Sul, Nymm 1, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.
Sabira found a sewer access point quickly after her encounter with the ooze and scrambled up the dangling rope to the street above. She surfaced in the Marketplace across from the Shiny Shilling and made her way quickly back to the Deneith enclave and Hammersmith’s, ignoring the looks she got as she went.
Once inside, she crossed over to the bar and retook her seat. Her glass still sat there, untouched. Her return drew no more notice than her disappearance had, and Sabira had to wonder about the observational skills of her fellow patrons. Then again, if she’d come here to relax and have fun, she doubted she’d be up in arms over another customer vanishing before her eyes, either—unless, of course, he owed her money or a drink.
Speaking of which, it was far past time to finally have a swig of hers. Raising the tumbler to her lips, she watched a small army of Sabiras do the same in the myriad reflections cast in the bottles and flasks behind the bar. None of those Sabiras showed any sign of Heith’s loving ministrations, but a thousand bandaged hands throbbed as they lifted a corresponding number of glasses to a thousand red and blistered jaws. A thousand faces held back a wince as a thousand raw throats had to settle for a dainty, very un-Sabira-like sip.
“There you are!”
Sabira turned on her stool rather than watch the other Marshal approach in the curved glassware: One Prynn was more than enough.
“I’ve been looking for you since the last bell,” he exclaimed, annoyance writ in bold strokes on his broad face. The irritation morphed into puzzlement as he took in her disheveled appearance. “What in the name of the Flame happened to you? You take a turn downstairs in the fighting pits?”
“Something like that,” Sabira muttered, then quickly changed the subject. “You brought my half of the money?” Somehow, she doubted that was the case.
Prynn snorted. “No. I don’t even have my half.”
Ah. That explained his irritation. The bulk of it, anyway.
His next words explained the rest.
“Greigur wants to see you.”
Captain Greigur sat behind his desk, much as his underling, Sorn, had done a floor below. But where the walls of that office were covered in wanted notices and maps, Greigur’s office contained only a single tapestry on which was written the entire Code of Galifar, woven in archaic black letters on a silvercloth background. Ironic, considering his reputation for flaunting that code was at least as deserved as hers.
Greigur looked up as Sabira stepped through the open door. Seeing who it was, he carefully wiped his quill clean of ink and set it aside.
“Close the door behind you, Marshal.”
That wasn’t a good sign.
He gestured to one of two chairs facing his desk, and starting talking even before she was completely seated.
“I thought I told you when I partnered you with Prynn and sent you after Caldamus that I wouldn’t brook brutality on this job. We might have looser rules than in Karrnath, but Marshals here still follow the Code of Galifar.”
“I hit him,” she admitted, seeing no point in denying it. It wasn’t as if the changeling hadn’t deserved it. “He resisted arrest. It happens.”
“Well, when it happens on a job commissioned by the Defender’s Guild on behalf of Queen Aurala herself, we make sure we pour a healing potion or two down the suspect’s throat before we march him across the entire length of the city. Especially when both she and King Boranel will be sitting in on his trial.”
“Trial?” Sabira repeated, sure she had misheard him. And since when had the job been commissioned for Aurala? Prynn hadn’t told her that. “With all due respect, Captain, Caldamus practically admitted his guilt in Goren’s death. He—”
“I don’t care if he gave you a confession signed in his own blood, Marshal. It would have been better for all of us if you’d just brought him in dead, like you usually do. Now we’ve confirmed that he is a member of King Boranel’s Dark Lanterns, and that changes everything.”
The Lanterns. Of course. She’d known he was a suspected spy. She just hadn’t pegged him for one of Breland’s preeminent intelligence gatherers and assassins. No wonder Aurala wanted him unmarked: A bargaining chip was worth more when it wasn’t damaged.
“I didn’t know—” she began, only to be interrupted by Greigur’s fist slamming against his desk, nearly spilling his ink pot.
“Which is exactly why you follow the orders you’re given, Marshal. For the life of me, I don’t know why you haven’t been expelled from the House for your maverick ways, or at the very least demoted. I know what you did back in the Holds, but it in no way justifies—”
It was Sabira’s turn to interrupt, and she did so in a voice as flat and icy as Karrn Bay in the grip of midwinter.
“Again, with all due respect, Captain, you have no idea what I did in the Holds, and it’s not for you to question the Baron’s faith in me or in my work.”
Greigur just smirked.
“It seems he’s questioning it himself these days, Lyet,” he responded, handing her a folded missive that bore the Baron’s own seal. “This arrived yesterday by House Orien courier. Your vacation from Karrnath is over. You’re to report to the Vulyar outpost within one week’s time.”
Sabira couldn’t quite keep the tremor from her hand as she opened the letter, but she told herself it was just the pain from her burns. Not dread. Not anguish.
Even so, as she scanned the brief note, her heart scrabbled up her throat and threatened to burst from her mouth. Or maybe that was the Frostmantle Fire, scalding as much on the return trip as it had on the way down.
To the Sentinel Marshal Sabira Lyet d’Deneith
From the Office of Assignments
Sentinel Tower, Karrlakton, Karrnath
Sabira,
The House has need of your services back in Karrnath.
