“Who’s there?” it demanded.
Cutter grimaced, tasting blood. He pushed himself up and jabbed the goblin in the throat. The creature dropped to its knees, its mouth wide open as it gasped for breath. Cutter leaned in, wincing at the stench of the goblin’s breath, and emptied the contents of the vial into its mouth. He snapped the goblin’s mouth shut, holding its jaws tight so it had no choice but to swallow the mixture.
The creature was trying to gasp for breath, making the task more difficult, but the liquid soon trickled down. The goblin faded away before Cutter’s eyes. He rammed the goblin’s head against the wall until it went limp in his arms.
Not much time. He dragged the goblin down the stairs, pausing every now and then to listen for the priests. He heard them, but they had not started to climb the stairs yet. They were being cautious in the face of an unknown enemy.
He arrived in the small room at the same time they did. Cutter hauled the goblin round in front of him as the old priest looked wildly around.
“He’s in here! I can smell him!”
The two priests spread out, leveling their crossbows. Cutter grimaced and moved directly in front of the nearest.
He heard the clack of the crossbows releasing, then felt the goblin jerk back against him as a bolt slammed into the creature’s chest.
Cutter dropped the goblin to the floor. All he could see was half a crossbow bolt hovering in the air close to the ground. He backed carefully away as the priests approached and nudged the body with their feet.
“Bring it,” said the older priest. “I want to see who it is when the potion wears off.”
The priests felt around until they found the goblin’s arms and dragged him out of the room. Cutter waited until they were gone and then breathed a small sigh of relief. He’d lost his way out, but he was still alive. Now all he needed was to wait for his own potion to wear off. Then nobody would be able to sense him. He hoped the old priest could only sense a generalized aura of magic and that the invisible goblin would fool him into thinking he had the intruder.
But in the meantime …
Cutter hurried back to the sleeping quarters. He needed something that would enable him to wander around the temple when the potion wore off—something that wouldn’t draw attention to himself. He found a small trunk at the bottom of the bed and rummaged through it, pulling out a priest’s black robe. Cutter pulled it over his head, trying hard not to notice the stale smell of unwashed laundry, then he sat on the bed and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. A few moments later, he saw his hands appear in his lap. He pulled up the sleeves of the robe and saw his arms were back where they should be.
Finally. He could get moving. He pulled the hood up over his head and hurried into the corridor, heading past the chamber where he’d heard the chanting. No guards stood outside.
He pulled open the gate and found another set of stairs leading down. He took them two at a time and emerged into another corridor identical to the one on the floor above.
Cutter paused. He was getting nowhere blundering around like this. If he expected to find Anriel any time soon, he needed to take a risk.
He walked down the passage and knocked on each door he came to. No one answered until the sixth door.
A young woman yanked it open and stared at him.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been sent to find Anriel. Do you know where he is?”
The woman snorted. “Probably where he always is. In the dungeons.” As she said this, she gave a jerk of her head to indicate a door down the hall.
Cutter folded his hands into his sleeves and nodded his thanks. The woman slammed the door in his face.
The door she had indicated led into a narrow corridor that slanted steadily downward. Torches guttered every now and then, not really adding light, but at least giving something to judge the distance by. The temperature dropped as he descended. He eventually had to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering.
The passage led him into a guard room. Three tables were pushed up against the walls, and pegs hammered into the stone held rusted rings of keys. A door with an iron grate about eye level led out of the room. He looked through the grate and saw a wide flagstoned corridor with cells to either side. Two drains had been set into the floor near the walls. Water trickled sluggishly through the mold that coated them.
At the end of the corridor directly opposite Cutter was another room. Dim light filtered through the grate and fell in bars across the floor. Cutter took a steadying breath and pulled open the door. It groaned and shrieked in protest, sticking on an uneven flagstone. He braced his back and yanked it open all the way. He stepped through and paused.
“Anriel,” he called.
Cutter heard the faint scuff of boots on cobbles, and before he could do anything, two points of cold steel touched the back of his neck. The owners of the blades must have been waiting on either side of the door. He froze, then slowly raised his hands in the air. “I’m here to see Anriel. I have something for him.”
“Who are you?” asked a low voice. Cutter thought it sounded like an orc.
“My name is Salkith.”
“He says his name is Salkith,” shouted the orc.
Cutter heard something drop, then the door at the end of the corridor flew open and a tall elf appeared, hurrying toward him.
The elf pushed his lanky blond hair behind his ears. “You’re Salkith?” he asked in a hopeful voice.
“I just said I was.”
“But what—” He stopped suddenly and glanced over Cutter’s shoulder. “Wait in the room,” he commanded something behind Cutter.
An orc and a bugbear appeared from behind Cutter and headed for the room Anriel had been in. Cutter stretched his neck, rolling it from side to side. He thought he could feel blood trickling down his back. Anriel waited until they were out of earshot.
“My apologies. They don’t get out much.”
“Understood. With what I’m carrying, it’s good to be careful.”
Anriel’s face lit up, his eyes dancing with excitement. “You have it, then? Truly?”
“I have it. And a message. Xavien said you’re to go ahead as planned.”
