
There was no room for Soneste to employ her rapier in the tight confines of the coach, so her long knife had to do. Soneste slipped the crysteel dagger from her boot and held it up, feeling the sleight hum of its power in her mind. Scarla’s eyes widened as a reflection of the rising sun appeared to shine through the violet-tinged blade.
“Just sit still,” Soneste said, then kicked the coach door open.
With her feet braced against the floor, she was half-crouched and ready to spring out. She pointed the blade forward when she saw leaden talons grip the open doorframe from above. The Inquisitive reporter sucked in her breath, stifling another gasp.
“Sonnnesste!”
It took her a moment to realize the assailant had spoken her name. The voice was harsh, like the scrape of metal against stone. Soneste saw the shadow of leathery wings flap as the creature lifted into the air again. The coach rattling as the weight lifted.
Soneste took the opportunity to step out the door and off to one side, keeping her back against the side of the coach. The monstrous figure dropped to the ground directly in front of her. The creature’s body was as large as a tall man’s, though his stooped posture brought his smoldering red eyes to her level. Gray skin the texture of roughly hewn stone, folding bat-like wings, and a pair of prodigious, curving horns made the creature’s presence unsettling.
Soneste presented the dagger before her, its gleaming tip stopping only inches from the gargoyle’s diabolic face.
“What do you want?” she demanded, heart racing with anticipation.
She’d only seen these things from a distance before, perched on tower eaves or winging through the night. His torso was wrapped tightly in a black leather harness, clasped at the front with a House Vadalis brooch. The gargoyle was a courier, yet Soneste saw no note or package in its claws, which flexed even now as if eager to rend flesh.
Most pedestrians gave the creature a wide berth. A few bolder ones stopped to watch.
“To Warden Towersss,” the gargoyle said in a forced whisper, as if knowing the full volume of his voice was unwelcome. “You are bidden!”
“Who sent you?” Soneste asked. Gargoyle couriers were not cheap, and they were usually sent to a single destination. This one had been instructed to find her.
Scarla poked her head out of the coach. The coachman approached as well, his face soured by the unexpected messenger. The way he hefted the mace in his hand suggested he’d seen some action in the war and knew how to wield it.
“Vvvelderan, d’Tharassshk,” the gargoyle rasped. His crowned head swiveled to face the armed coachman. A claw pointed to him in warning, and the gargoyle issued a guttural hiss that sounded like steel drawn across a whetstone. When the coachman stopped, the creature looked back to Soneste. “You will go, yess?”
“Yes, I will go,” she replied. “What is your name, courier?”
“Zzar.”
“Thank you, Zzar, for your obvious expedience.” Soneste dropped a sovereign into one clawed hand.
The gargoyle bowed his head, his duty fulfilled, then turned and leapt from the bridge. His wings snapped loudly as they caught the air, carrying the demonic shape swiftly out of sight.
She looked to Scarla, who had stepped out of the coach and was scratching furiously in her book.
“My life isn’t really this exciting, you know,” Soneste said.
“Sure, sure.” The girl laughed. “This will look great in print. Gargoyles usually just deliver packages.”
Soneste nodded. “Can we finish this some other time?”
Indeed, maybe her life would be this exciting from now on. Despite the emergency the creature’s presence implied, a smile crept onto her face.
Soneste apologized to the coachman and hailed a skycoach instead. Her mind began to wander as she fished in her pocket for more silver. Why would Thuranne send for her so urgently?
Thuranne d’Velderan’s Investigative Services was always easy to find, situated at the corner of Glaive and Pike Streets. The district of Warden Towers was home to the Menthis Plateau’s Watch garrison, so residents and visitors alike were forced to walk through a veritable gauntlet of lawmen to reach their destination. “Keeps most of our clients legitimate,” Thuranne often said.
Soneste was greeted by her younger colleagues and tried hard to ignore the few poorly concealed scowls from the older agents. Old Roren, Thuranne’s senior inquisitive, glared at her openly. As much to get away from those looks as to find out what Thuranne needed, she hurried to the door at the back of the agency’s modest space.
