Skein of Shadows

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  “Because none of us will be around for the Baron to collect from if we go over his limit, anyway?” Greddark asked semi-seriously as he took the paper and tucked into a pocket.

  “No. To make sure we are,” she replied, making sure they all heard her. Whatever her private thoughts on their odds, she needed to project confidence. “What we don’t have in quantity, we’re going to have to make up for in quality. Nobody I’d trust more to make that call than a dwarf.”

  “A fellow dwarf,” Greddark corrected, raising a few eyebrows among Laven’s men. No—her men, now. Best to make sure they knew it before they headed into the darkness.

  “Greddark’s my second in this. Whatever he asks or tells, it comes from me. Clear?”

  Laven answered for them all.

  “As a diamond, and twice as precious.”

  Sabira nodded.

  “Get to it, then. Hopefully I’ll be done with this nonsense by the time you get back.” As they began to disperse, she called out. “Zi! A word?”

  The wizard looked at Laven first, but the Vadalis man ignored him, sending a not-so-subtle message that he wasn’t the one Zi should be asking for direction anymore. Sabira appreciated the support; she’d had a feeling the bald man would prove troublesome.

  Zi walked over to her side, looking at her warily.

  “Yes?”

  “Where’d you get your training?’

  “Excuse me?” He drew himself up, clearly affronted that she’d felt the need to ask. But she had neither the time nor the inclination to coddle his ego.

  “It’s a simple question—the kind I normally expect my employees to provide an answer to, not another question. Do I need to repeat it?”

  Zi’s face was a smooth as his head so he had no brows to draw together in anger, but he didn’t need them. It was there in his eyes and in the hard set of his jaw.

  “No, Marshal. I learned from my mother, who learned from hers. I’ve had no formal training.”

  Sabira hadn’t been expecting that. While self-taught mages weren’t unheard of, most at least spent some time studying with the masters at Arcanix, or the Tower of the Twelve, or one of the other smaller arcane colleges throughout the Five Nations. Well, she amended silently, most who were any good.

  “What would be your assessment of your skills in relation to say, an instructor at Arcanix?”

  “I have no idea; I’ve never met one,” Zi replied bluntly. “Why that particular unit of measure, if I may ask?”

  Sabira figured it wouldn’t hurt to let him know, and it might just make him reconsider his superior attitude.

  “Because the pretty blonde who went down into Tarath Marad taught there for several years, and all her power and ability didn’t suffice to bring her back out again.”

  “So you are here to finish what she started,” Zi said, a smug smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

  Well, so much for improving his attitude.

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, but I can tell you one thing—you won’t be part of it either way, unless you give me an idea of what you can do. Now.”

  Zi considered her for a long moment. Then he shrugged.

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Marshal. A list of spells? Would you even know what half of them did?” A valid point, she supposed, but she needed some way to quantify his abilities. She wasn’t used to working with magic-wielders who didn’t also wield more mundane weapons.

  She shrugged, waiting.

  “How’s this, then? I was born and raised in the Demon Wastes. I left home at eighteen and made it to Sharn, on my own. I lived there for five years before I signed on with a crew out of the Lhazaar Principalities. I rose to first mate before the captain lost a race with a hurricane and steered us into Shargon’s Teeth. I was the only one who survived, and I’ve been in Stormreach ever since. Saved Laven from some trouble in the sewers a few months back and decided to follow him out here when the guard got a little too interested in him.” His dark eyes burned into hers. “Don’t let the pauper’s robes fool you. I may not know cards, Marshal, but I know magic.”

  Sabira was impressed in spite of herself. Surviving to age eighteen in the Wastes was an accomplishment in its own right, but to have made the two-thousand-mile journey from there to the City of Towers by himself, crossing some of the wildest and most dangerous terrain in all Khorvaire, was a feat worthy of a bard’s tale. Which might be exactly what he was feeding her, but somehow she didn’t think so—mostly because he didn’t seem to think she was worth the effort. If arrogance was any indicator, he and Tilde probably had comparable skills, based on that alone.

