The Inquisitives [4] The Darkwood Mask

by Jeff LaSala

  Well—why not?

  “You’ll get yours soon,” Tallis promised, and then he drove his elbow hard into the dwarf’s stomach. As the dwarf gasped for breath, Tallis disengaged roughly and let himself fall hard to the floor.

  “Guards!” he shouted, making his voice sound as gravelly as he could. “This dwarf just stole my gold!”

  The White Lions turned to Drazen, whose face was twisted in rage as he labored to breathe. One of the guards pointed an axe at him as the other held his gauntleted hands out in warning. Tallis twisted around and sprang to his feet, loosing his “crippled” arm for better maneuverability.

  “Hands out, dwarf!” one of the Lions commanded.

  Tallis staggered away from the scene, targeting the nearest exit. As he passed a group of ticket-holders seated at a bench, he turned and pointed behind him. “Some dwarf is stabbing people!” he said with a panicked look on his face.

  The travelers fumbled for their luggage and began to move quickly away in different directions. Perfect.

  “No, no!” Tallis heard Drazen shouting, spittle flying from his lips. “That’s Tallis there! He’s playing you all for fools! Tallis! Of Rekkenmark!” The White Lions looked in his direction. One of them nocked an arrow.

  Tallis broke into a run.

  Soneste had less than an hour until her rendezvous with Jotrem. It would be tight, but she decided she could visit the Chronicle archives and still make it back in time. The more information she could find on her own, the easier this would be.

  The field offices of the Korranberg Chronicle resided within the House Sivis enclave. While not officially employed by the gnomes’ Notaries Guild, the Chronicle used the house’s scribes and magewrights to maintain their archives.

  Soneste’s own identification papers gained her admittance within the office, for which she was glad. She could have used Hyran’s writ to shorten her wait, but she refrained. The less she waved it around, the less conspicuous her investigation would be.

  When her name was called, she approached the front desk. The gnome clerk regarded her from under bushy white brows. His body was aged and lean, but his eyes were fast and sharp.

  “What can I help you with, young lady?” he asked.

  “I am hoping to peruse the issues that you published in the weeks following the signing of the Thronehold Treaty.”

  “Specific dates, young lady,” the gnome demanded.

  Soneste thought about it. The Treaty, which had ended the Last War, had been signed in the autumn of 996, almost two years ago. Hyran had said Charoth’s return to Korth was soon after.

  “May I see Aryth through Olarune of 996?”

  The clerk scowled down at her from his lofty perch. That was forty-eight editions of the Chronicle she was asking to see. Even in broadsheet form, that would be a thick sheaf of papers to compile. Soneste knew she could produce Hyran’s writ and gain access without question.

  Instead, she said, “Please, sir. It would mean a great deal to me right now.”

  The gnome cleared his throat and shook his head. “Fine,” he muttered. Soneste waited in awkward silence as the clerk wrote down her request, signed it, and finally incanted some sort of enchantment to authorize it.

  He summoned another employee, a young human, who stared at Soneste with poorly-disguised interest. She was beginning to learn how to differentiate the classes of Karrnathi society. From his sensible clothing and an air of entitled self-respect, this one was clearly middle-class, but he would have been too young for mandatory enlistment in the final years of the war. He was handsome, certainly, but a bit too young for her. She was also beginning to admire the Karrns’ contrast of dark eyes with fair skin. She offered him a smile, if only to expedite the process.

  “Take the young lady to a reading room,” the gnome ordered, handing the boy the authorization papers.

  “Your weapon must remain, lady,” the younger clerk said, his face turning red. He pointed to her rapier.

  Accustomed to the procedure from the Chronicle office in Sharn, Soneste complied. She did not volunteer the crysteel dagger still hidden in her boot. After leaving the suggested donation, Soneste was led through a series of corridors lit only by dim cold fire, passing open rooms where historians and other researchers poured over giant tomes. She was brought to a small room of her own, and the boy asked her to wait as he walked awkwardly away.