“Excellent. When you didn’t turn up, I feared the worst.”
“Problems. But they’re taken care of now.”
“May I … may I see it?”
Cutter hesitated, but he could never get Anriel to trust him without handing over the shard. Wren could complain all he wanted. He wasn’t here.
He took out the pouch and handed it to Anriel. The elf unwrapped it with shaking fingers and pulled the dragonshard out, holding it up to the light as he stared intently at the blue veins.
“To think that this little shard is going to change the world.”
Change the world? What did he mean by that?
“Xavien said he wants me to deliver it once you’re finished.”
Anriel frowned. “Why would he say that? That wasn’t part of the plan.”
Cutter shrugged. “I’m just telling you what he said.”
“Doesn’t he trust me?”
“I told you. I’m just passing on what he told me.”
Anriel shook his head. “No. That’s not possible.”
Cutter tensed. What was he supposed to do now? Just kill him and take it back? But then they’d be no closer to finding out what was going on or who was organizing all this. There had to be another way.
“Can I come with you? While you—” He nodded at the dragonshard, not saying anything that might give him away.
“Out of the question,” said Anriel. “Only worshipers of the Shadow can go through those doors.” The elf appeared to think for a second. “But you can come with me when I drop off the shard. I’d feel safer with backup, anyway.”
Cutter thought about it. “How long will it take?”
“Everything’s still set up from yesterday, so not long.”
“Fine. I’ll wait
outside. Do you have transport?”
“A skycoach.”
“Pick me up at the end of the street outside the temple.”
Anriel nodded in a distracted manner and walked into the back room, fondling and stroking the dragonshard in a way Cutter found faintly obscene. Cutter stepped through the door into the guardroom and glanced back. He saw the orc standing in the door as Anriel approached. The elf looked up at the huge creature.
“Fetch me Diadus’s books. Quickly.”
The orc lumbered past Anriel and headed toward Cutter. He stepped aside for the orc and then followed at a slower pace.
He wondered how Wren was going to react. He knew he’d said he wouldn’t hand over the shard, but this was the only way they could find out what was going on. He’d just have to make sure he got it back before the delivery. Surely Wren would see that?
He stared at the walls as he walked, watching the faint glint of water as it trickled down the stone. He had to admit one thing. That comment about the shard changing the world had put a shiver down his spine.
The third day of Long Shadows
Sar, the 28th day of Vult, 998
Please tell me you’re joking,” said Wren.
Cutter pulled the robe over his head and threw it to the ground. “What did you expect me to do? Say no? Did you honestly think the trail would end here?”
“I don’t know!” snapped the half-elf. “I was hoping it would.” He turned to Torin. “Did you think it would end here?”
“Afraid not, Wren.”
“Fine. Everyone here is smarter than I am.” He turned to Cutter. “So what’s next? I’m assuming you have some kind of plan taking place in that rather square head of yours.”
“He’s going to pick me up once he’s finished. I’ll let him take me to whoever he’s giving it to, then take it back.”
“Did he tell you what he was doing with the shard?”
Cutter shook his head. “But as I was leaving, he sent an orc to fetch books by someone called Diadus.”
Wren looked thoughtful. “Diadus … Diadus. Why does that name sound familiar? Torin?”
“No idea,” said the dwarf. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“It definitely sounds familiar.” He thought for a few moments longer, then abruptly shook his head. “No. Can’t think why.”
“How are we supposed to know where you are?” asked Torin.
“You don’t. I’ll get the shard back once I’m done and meet you at the university. You can give it to that dwarf woman. I shouldn’t be long.”
“You’re very optimistic,” complained Wren.
Cutter shrugged. “I can take Anriel.”
“Oh, well,” said Wren sarcastically. “As long as you can take him, everything’s fine.”
Cutter sighed. “Look, I can see you’re angry because I gave away the shard—”
“Nonsense. Why should we be angry? I mean, how many people have died because of it? Only a few. Not many in the grand scheme of things.”
“Don’t talk to me about who has died because of this shard,” said Cutter quietly. “That’s why I gave it to him. I want the person who’s behind this whole thing, not just the lackeys. And if I have to take a risk to do that, then so be it.”
“Yes, but you’re risking other people’s lives. You’re doing exactly what they’ve been doing.”
“Then that’s something I have to deal with.”
Wren sighed and shook his head. “We’ll meet you back at Morgrave, then. Come, Torin.”
“Good luck,” Torin said to Cutter.
They turned and retraced their steps back through Khyber’s Gate.
Anriel walked out of the temple some time later. Cutter stood in the middle of the street and waited for the elf to approach. Cutter was shocked by the change in his appearance. His skin looked even pastier than before—almost gray. Cutter looked into his black-ringed eyes.
“Are you well?” he asked.
Anriel nodded wearily. “The binding took a lot more out of me than I thought it would.”
Cutter nodded, wondering what kind of binding he was talking about. He wished he could ask him straight out, but that would blow his cover. He’d find out soon enough.
They headed along the main street and up through the tunnels and passages that led out of the Cogs and into the Depths. Anriel didn’t talk, and Cutter didn’t push him. The less he said, the better chance he had of pulling this off.