  “Well, I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Zi inclined his head to her, not quite respectfully, but probably as close as she was going to get until the first time she pulled his backside out of the fire. “Make sure Greddark procures some new robes for you, though. I don’t want someone mistaking you for a tent in the middle of the night. Could be awkward.”

  She turned away from him, not waiting for a reply. It was both a dismissal and a show of power—you only turned your back on someone who you either knew wouldn’t attack you, or who you knew you could defeat if they did. It wasn’t a tactic you used on someone you respected, but just as she had yet to earn the mage’s respect, he had yet to earn hers.

  The line had moved while she’d been putting Zi in his place, and there were only three more people between her and the door.

  “Name and business?” the bored-looking doorman asked the half-elf at the front of the line, but before he could reply, Brannan stuck his head out and waved her up, earning her venomous looks from the people she bypassed.

  “Making new friends?” the Wayfinder asked as she brushed past him and entered the mayor’s foyer.

  “No thanks to you and your tame drow,” she responded with a little more rancor than she’d intended. But not much.

  Brannan’s eyebrows arched.

  “My tame drow?” he repeated, before a look of understanding dawned. “Ah. The locals have been telling stories, I see.”

  “Yes they have—quite entertaining ones, too, I might add. It’s a regular Livewood Theater out there. Or maybe the Phiarlan’s Carnival of Shadow would be a better comparison. With you as the ringmaster, of course.” At the Wayfinder’s puzzled look, she continued. “A ‘usage fee,’ Brannan? Really? From the guy who didn’t know a corpse would contaminate the town’s stagnant water source? Tell me you’re not behind this, and getting a percentage of it in addition to whatever you’re charging for hiring out your murderous guides.”

  “He’s not.”

  Sabira turned to see an older, heavy-set man with strokes of gray at each temple and two lifetimes’ worth of wrinkles on his face. The man’s shifting blue eyes widened in recognition when he saw her, though she was certain she’d never met him before. He hid it quickly, but Sabira had seen enough. The look, coupled with the too-symmetrical features and eyes that couldn’t quite stay the same color, let her know exactly what she was dealing with.

  The mayor was a changeling.

  And there was only one changeling on Xen’drik who would know who she was on sight.

  She kicked the mayor in the chest, knocking him back against the foyer wall, then had her urgrosh out of its harness before either he or Brannan could react. With the Siberys shard tip pressed against the mayor’s throat, she leaned forward and smiled.

  “Hello, Caldamus. Fancy meeting you here.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Zol, Barrakas 17, 998 YK

  Trent’s Well, Xen’drik.

  What do you think you’re doing, Marshal?” Brannan asked, his voice more curious than concerned.

  “Just catching up with an old friend,” Sabira replied, not taking her eyes off the mayor. She was aware of Brannan in her periphery and tracked his movements by the sound of his breathing, which was steady and even. For now. That could change in an instant, she knew, and if it did, she’d have to decide which of them to take out first. I
t wasn’t a choice she particularly wanted to make—they both deserved it so richly. “Isn’t that right … Mayor?”

  “I have no idea—” Caldamus began, but stopped when Sabira applied pressure to the shard axe. A single drop of blood appeared on his neck, then snaked a slow red trail across the folds of old, wrinkled flesh.

  “Save it, or I’ll just break your jaw again. Maybe add a leg or two in this time while I’m at it.” Changelings were masters of disguise and could take on the form of any comparably sized humanoid, but their features reverted to their natural blank state when they lost consciousness. “Then Brannan will see who you really are for himself.”

  Assuming, of course, the Wayfinder didn’t already know, a possibility she couldn’t rule out.

  The mayor sighed in resignation and Sabira watched as the skin on his face slackened and seemed to melt, then grew lighter and smoother, even as the whole shape of his head changed and became thinner and sharper. His features reformed into the pale, nearly noseless visage of a changeling.