Report to the Vulyar office on or before the 8th of Nymm,
998 YK. Do not be late.
Baron Breven d’Deneith
Patriarch, House Deneith
“Is this—is this a joke?” Sabira asked when she could speak, not caring that her voice shook and almost broke.
It had to be, didn’t it? Breven couldn’t possibly be ordering her back to Vulyar, not when he’d personally sworn to her that she’d never have to return there again. He couldn’t really be breaking his word to her, could he? And forcing her to break her own, since she’d vowed never to venture within a thousand miles of the Holds again.
Greigur frowned, obviously nonplussed by her reaction.
“The Baron’s not one for humor.”
Sabira looked up from the paper, meeting his gray eyes numbly with her own.
“No. He’s not. And neither am I.”
She pulled the leather cord and brooch out from beneath her shirt and stared for a long moment at the three enameled heads that represented everything she had in this world. Everything she was.
With a growl, she yanked the cord so hard it broke with an audible snap. Then she tossed both cord and chimera on Greigur’s desk.
“I quit.”
She spun on her heel, squeezing her eyes shut against the hurt. The betrayal.
“Sabira, wait!”
She turned back to Greigur, who was on his feet now, her discarded brooch in his hand, his shock plain.
“Are you sure—?” He must have seen the answer in her face, for he didn’t finish the question. Instead, he asked another. “You realize that if you do this now, you’ll be forfeiting your half of the fee for bringing Caldamus in?”
The anger was gone from his voice, and he almost sounded fatherly. Of course, Breven had sounded that way, too, back when he was making promises he clearly never intended to keep.
“I don’t care. Prynn can have it. I’m done. With all of it.”
Not waiting for a response, she walked out of his office, turning her back on the only thing that had any meaning in her life since Ned’s death.
Host, but she needed a drink, and fast! Something stronger than dwarven whiskey this time, and there was only one place in Stormreach to go for that.
The Bogwater.
The Bogwater was the only open-air tavern in Stormreach. And with a waterfall, a pool, a fully equipped stage, three separate common “rooms,” and a multitude of trees, it was one of the jewels of the elven House Phiarlan enclave.
The tavern’s human owner, Borlan Corrigan, was a former client of Sabira’s who owed his life to her several times over. For her, he brought out his own special brew, Bor’s Bog, a spirit distilled from potatoes and beet sugar. The stuff was vile but potent, and it definitely got the job done. Sabira ordered a double.
“Be sleepin’ under my tables tonight, then?”
“Tonight and for the next few days, if I have my way,” Sabira answered, draining the small glass in one gulp and signaling for another. She planned to get good and drunk, in a way that she hadn’t been since the night of Leoned’s memorial. It wasn’t as if she had any reason not to, now.
Borlan nodded.
“I’ll make sure Hawrog knows not to trouble you.”
Sabira was almost disappointed at that. Hawrog Morr was the Bogwater’s ogre bouncer, and going a few rounds with the brute might be just the thing to dispel the building thunderheads of fury that threatened to overwhelm her.
Later, she decided, as Borlan poured out another two ounces. Her toes were already beginning to tingle and a pleasant fuzziness was clouding the edges of her vision. By her third glass, she was floating in a haze of lutesong and bird music and could no longer feel her legs. By the fourth, she slid spinelessly off her stool, cracked her head against the floor, and knew nothing more.
Mol, Nymm 9, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.
Sabira sat at a table on the west side of the Bogwater, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for Lille to arrive. She’d recovered from her three-day hangover and found a few jobs at the tavern to help replenish her dwindling store of sovereigns. But trollhunting for that arrogant Aratrix and laying Lady Nepenthe’s son to rest only paid so much. She was never going to have what she needed to pay Sollego back by Lharvion at this rate. She needed help, and Lille owed her for that business with the pirates. Sabira still had the scar to prove it, on the back of her leg where that wretched kobold had tried to hamstring her.
The fact that Lille was virtually the only person in House Deneith who was still speaking to her was completely beside the point.
When the Deneith sergeant did finally show up, though, she wasn’t alone. A white-bearded dwarf dressed in a purple shirt and a finely brocaded red vest accompanied her.
“Sergeant,” Sabira said, rising from her chair as the two approached.
“Mar—Sabira,” Lille replied, clearly uncomfortable. “This is Arach d’Kundarak. He might have some work for you, if you’re willing to leave Stormreach for a few days.”
Sabira gestured for them to sit before retaking her own seat.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve got an airship leaving for Sharn tomorrow afternoon with a hold full of dragonshards. I’ve got my own guards, of course, but one of them suffered an unfortunate injury on the docks last night and I haven’t the time to find a suitable replacement. Lille, here, mentioned she knew someone who might fit the bill, but I wanted to see for myself.”
The dwarf looked her up and down, taking in her burnt armor, the fresh scars on her jaw and hand, and the tip of the shard axe peeking over her shoulder.
His blue eyes lingered on the weapon, first widening in surprise and then narrowing in suspicion.