When she stepped into Thuranne’s office, she felt a wave of relief at the smile upon her employer’s face. There couldn’t be that much of an emergency. The twist of her dragonmark was visible on one side of Thuranne’s neck, shades of indigo almost hidden against her brown-gray skin.
Sheaves of paper and leather-bound ledgers were stacked in great volume and perfect order, as always, upon her boss’s desk. Choice clippings from the Sharn Inquisitive and the Korranberg Chronicle were tacked against one wall, while small painted portraits of Thuranne’s nieces and nephews adorned the opposite wall. The older woman’s workspace was, just like her, at once sedulous and intimate.
Soneste spoke first. “They called you ‘Lady’ in the Inquisitive.” She removed her coat and laid it over the back of a chair. It was always a little too hot in here. The ruffled, sleeveless white shirt she wore cooled her nicely.
“It gave me a good laugh too.” The half-orc’s smile dissolved. She looked down at a pair of scrolls in her hand, then back to Soneste. “Only two days, girl, and already I’m dragging you back to work.”
“You scared the life out of me,” Soneste said, unbuckling her rapier and propping it up against the desk before dropping into the chair. “Since when do you use Vadalis gargoyles?”
Thuranne snorted, small tusks peering up from beneath her lower lip. “I figured I haven’t offended my own house enough.”
Soneste smiled, studying the face of her mentor and friend. The older woman looked worried. “What’s happened?”
Thuranne sighed. “I need you to take a new case, Soneste, and it kills me to ask you now. If it were any other job, I’d find someone else. You’ve earned this time off, to say the least.”
Soneste’s heart sank, but only for a moment. She wanted to be taken seriously, after all. She didn’t meet Thuranne’s eyes yet, merely fidgeting with her latest acquisition—a serpent-shaped, gold armband with red garnet eyes.
“Why the urgency?” she asked, looking up.
“This,” Thuranne said, holding up one of the scrolls, “is a message from the Justice Ministry of Korth. It was forwarded to me by speaking stone. It’s about a murder that took place there last night.”
Soneste’s stomach clenched. Korth, capital city of Karrnath. A new case. Urgent. Here she was, sitting in Thuranne’s office, probably the only one to hear about this right now. Silently, she wondered if Thuranne had considered anyone else? Maybe Roren—and why not? He was the veteran inquisitive around here.
But more than Thuranne she had chosen Soneste, she was afraid to ask how a crime in a faraway nation concerned Investigative Services, which by Thuranne’s own admission was just one of many agencies in Sharn and hardly the most prestigious. Why not involve House Tharashk itself? A far more powerful entity and one capable of employing magical divination.
Thuranne unrolled the second scroll. Sunlight from the window behind her made the parchment translucent. Soneste could see the seal of the Brelish crown, its authenticity notarized by House Sivis.
“This is a letter from the King’s Citadel, which came to me this morning, asking me to set someone on the Korth murder cas
e. Now I could speculate why they sent this to me, but given the facts, I’d say the crown wants to avoid a messy political situation and they don’t want to involve the dragonmarked houses at all if they don’t have to. There are some members of the Citadel who know me, and they know that I seldom involve my own house.”
“Why not send Roren?” she asked.
“You know why. He’s getting on in years. I need someone younger, stronger.”
“What about Abraxis Wren? He loves going abroad.” Wren was a House Medani inquisitive she’d worked for when she’d first come to Sharn, a few years before joining Thuranne’s agency.
The half-orc rolled her eyes. “The Citadel came to me, not Wren or House Medani, and they asked for you, Soneste. You’ve really made a name for yourself now.” A ghost of a smile lit Thuranne’s face. “They know you’re not afraid to take on the political or the powerful.”
Soneste nodded, not amused, allowing the gravity of the half-orc’s words to settle in. “What do we know?” she said, resigned, but she already knew where this was going.
