Skein of Shadows

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to get inside?” she asked, tossing her coppery hair over her shoulder coyly and licking her lips.

  The bouncer with the list snorted indelicately, but the one with the sword lowered it an inch or two to get a better look, his fanged mouth widening in a lascivious grin.

  “Show me what you’ve got under that shirt and we’ll see.”

  Sabira’s smile widened.

  “Oh, I was so hoping you’d say that.”

  She reached slowly for the top laces of the simple tunic she wore over her armor. The moment the hobgoblin’s eyes focused there instead of on her other hand, she slapped his blade away and was inside his guard, her urgrosh out of its harness and its Siberys shard spear tip pressed up against the hobgoblin’s throat. Then she carefully pulled her Marshal’s brooch from underneath her armor, making sure the light of the club’s everbright lanterns caught its enameled surface so there was no missing the Deneith chimera it bore.

  She held it up on its leather cord so the other bouncer could see it as well.

  “I’m thinking maybe you might want to check the list again?”

  The other hobgoblin didn’t even bother glancing at the paper in his hand. He pushed the club door open and waved her in.

  “Welcome to the Glitterdust, Marshal. Enjoy your stay.”

  Inside, the club was divided into two distinct areas. On the left was a dim dining area filled with wealthy patrons busily feasting on all manner of delicacies prepared by the House Ghallanda chef that the club’s owner kept on retainer. In addition to the Glitterdust’s signature bacon-wrapped shrimp, Sabira could make out the aromas of roast threehorn from the Talenta Plains, honeyed chicken in panya leaves, and even the distinct tang of dwarven ironspice drifting up from something that looked like it might once have been an alligator. But as tempting as the club’s menu was, Sabira turned her attention to the right and the lounge.

  Even more poorly lit than the restaurant, the lounge boasted leather-upholstered booths and tables, a large dance floor already filled to overflowing and a stage on which the gnome Hart Brantby was currently performing with his band, the Jumping Horns. Luminous red and purple glitter snowed steadily from the unseen ceiling and in the sparkling light, Sabira searched for the card tables.

  Though the Glitterdust didn’t officially sanction gambling, players in the know could always find a game here. Sabira had played here herself, and won big more than once. But tonight she was more interested in the players than the stakes.

  She found two tables in the corner of the lounge farthest from the stage. At one, three elves were playing a game of Elements with the corresponding four-suited deck. Though it was popular among dabblers, true gamblers preferred the more challenging five-suited games, like her own personal favorite, Jarot’s Bluff.

  The players at the second table were engaged in a regional variant of the game that involved progressive betting. It was a particularly aggressive form of Jarot’s Bluff that could yield enormous pots in a very short amount of time—and equally enormous losses. Breven’s letter of credit weighed heavy in her pack as she felt the familiar itch to join in the game, but she fought the urge, contenting herself with examining the players instead, wondering which of them could be Aggar’s friend.

  None of them were dwarves, which made identifying the likely candidate a bit more challenging. Two of the players—humans—had respectable stacks in front of them, and a third—a female shifter—was not far behind. The last two players at the table, a gnome and a smallish warforged, looked like they only had half-a-dozen antes left between them.

  As she focused on the two humans, trying not to draw any unwanted attention to herself, someone jostled her, and her hand closed reflexively around her pouch. She turned to see a heavily-muscled half-orc whose tattoos, ritual scarring, and mohawk identified him as a member of the Jhorash’tar clan from the Ironroots.

  He was eyeing her shard axe with a derisive look.

  “Funny,” he said, somehow managing not to lisp around those oversized tusks. “You don’t look like a dwarf.”

  “Funny,” she replied in kind. “You do.”

  Implying that a dwarf might have mated with an orc was an insult so profound to both races that she was lucky there were no dwarves within range to hear it. As it was, the half-orc’s eyes went red, and she barely dodged the fist he sent sailing at her mouth.

  So much for keeping a low profile.

  She responded with a kick to the half-orc’s knee, which he couldn’t quite twist far enough to avoid, and she followed it up with an elbow to his jaw which probably hurt her more than it did him. As she shook her arm to relieve the shooting pain, the patrons at the surrounding tables scrambled away, going just far enough not to get hit by any bodily fluids. Sabira could already hear bets circulating; the Jhorash’tar was a ten-to-one favorite.

