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 her 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.
Rockwell, Marsheila
Skein of Shadows
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. To
o 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 back 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.
As the kitchen staff erupted into movement to try and douse the blue and orange flames, Sabira looked over the conflagration at Thecla, who was effectively trapped, unless he decided Arach’s bounty was worth burning for. Olladra knew, for a hundred platinum dragons, she’d consider it.
But Thecla apparently valued his appearance more than that and made no move to cross the flames, instead standing on the other side and glaring, his good hand clenched into a white, quivering fist.
When she saw he was giving up, Sabira flashed him a smug smile and raised her hand in a quick wave. Then she and Greddark darted out the door and into the alleyway, the smell of burnt alcohol fading away behind them as they made their way out into the street and hailed a coach.
As they climbed in, Sabira looked over at the inquisitive.
“Clever. I just hope Breven’s letter of credit will cover my half of the bill.”
Greddark’s lips twisted in an amused smile.
“Better hope it covers the whole thing.”
“And why is that?” she asked warily.
The dwarf laughed.
“You don’t honestly think I gave them my real name, do you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK
Sharn, Breland.
The last of the seven bells was just echoing off the high towers of Upper Central Plateau when Sabira pulled the rope outside the door of the Wayfinder Foundation offices in Korran-Thiven. A deeper note sounded from somewhere within the thin minaret attached to the tower that housed Riak’s Fine Imports. The main tower boasted massive darkwood doors and an intricate carved facade of scenes from inner Xen’drik-quite accurate, from what Sabira could see, though she’d only been there once herself. In contrast, the Wayfinder spire was plain and unremarkable, the only thing differentiating it from a thousand other similar pinnacles throughout the district was a small gold-plated placard next to the pull embossed with a simple “W. F.”
There was no answer for several long moments, and the armed guards in front of Riak’s started giving them unfriendly looks. Of course, in a financial district more obsessed with hoarding wealth than acquiring it, neither the guards nor their demeanor were that unusual. Still, Sabira didn’t particularly want to have to flash her brooch at them to get them to mind their own business-the fewer people who knew she was here, the better, especially if Greddark decided he needed to dabble in arson again.
Finally, a middle-aged woman in silvercloth pants and a matching brocaded jacket opened door.
“You’re late,” she said, looking down her nose disdainfully at Sabira’s glitter-spangled hair. Sabira resisted the urge to brush the sparkling dust off her shoulders and returned the other woman’s irate look with one of her own. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d taken a quarter bell to answer the door. But Sabira had dealt with that aristocratic arrogance more times in her career than she could count, and she knew bringing that fact to the other woman’s attention would be pointless-among the rarified circles of Sharn’s upper city, the truth was always secondary to the balance in your House Kundarak account.
“And getting later the longer we stand here,” she rejoined pointedly, “so if you’d like to let us by…?”
The woman harrumphed, but stepped aside and waved them in.
“Lord ir’Dayne is feeling particularly unwell this evening, so this meeting will be kept short.”
The meeting would last however long it took to make sure Sabira got what she needed, and if the snooty woman in silver didn’t like it, she’d gag her and chain her to a chair. But Sabira decided to keep that to herself for now, since she needed the other woman to guide her to ir’Dayne. The halfling head of the Wayfinder Foundation was widely rumored to be more than a bit paranoid, and Sabira didn’t doubt the office was full of nasty surprises for unwelcome visitors.
Though the small tower was nothing compared to the foundation’s Fairhaven Conclave, it still contained its fair share of oddities and wonders. The short entry hall was filled with Aerenal tapestries, a bookshelf heavy with Dhakaani pottery and trinkets from places as far away as Sarlona and Argonnessen, and various stuffed figures, including the biggest owlbear Sabira had ever seen. A glass case lit by a floating golden everbright globe featured the claws and stinger of a scorrow from Xen’drik, each one easily twice the size of Sabira’s head. The scorrow, a horrible centaurlike hybrid of drow and scorpion, was one of
the most feared predators in both Xen’drik’s deserts and her jungles and the foundation had a standing offer for any who were brought in to one of its outposts alive for study. This one, which a placard identified as Menezthadazz, sire of Mendexethazz, hadn’t been that lucky. Then again, considering how the foundation might choose to “study” such a creature, maybe he had.
As the woman led them up several flights of stairs, Sabira was struck by the office’s air of disuse. While the foundation’s headquarters in Fairhaven was always humming with activity, whether it be visitors to the vast two-story museum, students attending lectures, or adventurers getting ready to leave on or returning from foundation-sponsored expeditions, the stillness of the Sharn office was more akin to that of a library. Or a tomb.
Maybe that’s what it was, Sabira thought. Ever since Boroman had returned from his last foray into Xen’drik, he’d been slowly wasting away, the victim of some curse for which even the greatest healers and wizards in Khorvaire could find no cure. Though the halfling tried to remain active in the everyday affairs of the foundation, and still retained executive control over its Conclave, he’d been retiring to the Sharn office more and more frequently over the past year, supposedly to “recuperate.” Given the office’s convenient location in the financial district, Sabira wondered if he weren’t actually getting his affairs in order.
The silver-clothed woman paused before a nondescript door on the tower’s third level and knocked once. Though Sabira heard nothing from the other side, the woman gave her and Greddark a stern look and then pushed the door open and led them inside.
Based on what she’d seen below, Sabira had expected to find an office crammed with a desk, shelves groaning under the weight of maps, and bizarre collectables from the world over shoved into every nook and cranny. Instead, the woman ushered them into a small, almost utilitarian bedroom dominated by a huge canopied bed.
In the middle of the bed, dwarfed by massive pillows and nearly buried in paper, lay a halfling wrapped in a green velvet robe and sucking on a long, curved pipe. Sabira recognized the pungent aroma of firepepper leaves, native only to the volcanic fields of Xen’drik. The Sulatar drow of the region believed the leaves of the potent pepper had healing abilities, but most found the cure worse than the disease, and Sabira couldn’t blame them-the acrid smoke from ir’Dayne’s pipe was already making her eyes water.
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