by Jeff LaSala
Even so, they couldn’t have hidden the grief that tightened his quicksilver eyes or the rage that pursed his previously wicked grin into a fierce scowl. She reached out and squeezed his hand, surprised to feel how warm it was. He was the only Karrn without ice water coursing through his veins.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Soneste said quietly.
Tallis didn’t answer right away. They walked two blocks before he acknowledged her intrusion at all. “I know.”
Soneste was surprised when Tallis led them down to the waterfront. A profusion of masts and half-collapsed sails filled the docks. Workers of every race and social class walked this way and that, carrying rigging, ordering inferiors around, and arguing. She searched the mass of people, hoping on a whim to spot Aegis, but the only warforged she saw were hauling cargo to and from river vessels. The din of the crowds and the cadence of dockworkers’ song swallowed all other noise. The latter sounded more like battle hymns than river shanties.
“Your artificer is down here?” Soneste shouted to be heard. She noted a crowd of roustabouts loitering outside a nearby alehouse.
“Pray join us, Bluebird!” one of the men called to her. One of his mates held up a bottle and made a lewd gesture with it.
Angry words came unbidden to her lips, and her face flushed. “Keeper’s swine—”
“Come on, Bluebird,” Tallis said with a half smile, taking her hand in his again. “We’re almost there.”
The Karrn steered her out onto the furthest pier at the east end, passing into the shadow of the bluffs that rose high along the city’s edge. The pier itself cried out for repair and some of the pilings looked ready to break free from it altogether. A cluster of damaged ships crowded the dock. Soneste knew very little about seamanship but was fairly certain none of these ships would sail again. Some of them didn’t even have masts and were too ramshackle to be elemental-powered vessels.
“Watch your step,” Tallis said, pointing out broken planks in their path. He stepped up to what Soneste first assumed was an oddly-shaped dockhouse. It resembled a miniature barge with a rusted iron protrusion serving as the pilot house. She could barely make out the name written on the hull, Kapoacinth, amidst thick layers of mildew.
“This was a salvage tug during the war,” Tallis explained when he saw her scrutiny.
“Was,” she concurred.
Atop a short ramp, they stepped aboard and Tallis rapped the head of his hammer against the vertical hatch which passed for the door. Soneste winced at the jarring sound. She eyed the hand-sized porthole on the door when she caught a flicker within the thick glass. As they waited, Tallis unbuttoned his coat. Buffeted as they were by the bitter riverside winds, Soneste thought him mad.
When there was no response, Tallis hammered again.
A massive reptilian eye filled the porthole, flicking left and right. Its vertical pupil dilated against the daylight behind them. A hellish red glow limned the great eye.
Soneste she reached for her dagger. “What in Khyber …?”
Tallis chuckled, removing his jacket and tucking it under an arm.
An illusion, perhaps. Many arcanists employed fearsome, if harmless defenses such as this in their shops and homes. Soneste found it difficult to believe this floating piece of junk housed a legitimate workshop.
“Who is you?” a harsh voice issued from the door, the sound amplified through invisible pipes.
“You know who, Verdax,” Tallis answered. “Let me in. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Bringing ssstranger?” the voice accused, the eye fixing on Soneste. She looked around to see if anyone else noticed the shrill voice. None did.
“Yes. Just open up.”
“No!”
“Very well.” Tallis withdrew the metal case that housed his identification papers, propped it open, and cleared his throat.
“Verdaxensoranec!” he said in a loud voice. A few heads near the crumbling dock turned their way at the sound. The angry red eye widened and swiveled around. “You are hereby ordered, in accordance with the Justice Ministry of Korth and the Code of Kaius, to submit to an authorized search of the Kapoacinth as requested by the Windwrights Guild of House Lyran—”
There came a furious hiss, followed by the metallic pop of the ship’s door as it unsealed and swung ajar. Tallis clapped the metal case together. “Better let me go first. He hates people he doesn’t know.” Soneste made a face. “What? You wanted to come, didn’t you? By the way, you might want to take that coat off.”
On the other side of the door she saw a protruding eyehole at waist level, inlaid with a thick lens that disappeared into the metal. Tallis led her by hand through a cramped and dark walkway that smelled like lamp oil and snake skin. A ramp brought them into the belly of the small ship, where a sudden, stifling heat enclosed them. She removed her coat quickly and folded it over one arm.
The air remained uncomfortably warm and was as black as night until Tallis triggered something upon one wall. Yellow-globed lanterns flared to life with cold fire, illuminating the space. Distaste and wonder both warred for her favor as she looked upon the room.
Soneste had seen arcane workspaces before, had visited magewright shops in Sharn and even glimpsed research chambers in Cannith Enclave. The interior of this boat looked like it comprised the leftover parts from those places. Every horizontal surface was littered with a perplexing array of tools and inorganic parts. Hooks and chains jutted from the ceiling and walls, holding whatever failed to fit anywhere else. Tucked in an alcove beside her was a sheaf of legal documents. Against the far side of the shop, a large storage bin was propped half open by something covered in a filthy tarp. She felt an aqueous murmur somewhere beneath her feet, as though the boat itself was powered by churning water.