When they reached the Depths, they found a rickety lift that took them up to Lower-Central. It wasn’t a lift like the others, but an actual mechanical contraption that whined and rattled as it rose slowly on its chains. At one point, the gears slipped and the lift dropped suddenly, screeching as it fell before the chain caught in the cogs once again.
Once off the lift, Anriel led them to an inn, then down a small alley that ran along the double-story building. He pulled open a tall gate and they stepped into an overgrown back garden. Cutter looked around. A couple of chairs stood outside the back door of the inn. Empty bottles and tiny heaps of pipe ash indicated that someone liked spending their time sitting among the long grass and weeds. Anriel headed to the back fence, where a large shape was hidden beneath a stained tarp. He pulled the cover off to reveal a decrepit skycoach.
They climbed inside and Anriel coaxed the skycoach into the air. Despite its look, the vehicle ran smoothly. He drove them to the upper districts of Menthis Plateau and guided the skycoach until they were coasting through the well-kept streets of Crystal Bridge. Cutter looked at the massive manor houses and expensive mansions that lined the quiet streets, wondering at the kind of money needed to live there.
Anriel slowed the skycoach as they coasted along the street. He kept looking at the gates of the houses as they passed, searching for the correct address.
Cutter realized the surroundings looked familiar. He frowned, wondering why that was. But then it came to him. He’d been here before.
His stomach tensed as his mind processed this realization. Even as Anriel slowed near one of the huge mansions, Cutter was telling himself that it might be a mistake, that maybe they were headed to a different house.
But Anriel turned the skycoach into the gravel driveway and coasted up to the iron-wrought gates, and Cutter realized it was no mistake.
The person Anriel was delivering the dragonshard to, the person responsible for Rowen’s death, responsible for everything that had happened, was his boss, the halfling Tiel.
Cutter sat in shock while Anriel nodded at the guards. They used a glowing crystal to deactivate the security wards and the gates swung inward. Anriel guided the skycoach up the long pathway and around to the back of the house.
Cutter struggled to think, trying to understand. Why? What was going on? Had Rowen discovered something? Had she known it was Tiel? Was that why she was killed? Or had she simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? It was too much, too quick. He hated to admit it, but he needed Wren to sort this through.
Anriel brought the skycoach down behind a line of trees. Cutter looked over at the house. He didn’t know the answers to his questions, but he knew one thing: the person responsible for Rowen’s death was in that house.
Anriel stopped the coach and said, “Well, we made it—”
Cutter slammed his elbow into Anriel’s throat. The elf smacked against the seat, then slid to the floor, gasping for breath as he struggled to draw air through his crushed throat. Cutter retrieved the shard from his body, then pulled out his Khutai knives and jumped out of the skycoach. He sprinted across the grass to the back door and pulled it open.
Kitchens. Cutter looked about. Deserted. The ovens were cold. He crept through the room into a dark, uncarpeted hallway. The floor was scuffed and scratched. Cutter reckoned it was the servants’ quarters.
The hallway ended at a narrow flight of stairs. He climbed up, stopped at a door, pushed it open slightly, and put his eye to the crack. A large vestibule lay outside. Carpets had been scattered
over the tiled floor, their colors the rich browns and reds favored by halflings from the Talenta Plains. He heard no signs of life.
He pushed the door wide and stepped through. The door was set into the wall below a wide set of stairs that curved up behind him. The front door to the house stood to his right.
He thought he heard voices, coming from upstairs.
Cutter tested the first step for loose boards that would alert people to his presence. Nothing. He tested each step in turn as he climbed, keeping his eye on the landing above. The voices grew louder—laughter, the low mumble of conversation.
He reached the top of the stairs and checked to make sure there were no guards posted. He saw none. Tiel had no reason to fear anything in his own house.
Cutter could see the room from which the voices issued. The door was open and bright afternoon sunlight shone in a rectangle across the hall floor. Cutter crept forward and waited. He wanted to find out how many were inside. He had to make sure he got to Tiel. After that, they could do whatever they wanted to him.
“How do you plan on getting in?” asked a voice. It sounded like Bren. Was he involved? It gave Cutter pause. He respected Bren. Thought he was a man who stood up for his own principles. He’d be disappointed to find out he had anything to do with it.
“They’ll let me in.” Cutter recognized Tiel’s voice straight away, the laconic drawl. Whereas before it had irritated him, now it sent his heart hammering against his chest, sent a surge of hatred coursing through his body. He had to fight to keep himself from bursting into the room.
“Why?”
“The Tain gala’s all about power. As soon as everyone knows my father is Saidan Boromar, they’ll fall over their feet for my attention.”
“And you’re going to tell them?”
“Of course I am. What do you think all this is about?”
Cutter laid his head against the wall. The Tain gala? What did that have to do with anything? The Tain gala was a dinner party held every month on the floating district of Skyway and hosted by the Tains, the richest family in Sharn. Only the sixty most powerful figures in the city were invited. Anyone who mattered would be there, couldn’t afford not to be there.
The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows Page 19