  “You’ll pay for that, you Karrnathi whore,” the half-orc growled, spitting a mouthful of blood at her feet. Nice to see she’d done some damage, after all. Unfortunately, she didn’t really have time for a bar brawl, as fun as it might be to teach this buffoon some manners and watch a score of pampered nobles lose money because they were stupid enough to bet against her.

  With a regretful sigh, she flashed her brooch.

  “That’s ‘Sentinel Marshal Karrnathi whore’ to you,” she said brightly as a groan of disappointment went up from the gathering crowd. “So unless you want to spend the rest of the night in some dank little cell that smells like piss, with a roommate who probably smells worse, I’d suggest you go find someone else to lavish with your oh-so-considerable charms.”

  The half-orc actually looked like he was considering his options for a moment, so she casually reached behind her and unharnessed her urgrosh.

  “Do you have any idea what it takes for a human to be awarded one of these? No? Do you really want to find out?”

  The half-orc bared his teeth at her in frustration, but as she watched, the scarlet hue slowly faded from his eyes. Apparently he took after his human side when it came to brains, because he shook his head once then turned and stomped toward the dance floor, shoving a hapless waiter out of his way as he went.

  As people returned to their tables and small pouches of coin changed hands, Sabira heard the sound of light applause behind her. She turned to see a male dwarf with a wild tangle of blond hair, a short, neatly trimmed beard and piercing brown eyes. He wore a blue silk shirt, its bloused sleeves rolled up to display the corded muscles of a master smith, though Sabira highly doubted that was the smug-looking dwarf’s true occupation. One wrist boasted a finely wrought golden band studded with tiny silver charms. At his waist was a similarly-crafted scabbard bearing the Kundarak manticore, though the hilt emerging from it was strangely curved, with a flask of some type of glowing liquid built into its pommel. Sabira regarded him curiously as she replaced her shard axe in its harness, her not-so-subtle way of telling him she didn’t regard him as a threat.

  Yet.

  “Nicely done. Wish I could get one of those badges myself—seem to come in handy. Though I don’t suppose many people would accept the idea of a dwarf Marshal.” He cocked his head to the side. “Then again, most people wouldn’t accept the idea of a human Tordannon, either, and yet, here you are.”

  Ah. Aggar’s mystery partner had arrived. She should have guessed he’d be just as smart-mouthed and sarcastic as her hearthbrother.

  The dwarf stuck out a hand.

  “Greddark d’Kundarak: Security Specialist, Artificer and Master Inquisitive, at your service. I believe Aggar has mentioned me?” He had—Greddark was the tinkerer-cum-investigator who’d taught Aggar how to cheat at Jarot’s Bluff. And not very well, either. “Though I suppose that’s Cousin Aggar now, what with his father marrying a Mountainheart. Which would make me your cousin now, too, I suppose.”

  Sabira shook his hand.

  “I suppose so.”

  Greddark’s gaze moved to a point somewhere over he
r left shoulder and he frowned.

  “Well, this little family reunion has been delightful, but I think we might want to move it outside. There’s about a half-dozen men and a dwarf with a hook for a hand headed right for us, and none of them look very happy.”

  Sabira glanced back and swore.

  Thecla.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK

  Sharn, Breland.

  Host damn it! The last time she’d seen the bald dwarf, he’d been being led off in manacles, cursing her name. When she found out who’d authorized the release of the Dust Dancer’s first mate, she’d have their badge. That was, assuming she made it out of the Glitterdust alive.

  “Friends of yours, I take it?”

  Sabira snorted, surveying the lounge. Thecla and his group of thugs were between them and the club entrance, so there was no going out that way. As she scanned the crowded dance floor, she saw what she was looking for—a set of swinging double doors next to the stage. There would be offices on the other side, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a hallway connecting to the kitchen—and an exit.

  She just had to get there first.