“The sergeant didn’t tell me she was offering the services of the famed Shard Axe,” he said dubiously. By Dol Dorn’s rusted codpiece, how Sabira hated that name! And how it followed her wherever she went, even to the wilds of Xen’drik. Best end this before he demanded the whole Hostforsaken story behind it.
“Probably because she didn’t know she was. It’s not something I like to advertise. Better to be unknown, and underestimated, don’t you think?”
The dwarf grunted grudging assent.
“But I thought the Shard Axe was a Marshal …?”
Sabira’s chin lifted as she met his distrusting stare.
“Was being the operative word. I spent two years in the Blademarks, another four in the Defender’s Guild, and seven as a Sentinel Marshal, and you already know what I did to earn my brooch. I should think my credentials speak for themselves.”
“Indeed,” the dwarf answered, putting up a staying hand. “You are more than qualified for this task. Which then begs the question: Is it even worth your time?”
Sabira shrugged, feigning nonchalance. What wasn’t worth her time, at this point?
“Give me your terms, and I’ll let you know.”
“They’re simple enough. Five dragons to accompany the cargo to Sharn. Of course, you’ll have to find your own way back to Stormreach, but with that much platinum in your pocket, I don’t see that being a problem.”
Now it was Sabira’s turn to be suspicious. Five platinum dragons just to babysit an airship full of dragonshards? What wasn’t he telling her?
“You expecting an attack?”
“I always expect an attack. That way I’m never caught unprepared.”
The dwarf motioned at a passing serving girl, and it was then that Sabira caught sight of his fingers, which had been in his vest pockets while he walked and then hidden under the table in his lap. Until now.
Though unadorned, each finger showed indentations and a band of slight discoloration at its base.
By itself, it meant nothing. Many people wore rings on every finger, and many people chose not to wear them when they traveled inside the city. But Sabira had spent years in the Holds, and she knew better than most what those markings represented, at least on a wealthy dwarf trying to hire a guard at an unreasonably high price.
Arach was a member of the Aurum. Without the actual rings, there was no telling how high up the chain he was, but one thing was certain. If even half the things she’d heard about the ostensibly scholarly (but probably criminal) organization were true, he was someone she should be arresting, not working for.
Someone she would be arresting, if she were still a Marshal.
But she wasn’t. She was just a down-on-her-luck mercenary now, and she couldn’t afford to turn her nose up at the kind of money he was offering, regardless of the blood it was probably drenched in.
“All right. I’m in.”
“Excellent!” Arach declared, sticking out his hand toward her. “You can meet up with the rest of my crew at the airship tower in the Kundarak enclave. Be there by the fourth bell; the ship will depart soon after. You’ll get the first half of your payment once you’re in the air and the second half once the ship docks safely in Sharn.”
“How will I know which airship is yours?” Sabira asked, shaking the proffered hand.
Arach smiled, as if at some private joke.
“Oh, you’ll know.”
Then he looked past Lille and waved at someone. As he stood to excuse himself, Sabira turned to see to whom he’d been motioning. An aristocratic elf woman was approaching them, her bright red hair piled atop her head in a fashionable coif. She nodded at Arach, but did not stop to speak to him, instead moving past them to take a chair at another table, just out of earshot.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Arach said. “You’re not the only appointment I have today.”
“Of course,” Lille murmured, the first thing she’d said since introducing them.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Sabira added, standing. She watched the dwarf walk over to the redhead’s table, and then she turned back to grab Lille’s wrist just as the other woman was trying to slip away.
“Leaving so soon, Lille? We’ve barely had a chance to catch up.”
The Deneith woman jerked her hand away.
Sabira had suspected as much. You didn’t turn your back on the highest honor House Deneith could bestow and expect there to be no repercussions for it. She was lucky Greigur hadn’t put a price on her head.
Yet.
“Go. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I just wanted to say … thank you.”
“Anything for the vaunted Shard Axe,” Lille replied with a quick, sardonic grin, and then she turned and hurried from the tavern, leaving Sabira well and truly alone.
Since Arach’s airship wasn’t leaving until tomorrow and she didn’t trust the dwarf farther than she could throw him, Sabira decided to do a little pre-mission reconnaissance. She headed for the House Kundarak stronghold on the opposite side of the Marketplace, taking care to steer clear of any place frequented by Deneith mercenaries. Someone trying to curry favor might easily take Greigur’s order not to help her as an invitation to actively hinder her, and she could do without that sort of trouble right now.
As she walked along Silversmith Road, the overcast sky finally delivered on its promise and cold gray rain sheeted down, soaking her through in moments. She didn’t bother seeking cover or even pulling up the hood of her cloak; the cloudburst would be over as quickly as it had begun, and in this oppressive heat, she’d be dry again in no time. Well, as dry as anyone ever got on this Hostforsaken jungle continent.
Dodging rushed market-goers whose purchases were too pressing to wait for more clement weather, Sabira felt a sudden tingling at the nape of her neck, so strong that she actually slapped at it, thinking she might have been bitten by something. When her hand came back clean, she knew that prickle had a more menacing source.
The Shard Axe: An Eberron Novel (Dungeons & Dragons) Page 5