  An oversized open book was propped upright at the center of the room. Its pages were blank. The thick spine was bound to the tabletop by means of a rotating metal hinge, which allowed the reader to angle the contraption as desired. A cylindrical slot at the top of the thick spine was ready to receive. These viewing tomes were an invention of Sivis design, crafted by dragonmarked artificers of the house.

  Soon after, another gnome clerk entered the room with a leather kit under one arm. He partially unrolled it upon the table then produced the first of the rune-scribed rods pocketed within.

  The gnome held it up before her and pointed to the name and number carved in fine characters along its length. “This is Mol, the first week of Barrakas, 996,” he said by way of explanation, then slid the rod into the spine of the viewing tome.

  The pages of the opened book immediately flooded with large, luminous words. A moment later, the light faded but the text remained. Soneste was looking upon the edition of the Chronicle exactly as it had appeared in print on that day. He unrolled the leather portfolio to reveal the remaining rods. There were a lot to go through.

  “Thank you,” Soneste said, slipping the gnome a few sovereigns for the inconvenience, which he accepted without a word. He spoke an arcane syllable and the cold fire lamps upon the wall brightened.

  When the clerk left her to her research, she immediately set to work. She was aware of the chroniclers checking in on her occasionally, despite their magical safeguards against theft, but she paid them no mind. Her eyes flashed through the large pages quickly, searching for key words that might have some association to Lord Charoth,

  When she reached the month of Zarantyr, almost exactly two years past, she found what she was looking for.

  Forgehold Disaster Survivor Renounces Own House

  Zarantyr 11th, 996 YK

  KORTH—Lord Charoth Arkenen d’Cannith, esteemed arcanist and former director of a secret forgehold, formally renounced on Zol all ties to House Cannith. The self-imposed exile stood before barristers of Korth’s Justice Ministry, wearing a mask and concealing his body in dark robes. Agents of the Twelve were summoned to bear witness and scrutinize the mysterious claimant with divination magic.

  Believed slain along with thirty-two other forgehold personnel in Therendor of 992, Lord Charoth reemerged last Nymm to take possession of his family’s estates. According to the director’s testimony, the unethical demands placed upon him by his house superiors between 990 and 992 YK led to the forgehold’s destruction.

  It was not until the disaster that the existence of the forgehold, a facility sources refer to as the Orphanage, became public knowledge. Lord Charoth, the promising arcanist of the Arkenen family, was presumed dead, along with the forgehold’s entire staff.

  Only the director’s return four years later has suggested otherwise. When asked why he delayed news of his survival, Lord Charoth explained, “I have been in dark and painful places and have tried these last few years to hide this fate. Mine have been the sins of fear and denial. Now that the war has ended, I feel Karrnath can weather such a hard truth, a truth I am ready to admit.”

  As a consequence of the disaster, Lord Charoth’s body allegedly sustained severe damage. Jorasco healers were immediately sent to attend him when his return was announced, but the former director refused them. “It was not mere fire that has scarred me,” was all he told the Korranberg Chronicle regarding his condition.

  Nor is Lord Charoth willing to disclose the location of the Orphanage. “It is an evil place now,” he explained. “The innovations that came from its workshops have been tainted by the u
nethical demands of my former superiors. I will not afflict any man or woman with the horrors of that ruin, nor subject House Cannith to further embarrassment. Despite the atrocities committed by the house, it suffered a devastating blow along with the whole of Khorvaire on the Day of Mourning. I wish the house renewed prosperity.”

  Added Lord Charoth, “And I wish them farewell.”

  Among the thirty-two presumed dead at the Orphanage was Erevyn Korell d’Cannith, chief artificer and minister of the facility. Korell was a student and friend of Aarren d’Cannith before the latter’s excoriation and subsequent disappearance in 970 YK.

  Agents of House Cannith could not be reached for comment.

  Soneste sat back, letting the information sink in. Charoth’s fate was dramatic indeed, yet how could so many people die and only one man, the forgehold’s own director, conveniently survive? Others must have wondered the same, investigations undertaken. Did they yield dead ends?