  “Sabira. Good to see you again.”

  She didn’t let up on her urgrosh. If anything, she had to resist the urge to keep pushing the spear tip forward. Riv Caldamus had murdered a Defender, after all. And while she hadn’t been close to the man, Goren ir’Kados had been well-liked and well-respected and she’d mourned his loss along with the rest of her House.

  “I doubt that very much. Now tell me what in the name of the Mockery’s toothless grin you’re doing back in Xen’drik when you should be chained up in an Aundairian prison.” She’d arrested him herself the last time she’d been in Stormreach, and she was none too happy to see him free, and here of all places.

  First Thecla, and now Caldamus. She was beginning to think someone was going along behind her bailing her collars out as fast as she could arrest them, just to annoy her.

  And it was working.

  “Same thing you are, I imagine. Protecting the interests of my employers and making sure they aren’t left behind when the balance of power shifts because of what’s happening here.”

  Sabira blinked. That was surprisingly direct.

  “Why you?” She didn’t have to ask why he wasn’t still in prison—if he’d ever even made it there. He was one of King Boranel of Breland’s Dark Lanterns; the royal had obviously pulled some strings to secure his agent’s release.

  “Why you?” he countered, then answered his own question. “Because we know the area. If not well, at least better than any of the other people our respective superiors might choose for the job. And in my case, because there are those in Khorvaire who weren’t thrilled to learn that I’d been found not guilty and set free. It seemed prudent to be elsewhere.”

  There was a lot of that going around, apparently.

  “Yeah, well, there are those here who aren’t exactly thrilled about it, either,” Sabira muttered, but she pulled back on the shard axe. If he’d been found not guilty in a court of law—even if it was a rigged one—then there was nothing she could do. At least not until he killed someone else.

  “So, what did you do with the real mayor?”

  “Has anyone checked the bottom of the well?” At her dark look, he held up a quick hand. “A joke, Marshal. Relax. He’s enjoying a state-funded holiday in Sharn. He’ll be returned unharmed and well-compensated to his position when my presence is no longer required.”

  “And when will that be?”

  Caldamus’s smile was bitter.

  “Whenever my employers decide. But they weren’t terribly pleased that I’d been apprehended after my last mission, so I doubt they’ll be recalling me any time soon.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Sabira replied, her voice oozing insincerity. She stepped back and returned the urgrosh to its harness. “Next time I’ll just bring you in dead and save you the demotion.”

  “How thoughtful.” He dabbed at the blood on his throat. “Hmph. Now see what you’ve done? I’m going to have to go raid the Mayor’s private stock of healing potions in the back to take care of this. Wouldn’t do for the locals to see their beloved leader injured.”

  “I hate to interrupt your charming reunion,” Brannan remarked sardonically from behind them, “but there is still the small matter of the registration and usage fee?”

  Sabira looked over at the Wayfinder, who was gesturing to a wooden podium topped by a large leather-bound book.

  “Worried about your percentage?” she asked, crossing over to the podium. As she brushed brusquely past him, Caldamus gave a small, nearly inaudible gasp. Sabira didn’t turn; the changeling might be intimidated by the Wayfinder and his wealth, but she wasn’t.

  At the podium, she scanned through the ledger entries. Name, purpose, date of entry, date of return, estimated value of artifacts retrieved. The last page was nearly full, with the earliest dates ranging back a week or more. There were a surprising number of her kinsman here, judging by the names, the most common of which was “A. Deneith” It was a common enough alias; the House name had become synonymous with “mercenary” over the years, so whenever someone was traveling incognito, they borrowed the surname. She was surprised Greddark hadn’t used it yet.

  She flipped back until she found Tilde’s entry. The names of the Blademarks who’d accompanied the sorceress read like an honor roll of the dead, and Sabira had to swallow more than once as she skimmed the list. Many of these men had served with her and Ned when they were in the Blademarks; some she’d even counted as friends. The last name was the hardest to bear: Harûn Edel d’Deneith. She’d saved his life from a rampaging carver outside of Fort Bones in Karrnath, and he’d asked her to stand for him at his wedding. He and his wife had named their first daughter for her. Little Bira would be nine years old now, and missing her father terribly.