Soneste’s gaze settled at last upon a small, reptilian figure that stood fuming up at her like a tiny bull. For a moment she thought the creature was stuffed, until its glowing red eyes narrowed. No taller than a halfling, most of its scaly, gray-brown skin was covered by a suit that combined a workman’s smock with studded leather armor. A pair of oversized goggles perched atop his head, contesting with the two black horns that sprouted there—a kobold.
Most of his kind lived in tribes and laired in caves, setting traps for the unwary and venturing out only to raid. Soneste had never heard of a kobold artificer.
Tallis pointed at her. “Verdax, this Soneste. She’s clean.” He indicated the kobold in turn. “Soneste, this is Verdax.”
“Master Verdax,” she said with a half-bow, holding back a smile.
“Shhrk! Where she is from?” the artificer demanded with a hiss.
Tallis opened his mouth to reply, but Soneste cut him off. “Listen,” she said, producing her identification papers and holding them out for the kobold’s inspection. “I work for Thuranne d’Velderan’s Investigative Services, a freelancing inquisitive agency with ties to House Tharashk. I am here on behalf of the King’s Citadel of Breland and the Justice Ministry.”
Verdax’s eyes bulged. The lips of his canine snout peeled back to reveal a collection of tiny sharp teeth. One clawed hand reached for a wand sticking out of his largest pocket.
“I am not here for you, Verdax.” She pointed at the papers tacked to the wall. “I have no interest in seizing the Kapoacinth, for which I’m assuming you possess legal ownership, nor of investigating your business here. We’re only interested your help.”
The kobold turned his baleful gaze upon Tallis. He had yet to address her directly. “She is law! Cannot be trust!” he screeched.
“Look, she’s with me. Me. I’m the one wanted by the law, right?” Tallis added, “And Verdax … she’s from Sharn.”
The kobold’s glare faltered, quickly supplanted by a sinister, dragonlike smile. He looked back at Soneste. “Tell with me about City of Towers, warmblood.”
“Another time,” Tallis said. “There’s something I really need you to look at right now.”
Soneste pla
ced the cloth bundle on the central worktable. Verdax lingered a moment as if lost in a dream, his toothy grin only slowly fading. He mounted a metal step ladder that had been fused to one side of the table and peeled back the cloth. Soneste imagined him constructing various other devices right there, standing on the tabletop like an artificer’s homunculus, yet the more she looked around at the wands, potions, and sundry magic items, the more seriously she took the peculiar kobold.
Verdax prodded the empty gauntlet with interest, turning it over and hefting it in nimble claws. At last he looked up at Tallis. “Settle first! Then we gold-talk.”
“Fine.” Tallis nodded at Soneste. “This will only take a few minutes.”
The Karrn and kobold moved to the other side of the shop. Tallis produced the fire wand he’d used just last night, handing it to Verdax. “This was discharged only once in my possession,” he began. “I promise you. You can check it yourself.”
Soneste watched as Tallis pulled a surprising number of items from his coat and pockets, including a handful of small potion vials. She spied the two metal rods he carried at his belt, but he didn’t remove them. From the bargaining session that followed—hushed tones punctuated by the kobold’s shrill exclamations—Soneste deduced that Tallis borrowed most of the tools for his peculiar trade but that he did, in fact, own a few of them himself. The gravity-defying rods and the gnomish hooked hammer were probably his. The rest, it seemed, he rented in exchange for gold or temporal magic findings.
Soneste busied herself with her own inventory but quietly studied the space around her. She knew only a little about magic but knew enough to know that Verdax owned a veritable arsenal of arcane equipment and weaponry. Between the basement of Aureon’s shrine and this unassuming little watercraft, Soneste knew she’d found Tallis’s primary haunts. She already knew a lot about this man. Once this investigation was over, what would happen next? He seemed too careful to just let her go, truce or no truce.
Her eyes kept returning to the storage bin across the way and its tarp-covered protrusion. Was that a limb?
“Good,” Tallis said when their business had concluded. “Now take a look at that thing!”
Verdaxensoranec didn’t appreciate threats. His time was valuable, his skills underappreciated, his hard work underpaid and forced into unlawful measures. But this female warmblood had been gentle enough with her implied threat. She was diplomatic, for a human, yet had she come in the company of anyone other than Tallis, Verdax wouldn’t have risked treating with her at all.
The offer of payment allayed his concerns, but talk of Sharn spurred his efforts. The sooner he identified the metal hand, the sooner Tallis and the female would leave and come back again. Hence, the sooner he would learn more of the City of Towers. He’d certainly had enough of the City of Danger. Karrnath was a cold, unpleasant land, and it had made his scales ache for years. The warm caves of his homeland in the Ironroot Mountains were more comfortable, but he’d quit them in favor of more enlightened company.
Alas, Sharn! The famous City of Towers offered an acceptable climate and endless arcane resources. Someday he would get the Kapoacinth there! The warmblood claimed to be an agent of the king of Breland. That might prove useful toward that end.