  “Care to dance?” she asked Greddark, motioning toward the writhing mass of sweaty bodies with a jerk of her chin as she began angling through the tables in the general direction of the double doors. The inquisitive realized what she was up to immediately and followed suit, hand on his hilt. Thecla saw where she was headed from the other side of the lounge, and waved for his men to do the same. Catching her eye, he grinned widely and brought his hook up and across his throat.

  Sabira rolled her eyes. Someone had been watching too many plays at the Ten Torches Theater down in Lower Menthis. Or maybe at the Livewood back in Stormreach; the ridiculously dramatic gesture did seem more like something the House Phiarlan actors there would favor.

  She and Greddark reached one edge of the cavorting mob just as the first of Thecla’s men reached the opposite one. They slid in easily among the dancers, who were whirling to a fast-paced tune from Brantby’s shardhorn, accompanied now by a half-elf on a flute and another on a set of tribal drums from the Shadow Marches. The rhythm coursed up through the dance floor as well-dressed men and women gyrated around her, their laughing faces spinning close and then away again as she made her way toward the stage. At one point, a tall man in a long black surcoat picked her up and spun her in several wild circles, but since the maneuver gave her a good view of her pursuers’ positions and moved her closer to her goal, she decided not to gut him.

  In the air, she glanced upward, worried about smacking her head against one of the red everbright globes that floated above the dancers. As she did, she caught a glimpse of the delivery system for the never-ending glitterfall that gave the club its name, and got an idea.

  Back on her feet, she quickly found Greddark and leaned close to whisper in his ear, the only way he’d have a chance of hearing her over the pounding music.

  “Got a dagger on you?”

  The dwarf cocked a bushy eyebrow at her. Then he surveyed the crowd for a moment and stepped away from her. He bumped up against a man dancing with a bottle of wine in each hand, then returned to her side a moment later, a long knife with a bejeweled pommel in his palm.

  “I do now.”

  He nodded when she finished explaining her plan, then stood by as she sidled up to her erstwhile dance partner, shoving a svelte woman in a clinging glamerweave dress out of the way and holding her hands out to him, an arch look on her face. The man laughingly obliged, hefting her back up into the air and spinning her, his face a little closer to her chest than she would have liked. She threw her arms out and her head back, her hair fanning out in a coppery arc behind her.

  She heard Thecla’s shout even above the noise of the crowd and waited until his men had nearly converged on her position before bringing her arms down sharply on either side of the tall man’s neck, hitting the pressure points there and momentarily causing him to lose feeling in both hands. As she’d expected, he dropped her with a howl and she landed in a crouch in front of him, Greddark’s signal to act.

  The dwarf launched his borrowed dagger into the air with deadly accuracy. Though most of the glitter that fell on floor and dancers alike was illusory, the sparkling substance in hair and on clothing had become a sort of status symbol among the club’s patrons, so enough of the real stuff fell during the night to feed the egos of the Glitterdust’s many customers. Greddark’s throw hit the main rope holding the canvas bag full of red and purple glitter closed, severing it cleanly. The entire evening’s supply came down all at once in a thick cloud, blinding and choking those on the floor below.

  Sabira and Greddark, the only ones who’d been expecting the glitter bomb, covered their mouths and ducked low, worming their way through the screaming crowd toward the stage. They were out in the open and through the swinging doors in moments, but a quick glance backward showed Sabira that Thecla, at least, had not been fooled by the colorful diversion. The first mate’s face when he saw her was murderous.

  The door opened onto an intersection of two hallways, one leading straight ahead and one bearing left, curving around behind the backstage area on the other side of the wall.

  “Kitchen, stage, or offices?”

  Sabira pursed her lips, thinking quickly. If they ducked through a backstage door, they could skirt the crowd and head for the club entrance. But there was no guarantee all of Thecla’s cronies would have made it out of the morass of glitter-coated dancers, and they would be easy targets on the stage, backlit by strobing lights. Plus the crowd itself would present an obstacle, as affronted patrons streamed from the lounge demanding their money back for their dry dousing. The corridor leading to the offices was a straight shot and probably offered the quickest way out, except for the fact that that entrance was probably better guarded than the front, considering all the money came and went through there.