  As Sabira flipped forward again, she couldn’t help but notice how many of the lines in the “date of return” column remained empty. No wonder Caldamus was collecting his fee prior to entrance into the caverns—more than half of those who entered never returned.

  She left the podium without writing in the book; there was no way she was paying Breland—or Brannan—for the privilege of adding eight more ledger entries that might remain forever incomplete.

  Caldamus, who’d resumed the human visage of the mayor, blocked her path.

  “I really must insist you register and pay the fee, Marshal.”

  “Why? You already know I’m here; probably already trolled through my mind to find out who I’m with too.” Caldamus’s eyes widened slightly at her words, and she saw his gaze flick quickly in Brannan’s direction.

  Had the Wayfinder been unaware of the fact that the changeling was also a telepath? Interesting.

  “My superiors—”

  “—Can go straight to Dolurrh for all I care,” Sabira interrupted, losing patience. “You didn’t strike me as a complete fool the last time we met, Caldamus, but maybe the desert sun has addled your brains in the interim, so I’ll make it easy for you—I’m not paying.”

  The changeling launched himself at her, reaching for her throat. The move caught Sabira momentarily off guard, because while his face was contorted as if with fury, his eyes were urgent.

  He was acting, and it could only be for Brannan’s benefit.

  Sabira decided to play along, wondering what Caldamus was up to. She sidestepped the attack, catching the changeling by the collar and hem of his shirt and using his momentum and a quick twist to heave him over her hip. As she pivoted and his mouth passed by her ear, he whispered, “Couldn’t read him before.”

  That wasn’t exactly a surprise. Most people who dealt in secrets knew how to shield their thoughts from prying minds, and Sabira was sure the Wayfinder had a lot of secrets.

  Caldamus landed on his back in the middle of the floor, the breath whooshing from his lungs. Sabira bent down to pull him back to his feet, her legs braced for the extra weight. He surprised her by grabbing her wrist and slamming his foot up into her stomach. Her body curled involuntar
ily around the unexpected blow, and he used the sudden shift in her weight to his advantage, yanking on her arm and twisting his own hips to throw her to the side where she collided with the podium, knocking it over with a crash.

  He was on her before she could scramble to her feet, his hands around her throat and his face in hers as he pretended to squeeze.

  “Could when you touched him,” he breathed before she smashed the ledger she’d grabbed into the side of his head and he rolled off her with a yelp.

  She was on him in a heartbeat, knee in his spine as she grasped a handful of hair and yanked his head back.

  “Hatred and hunger, Marshal,” he murmured. “Watch yourself.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” she muttered under her breath, disgusted with the changeling. And with herself—she’d almost believed him. She slammed his head into the floor. “There’s your ‘usage fee,’ Caldamus.”

  When he groaned and struggled weakly, not yet unconscious, she did it again. Harder.

  “And that’s for Goren,” she added as the changeling slumped and lay still beneath her. His hair began to grow longer and lankier in her hand as he morphed back into his natural form. She released her fistful and clambered to her feet.

  “Feel free to keep the change.”

  She collected Xujil from the mayor’s sitting room and left Brannan to explain to the next person in line that the mayor was suddenly indisposed. She and the drow guide met up with the others in front of the smithy. She was pleased to see that Zi was sporting a new set of dark gray robes which instantly made him seem both more competent and more dangerous. It was a tactic House Deneith often used in conflicts, both on the battlefield and off. Well-kept uniforms weren’t just a utilitarian requirement or a means of increasing morale or solidarity. Much as the fine dress and displayed wealth of a diplomat reminded those he negotiated with of his nation’s resources, the sight of even one soldier in livery was a similar reminder that there was a greater might behind him that could be brought to bear against his enemies. It was both a warning, and a threat.