  This seemed all very interesting, but was this a waste of her time? Did any of this relate to her case? Aside from the ambassador’s warforged sentry, what connection could there be between her case and House Cannith?

  She felt a surge of disappointment. No mention of Breland or the war. Charoth was a sinister—and certainly fascinating—figure, but this wasn’t giving her any indication that she was on the right path.

  Soneste committed the article to memory in a manner of seconds then searched through the next few editions. Nearly one month later, a follow-up article appeared within the Chronicle, no doubt a result of Charoth’s emergence.

  House Cannith Admits Forgehold Disaster

  Olarune 13th, 996 YK

  KORTH—Representatives from the Cannith enclave in Korth released a statement on Zor regarding the destruction of the Orphanage facility in 992. In Zarantyr, the former director of the forgehold, Lord Charoth Arkenen, came forward with news of his survival and his subsequent rebuke of House Cannith.

  The statement revealed that the Orphanage was a research facility that focused on the sentient aspects of warforged creation. While most creation forges in the late 980s produced the rank and file units that House Cannith sold to the Five Nations, the Orphanage worked to augment the warforged mind. Even warforged titans, the behemoth constructs that preceded the standard models, were continually assembled and upgraded within the Orphanage.

  According to the statement, a conflagration of elemental power burned within the subterranean facility in Therendor of 992, prompting Lord Zorlan d’Cannith, regional viceroy at the time, to dispatch a rescue team to the hidden site. A thorough search of the wreckage concluded that none of the forge personnel could have survived the devastation.

  “Had we known of the director’s survival, the outcome of this story would be very different,” Baron Zorlan d’Cannith told the Chronicle following the statement. “Lord Charoth is a man of singular grace and remarkable vision. The tragedy that befell him and its effect upon his business decisions today are a loss to us all.”

  When asked for comment, Lord Charoth politely complied. “The Thronehold Treaties have ordered House Cannith to destroy their creation forges, a decree I heartily commend, but had I been present during the peace talks, I would have pushed for the destruction of all existing warforged. They are obsolete in this time of peace and remain only as a reminder of the weapons of war the Five Nations have inflicted upon one another. I am ashamed for my part in their construction and will have nothing to do with them ever again. I have no desire to return to the life that I once knew.”

  The former director was severely scarred by the mysterious destruction of the Orphanage facility and believed dead for four years. Refusing Jorasco healers to treat him, Lord Charoth said only that the damage he suffered could not be undone.

  Lady Irenta d’Jorasco, an administrator of Jorasco’s hospital in Korth, explained further. “When we visited his estate, Lord Charoth claimed that his body was scarred by energies from a damaged creation forge. I cannot speak to the destructive properties of such devices. That is not our province. I can, however, confirm that Positive Energy, such as that channeled by the Mark of Healing, can be deadly if not used correctly.”

  House Cannith’s statement did not include the whereabouts of the Orphanage forgehold. Added Baron Zorlan, “We have explained all that we can. The locations of our forgeholds remain classified. This incident changes nothing.”

  Soneste was unable to find anything else within 996 YK pertaining to Charoth or anything at all mentioning Gamnon ir’Daresh. She wanted to search through the 997 editions, but it would have to wait. She had to meet up with Jotrem or he’d be asking questions. Then she’d have to lie.

  Soneste sighed. This was her investigation. Why did she have to answer to anyone?

  Even so, the 997 editions couldn’t be as vital. Even the highly regarded Korranberg Chronicle dared not scrutinize any of the dragonmarked houses too much. She committed the second article to memory and called for the gnome clerk.

  Interlude

  Daylight shone through the window, but the man in the velvet-padded chair remained oblivious. The door to the small room closed again, but he’d made no acknowledgement of his visitor. Instead, the memories that cycled through his mind continued.

  Another voice calls out to me now.

  “Master Erevyn is not to be disturbed,” my assistant responds in my defense.