  That left the kitchen. The dinner rush had just started, so it would be crowded, but it would allow them access to a back alleyway and a more likely means of escape than any of the other exits. And it would at least have the benefit of an array of sharp utensils to choose from if they were somehow backed into a corner.

  “This way.”

  Sabira unharnessed her shard axe as she moved down the hallway, just in case some of Thecla’s men had the same idea she did and cut through the backstage area to block off their escape route. She heard movement in front of her and signaled to Greddark, who drew his own blade, which she could see now had a groove running down its length on either side. Then they rushed around the bend, weapons raised, and Sabira nearly beheaded Hart Brantby as the glitter-covered gnome squealed and dived to the floor at the sight of her, whining about having already paid Daask and pleading for her to spare his shardhorn.

  Daask? So the Droaamish crime syndicate was putting the squeeze on the Glitterdust now? Interesting. Too bad she didn’t have time to do anything with the information, but she’d be sure to pass it on to the proper authorities when she got the chance—the proper authorities being any Marshal other than her, of course.

  “Sorry,” Sabira muttered, moving around the musician to check the door he’d just come through. The backstage area was dark and empty; apparently the horn player hadn’t alerted the rest of his band when he decided to vacate the premises. Given how he cowered against the wall using his beloved shardhorn as a shield, she wasn’t particularly surprised.

  There was a sound of wood slapping against stone somewhere behind them and she heard Thecla call out.

  “You, down that way. You three, with me.”

  She and Greddark didn’t need any further encouragement. They broke into a quick trot, passing through another set of double doors and into the muggy kitchen, which was abustle with cooks, servers and delivery men hauling in casks of Nightwood ale from the back alley on soarsleds.

  Dodging steaming dishes, hot stoves, and the occasional rolling pin, the duo made their way toward the b
ack door, open to the evening air to both cool the occupants on a busy night and to allow the brewers easy access to the wine cellars below.

  “There they are!” Thecla was inside the kitchen now, but he must have realized he couldn’t keep them from reaching the exit. He took a different tack. “A hundred dragons to whoever keeps the redhead from leaving!”

  A hundred? Just how much had that crystallized dreamlily shipment she’d impounded been worth, anyway?

  Sabira tensed, preparing to be mobbed by House Ghallanda halflings, but the kitchen staff ignored Thecla’s offer—apparently their jobs were worth more to them than platinum. Either that, or their fear of the club’s owner overcame their greed, which was perhaps not so remarkable if Daask had its hand in the Glitterdust’s till.

  The delivery men, on the other hand, had no such compunctions. The two nearest Sabira aimed their empty soarsled at her knees, and only a quick twist of her hips and a sidestep worthy of the dance floor saved her from being served up to Thecla on the floating disk like a pig on a platter.

  Greddark, behind her, proved a bit more nimble, grabbing the soarsled by its leading edge and whipping it around, sending it back into the gawking delivery men with a grunt. The two went down flailing, knocking a cooling rack full of oven-fresh beesh-berry tarts from their perch and onto their exposed arms and heads. Their yelps of pain almost succeeded in drowning out Thecla’s growl of frustration.

  “Get them!”

  She leaped over the writhing men, Greddark on her heels, and was almost to the door when another pair of delivery men entered with another soarsled, this one burdened with a cask of Brelish redeye brandy. Moving too fast to avoid a collision, Sabira did the next best thing and went low, rolling under the wooden disk to safety.

  As she sprang to her feet, Greddark yelled.

  “Sabira! The cask!”

  She didn’t stop to ask why; instead, she brought her urgrosh around and slammed the axe-blade into the smooth wood of the barrel. It exploded into a shower of splinters and alcohol. Greddark jumped out of the way as the crimson flood poured out onto the floor. He brought his own weapon to bear and for a moment, Sabira thought the dwarf had taken leave of his senses and was actually trying to attack the gushing liquid. Then she saw him push a button on the hilt of his short sword. Alchemist’s fire raced from the flask in the pommel down the length of the blade, setting it aflame. When Greddark thrust the sword into the pool of brandy, the whole thing went up with a loud whoosh, nearly singeing his boots.