“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. It 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: Harun 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 h
is 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 involuntarily 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.
And the color would make Zi harder to see in the shadows of Tarath Marad, and consequently harder to target. Always a plus, especially for a wizard.
Greddark handed her a heavy pack, which he’d already rigged to go over one shoulder, so as not to interfere with her shard axe’s harness. He and the others wore helmets with inset everbright lanterns, and goggles hung about their necks. Greddark passed a pair over to her, followed by a helmet.
“Got everything?”
The dwarf nodded.
“Food, water, climbing gear, weapons. Light for when we don’t mind being seen; low-light lenses for when we do. And you? You get us registered, and our fee paid?” he asked as she placed the goggles about her own neck and strapped on the miner’s helmet, buckling it firmly under her chin.
Sabira snorted.
“More or less.”
At his quirked brow, she shook her head. “Later. For now we should get started. We’ve still got a long way to go.”
At her gesture, Xujil took the lead, and the group fell in behind him. Sabira and Greddark came first, followed by Laven and Zi, then Glynn and Jester, and finally Skraad and Rahm, taking up the rear.
The drow led them over the stone bridge and toward the back of the cavern where there were no buildings and no everbright lanterns to light their path. A forest of thick white and yellow stalagmites sprouted up from the cavern floor here, some of them reaching up to join thinner stalactites that dripped from the ceiling. The twisting formations obscured the back wall of the cave from view until they came to a gaping hole in the stalagmite thicket. Shattered rock littered the ground here, and it was obvious that the opening had been created by an explosion of some sort. The debris had been moved aside by the explorers who came after, so it was impossible to tell the directionality of the blast from their pattern or the scorch marks that remained in the surrounding stone pillars.
“Tell us again how Brannan came to find you, Xujil,” Greddark said as they walked. “For the benefit of the newcomers.”
The drow paused and turned toward them. With the blackness of the entrance to the depths behind him, and framed as he was by the jagged remains of both stalagmites and stalactites, it looked for a moment as if the earth itself had opened up to swallow the guide. The illusion was fleeting, but powerful, and Sabira shivered. She hoped it wasn’t an omen.
“My brethren and I had been sent out to find magic to aid us in our fight against the Spinner of Shadows; we believed we could do so here, above. We knew we were nearing the surface, but we could not find an egress from the caverns. The area had been plagued with quakes and tremors and we were about to retreat back below to search for a safer exit elsewhere when Brannan’s people happened upon us. One of the quakes had opened up this hole-” he gestured to the wall behind him “-and Brannan blasted his way through the stalagmites to find out where it went. He found us.” The guide cast an inscrutable glance behind Sabira. “I believe it is likely the ‘newcomers’ know the tale from there.”
Laven grunted at that, and Sabira could almost feel him reaching for the hilt of his sword. She’d have to make sure she issued a “no killing the drow” order when they stopped to camp.
“Shall we proceed, Marshal?”
Sabira nodded at the drow.
“Lead on.”
Xujil turned and led the way through the yawning mouth of the quake-spawned cavern. As Sabira stepped from the cave that housed the bulk of Trent’s Well into the narrower, cooler passage, the drow’s voice echoed eerily back to her through the darkness, disembodied and alien.
“Welcome to Tarath Marad.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zol, Barrakas 17, 998 YK
Tarath Marad, Xen’drik.
The everbright lanterns on their helmets lit up the passageway with a soft blue glow, revealing walls that sparkled with ore.
“Lava tube,” Greddark remarked, reaching out to touch the silvery vein nearest him. “Nickel. Some copper. Explains why there aren’t more dwarves here. Not worth mining.”
“Lava?” Sabira asked, reminded of her nightmares: Ned falling into the pool of magma, Orin losing his legs in the mud pot beneath Frostmantle. Both of them morphing into Elix in the agonizing moments before they died.
Greddark heard the sudden anxiety in her voice, and knew its cause. Or thought he did-Sabira hadn’t told anyone about the dreams she’d been having ever since she returned to Xen’drik. The only one who even suspected was Jester. Since he didn’t need to sleep, he knew how little of it she actually got.
“They’re old, dormant. This area hasn’t seen volcanic activity in centuries. Nothing to worry about.”
“The dwarf speaks truly,” Xujil said, his voice floating back to them as if from a great distance. Even though he was only a few feet in front of them, they could hardly make out his form; the light from the helmets didn’t penetrate far in the blackness of Tarath Marad. “The molten rivers have not flowed here below since before giants fell. The depths are a place of cold, and have always been so.”
Somehow, Sabira didn’t find that particularly comforting.
The passageway branched several times, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the route the drow took. Sometimes the tunnels angled downward, and sometimes they climbed sharply upward. Sometimes Xujil went right and sometimes he went left. Once after he’d taken three sharp l
efts in a row, Sabira was convinced they’d just gone in a circle.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to Greddark, who shrugged.
“Near as I can figure, we’re directly below Trent’s Well, but we’re heading out under the desert.”
Sabira actually stopped to stare at him.
“How can you possibly know that?”
He gave her a mocking grin.
“It’s a dwarf thing.”
She winced. She supposed she’d probably had that coming.
“Problem, Marshal?” Laven asked from behind them.
“Nothing a swift kick won’t take care of,” she muttered as she waved him off and hurried to catch up to the drow.
After a time, even Sabira could tell they were heading downward. The air was cooler, and the veins of ore had given way to patches of nacreous fungus that glowed without the benefit of the magewrought lanterns. The tunnels were bigger and less well-defined here as well, occasionally widening out into small caverns with a multitude of exits. She knew now why no one from Trent’s Well had exacted revenge on the Umbragen guides-they were the only ones who could navigate down here. Without Xujil or Greddark, she already knew she’d never find her way back to the surface. She was hopelessly lost.
She was just about to call for a break when she heard a soft hiss from behind her. She stopped and whirled, reaching for her urgrosh. Greddark’s blade was already out, though it did not yet dance with flames.
Laven moved up to her side.
“Skraad thinks we’re being followed,” he said in a low voice, his own hand on his hilt. “A group of men; he’s not sure how many. Maybe more than us. What do you want to do?”
Xujil had come back to see what the holdup was.
“There is a side tunnel ahead that leads to a vacant cavern,” the drow offered. “It is a dead end, but it will afford us room to battle.”
Sabira pursed her lips. A corner was usually a good place for an ambush-unless the guy between you and the door had more men and more weapons at his disposal. Then it was usually a good place to die.
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