Things had finally begun to happen for her. Good things. Soneste had gone from the agency’s most promising inquisitive to its best, seemingly overnight. She’d earned this new case, of course, but going to grim Karrnath even if she left right that moment would take up valuable time, time that meant the difference between solving the case and failing miserably. Even a one-way trip by lightning rail would take days.
“Do you know the name ir’Daresh?” Thuranne asked.
Soneste didn’t, but the prefix “ir” always indicated a family of noble blood. She shook her head.
“Gamnon ir’Daresh is—was—a Brelish ambassador. He was killed on Karrnathi soil in the very shadow of Crownhome. Hence the political posture. Of course, Breland has many ambassadors and things happen from time to time. Gamnon wasn’t so important that we risk the attention of King Boranel just yet. But he wasn’t so minor that the murder is inconsequential. The motive is key here.”
“So all we need to do is determine who the killer is and why he did it? That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s it,” Thuranne said, a smile returning in full and bringing her orcish features to the fore. “We need to know how deep this goes. If you perceive the case to be a larger threat against Breland, then you send word back to me. The Dark Lanterns may get involved at that point, but if it’s just some local lunatic, identify him and let the Karrns apprehend him. He will most likely face Karrnathi … punishment. That will be decided between the Justice Ministry of Korth and the King’s Citadel.”
Even as Thuranne spoke, Soneste imagined a Brelish nobleman lying dead in a cold alley with fresh blood pooling between the cobbles, a dagger twisted into his gut by a passing assassin. Almost immediately, red and black-robed clerics flocked like vultures around the body in the imagined scene.
“Wait,” Soneste said. “This is Karrnath, we’re speaking of. Can’t their priests just … talk to the ambassador? Or what’s left of him?
Thuranne sucked her teeth. “Not with his head missing.”
“I … see,” said Soneste. “It’s that kind of case.”
“Even if it weren’t, you’d be smart to avoid that sort of magic in Karrn,” Thuranne said. “The Blood of Vol doesn’t rule the kingdom, but they’ve got their followers in a good number of places. Like as not, it would be a Cult priest doing the speaking. You don’t want to mix yourself up with them if you can help it.”
The Blood of Vol—a cult of nefarious reputation and the former national religion of Karrnath until King Kaius severed all political ties with the Cult. The king had never been able to dissolve all connections with the Cult of Vol, but it still thrived more in Karrnath than anywhere on Eberron. The Cultists placed far too much value on blood, bloodlines, and allegedly even revered the undead.
Soneste straightening in her chair. “All right. What else do we know?”
“Very little. Only a few details were provided in the letter. The Civic Minister, Hyran ir’Tennet, will provide you the rest. He did say that there is already one suspect, spotted at the scene.”
“I don’t suppose that would be Gamnon’s wife? A bit of revenge for some past indiscretion?” Soneste wondered if it could be that simple, a crime of passion. These were the easiest to reveal.
“No,” Thuranne answered. “As the murderer also killed Gamnon’s wife, their two children, four servants, and three city guards.”
Two children. Soneste felt cold. This was a slaughter, no simple murder. Her imagined crime scene relocated from a slum alley to a private room in some luxurious restaurant. If a professional killer was responsible, then he may have been hired by someone else. Assassins always complicated a case. Nothing was finished until you found the patron.
“And … their heads too?” Soneste asked, afraid to imagine it.
“No. Only Gamnon’s.”
Soneste sighed with relief. “Then a cleric needn’t speak to Gamnon himself. His family, the servants—any of them might be able to say what happened. We could bring a cleric of the Host and stay out of the Cult’s way.”
Thuranne shook her head. “It’s not that simple. The ir’Daresh family were respectable followers of the Silver Flame, and Maril ir’Daresh’s family has already forbidden any necromancy to be performed on her body, her children’s, or the servants—though the Host only knows how far they’ll get with that claim. You might be able to work around the family, but it would take too long.” Thuranne’s face softened. “Besides, put yourself in their place. Would you let Karrns raise a loved one’s corpse to get answers Sharn’s brightest young inquisitive could work out on her own?”