  I set my tools down, resigned to address the matter. I turn to look at the speaker, but I know it is Leonus, my sister’s eldest and a good man. I’ll not berate him, of course, but he knows better than to interrupt me.

  “Sverak, it’s all right.” I climb down the maintenance ladder as my assistant backs away with a sleight bow. His movements are respectful, as always, but unnecessary. I have come to think of him as a colleague.

  My nephew approaches me, wiping soiled hands upon a rag. He looks tired, having worked at the birthing pods since morning.

  “What is it?”

  He glances nervously at Sverak. “Uncle …”

  “Speak, Leonus. Please.” I am mildly irritated. My work is too delicate for trivialities. What can’t wait?

  “Uncle, Lord Charoth is returning tomorrow. We just received word from Korth.”

  I feel apprehension, a small measure of fear inside me. I knew the day would come, of course. The director has been away for many months now. It has seemed the Orphanage had been neglected in favor of the Cyran forgeholds. It had only been a matter of time. He was director, not I. I suppose I expected to be more prepared. That’s all.

  “Thank you, Leonus. Get back to work. We all have much to do.”

  My nephew walks away. Sverak stands before me now. I feel the sleight touch of his hand on my arm. He has always been affectionate. Unusually so.

  “Master, why do you worry?”

  Chapter

  TEN

  The Bodyguard

  Mol, the 9th of Sypheros, 998 YK

  As expected, Jotrem had little to offer from his side of the investigation. He’d been unable to speak with the clothier Vorik ir’Alanso directly, but he’d returned with a gray shirt and black vest for Soneste—the gloomy tones that passed for Karrnathi fashion.

  There was suspicion in his eyes when he’d approached her. Of course, the subtle power she’d implanted in his mind had long since worn off. She accepted the clothing with a tense smile.

  “We stay together now,” Jotrem said without further comment as they walked to the Ebonspire.

  “Agreed,” she replied, plotting her next method of shaking him.

  She recounted her interview with Charoth, omitting only her personal observations about the mysterious lord. She also described in brief what she’d found in the Korranberg Chronicle, not telling him that she could recite it perfectly.

  “I see no obvious connection between Lord Charoth and the ambassador,” Jotrem said, “and no motive on Lord Charoth’s part. What has he to gain?”

  Soneste had no answer for that—yet.r />
  In the city morgue, Soneste examined the decapitated body of Gamnon ir’Daresh. His wounds were the same as those that had killed his family and servants—twin punctures of a long and strongly-thrust blade. The fact that he’d been thrown from the balcony so high up seemed to her as simple mockery, something to get people talking, but the theft of his head? There had to be more to that.

  When she’d finished her exam, the undertaker touched an ice cold hand to hers. “This tragedy needn’t go unavenged, Miss Otänsin,” he said, his voice compassionate despite their grisly surroundings. “With your permission, we can speak with his retainers and ask them to describe precisely what happened to them.”

  Necropolis of the Valiant. The Korth morgue. This undertaker worked for the Ministry of the Dead. He, or one of his associates, could employ magic to force one the Brelish corpses to answer specific questions placed to it. Soneste considered it.

  Thuranne didn’t have to know if she consented to this. If the information the spell yielded was accurate, she could learn a lot about the massacre.

  Even Jotrem looked expectantly at her.

  It wouldn’t be the ambassador’s family she was talking to, only their mortal shells. What was the harm? She thought of the two dead White Lions, and how little their testimony had provided. Then she thought of how far she might fall if Lady ir’Daresh’s family heard about the spell.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, “but not at this time.”

  Together Soneste and Jotrem went to the Ebonspire and searched the ambassador’s apartments. Workers from the Necropolis waited in the lobby, while a uniformed wizard from the Ministry of the Dead lingered nearby, awaiting Soneste’s approval for removal of the bodies. The wizard had renewed the magic that had seized the ambassador’s chambers with supernatural cold, but he had explained that he would allow it to fade when they were finished.