The question brought Soneste’s mother to mind. She pictured her staring out their third story apartment window in Starilaskur, still waiting for her father to return home from the war. Of course, he never would.
“Point taken,” Soneste said, wondering idly if the killer had targeted the ambassador’s family for this very convenience. “Where did the massacre take place?” she asked. Even as she spoke, Soneste felt an unmitigated loathing for the killer. She didn’t care if the children were Brelish or Karrns. No one had the right to harm a child—especially now, in a time of struggling peace. The haunted face of Shauranna Rokesko came to mind. The young aide had spent a week in her captor’s deranged presence before Soneste had led agents of the Watch to their hideout in the Cogs.
“The ambassador’s chambers in a tower known as the Ebonspire, a sort of hostel for prestigious visitors of the city.”
“Ebonspire. Sounds like a fun place.”
“Thank you, Soneste, for taking this. It might be easier than you think.”
Soneste nodded. “I’d better be on my way then. Do you know when the next run leaves?”
Thuranne made a curious face. “Well, the good news is you won’t have to take the lightning rail. The bad news is to you need to be there today.”
Chapter
THREE
The Priest
Sul, the 8th of Sypheros, 998 YK
Gan dreamed of the perfect woman.
She was tall and slender like he, but possessed none of the androgynous features of his race. Tresses of black shot through her snowy hair and her eyes were luminous, silver-white. On this occasion, she wore a silken gown of form-fitting red—a shift-weave garment like those he’d seen blue-blooded socialites wear in Sharn.
Gan approached his dream courtesan, poised to steal a kiss and perhaps a little more.
Of course, it wasn’t exactly a dream. He’d been awake for hours now. The state into which he’d submerged himself for most of the day idealized the world and fashioned anew his imagined temptress. The Traveler knew the women of Karrnath were far too cold for him and lacked the subtlety his affections demanded. Not even the Midnight Market offered companions fitting for someone of Gan’s caliber.
But now she was slipping away. To his dismay, the entire waking episode was fading, the crimson-clad form transforming into another
shape altogether. She wasn’t just teasing him again by shapechanging. This metamorphosis was not of her—or his—volition.
Her form diffused into oblivion, slowly replaced by a voluminous shape of midnight blue. A multicolored mask of lacquered darkwood resolved in perfect, horrible clarity, framed by a deep and shadowed hood. The expression carved into the artificial face was familiar—the perpetual frown Gan feared above all others.
Powerful wizards often crafted masks and enchanted them with defensive properties to grant their wearers aid on the battlefield. Others wove divinatory powers into them to better discern an enemy’s own defenses. Gan’s employer had done so to hide his own loathsome face.
Gan was dimly aware that he was being held upright by strong, well-muscled arms and that he was no longer in the bedroom of his personal flat. He could just make out the shapes of workroom machinery and somewhere nearby he could hear the muffled roar of a great furnace. With each second, he became more cognizant of where he was and under whose scrutiny he was bound. The fingers that gripped his arms were rough and pitiless. Pressure had decidedly given way to pain.
“My lord?” he croaked, forgetting how dry his mouth could become.
“It was my understanding, Gan,” Lord Charoth said in his dry monotone, “that dreamlily did not render its user unresponsive, drooling and oblivious to the world around him.” He held up an empty glass vial in one gloved hand. Gan saw only a drop or two of the precious iridescent liquid within.
Dread wormed its way into his stomach. He couldn’t bring himself to speak again.
“Indeed, I was under the impression that it induced in its user a state of euphoria which stripped him of all fear, as well as precision and strength of will.”
Charoth paused, then looked up to the massive figure who held him upright from behind. “Is it your professional opinion, Master Rhazan, that Gan is lucid and fully emerged from his episode?”
Rhazan! Gan felt the bugbear’s powerful hands release him, but before he could fall, a heavy black chain dropped before his eyes. It was drawn immediately backward to close tightly around his neck, the barbed links cutting into his skin. Gan gurgled with pain and struggled for air, though he was allowed only enough to remain conscious and aware.