Thus inspired, Verdax set upon the strange metal hand. He settled the goggles over his eyes, and the fine filigree of the gauntlet sharpened to perfect clarity. This was a curious metal, to be certain. For a device such as this he knew he would need to call upon the skills bestowed upon him by the mighty dragon Eberron. He prefaced his scrutiny with the purifying words of a Draconic incantation, summoning the first infusion he would require.
Verdax fell into his work. Time faded away, along with the feckless prattle of the warmbloods nearby.
When he’d learned all that he could, he dropped his goggles on the tabletop and stretched. His stomach snarled at him, reminding him how long he’d been ignoring it. Tallis and his female sat wearily nearby, but their eyes came alert when they saw he was finished. A sheen of mammalian sweat slicked their too-smooth skin—especially the Karrn. Oh yes, as if it had been so hard sitting there doing nothing!
“What’s the answer?” Tallis asked, uncharacteristically impatient. The half-breed elf was normally a respectable customer.
“Steel is not steel,” Verdax answered. When Tallis prompted more of an explanation—what was so hard to understand?—he continued. “Shrrk! Steel is mixed, not steel only. Different alloy. Unsure of ore. Not from real mountain.”
“Yes, and …?”
“Not mithral. Not adamant.”
“Adamantine, right,” Tallis corrected, rudely.
“Yes. Hand is pulled from construct. Living metal.”
“Verdax,” the female interjected. He thought he’d been talking to Tallis. But no matter, this female would assist his career with her knowledge of Sharn and its societies. “This hand came from a creature composed entirely of armor. Could this armor have been animated with necromantic magic? With undead spirits?”
“Shhrk! No. Hand is pulled from construct body.” Hadn’t he just said this? This was very simple to understand. Verdax began to question this kingly agent’s intelligence. “Construct not real alive. Construct not dead or undead.”
“Of course,” she answered. “Could this hand have come from some sort of unusual warforged?”
Verdax laughed, and the female made a surprised face. It was funny. “No. Not is … ordinary.” He waved a claw at the junk bin on the other side of the room, the thought having reminding him that he really ought to inspect his latest yield.
In all his years on the salvage crew, Verdax had never once seen a warforged with five digits upon its hand, nor seen a material simultaneously hard and flexible like this. The swirling arcana etched into the grooves of the gauntlet was not suggestive of Cannith work. They were runes of a different sort, nothing like the schemas he’d once pried off the shell of a warforged titan.
“Not Cannith, not artificer make. Is wizard work.”
The female’s eyebrows rose, as if this was some astounding revelation. It really wasn’t, though. Verdax had learned that much from the hand at first glance.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about it?” Tallis asked.
“Construct powerful. Elemental, but not. Force in construct outside my work. I cannot say. Not know. Wizard work.” Verdax hated the common tongue of Khorvaire’s most populous races. Draconic was so much more articulate and easier to pronounce. He’d only learned this cast-off language of the Five Nations to advance his career.
“So that’s really all? You can’t determine what this thing came from?”
“Give you discount on hand identify,” Verdax answered, feeling generous and patient. The half-breed was a good customer and the secrets of Sharn awaited.
“Can you at least tell me where I can find out more?” There was that impertinence again.
“Yes,” Verdax responded. There really was only one place in Karrnath he knew of where one might find out more. He pointed one clawed finger up. “Tower of Twelve.”
Tallis and his female exchanged worried glances. Mystery and power surrounded the dragonmarked institution that floated above the City of Danger. It didn’t frighten Verdax, of course. He’d love to visit the halls of the Twelve and study relics as ancient as the Dhakaani Empire, but he’d long since given up the notion of visiting. He certainly doubted Tallis, of all the warmbloods in this city, would be welcome there.
“Good luck!” he offered them both and set to rewrapping the metal hand.
“Do you think it’s possible?” Tallis asked the female.
“It is,” she replied, sounding distracted, “but I’d probably need to provide a good reason. I’m not sure Hyran’s writ is enough. The Twelve does not answer to the Justice Ministry or to any government, for that matter. This may require me to tell them about the assassin and the hand.”
Tallis sighed. “More will die if we don’t track this thing down.”
>
“Keep death away here,” Verdax warned, not liking the turn of their conversation.
The female turned her attention full upon him. There was a sneaky look in her eyes, like she was investigating him. “Verdax, you pointed to that bin a moment ago. Can I ask what you keep in there?”
Worthless but potentially useful junk, he thought. At least until last night, when one of his dockside associates had made him an offer. The wharf-dweller had found something that he knew a salvager like Verdax might be interested in. It had cost the kobold fifty gold coins, and he had yet to determine if the trade had really been worth it.
“Junk,” he answered.
“Specifically,” she pressed. “What is under that tarp?”
Verdax hissed. “Breland warforged. Damaged life core, but fixenable. Found last night. Will make new helper, not having to feed.”
Tallis raised his hornless brows, and the female smiled big, showing her garish, flat white teeth. Her voice rose in a funny pitch as she spoke. “Master Verdax, you are a most resourceful kobold. I have one final request of you.”
Chapter
TWENTY
Glassworks
Wir, the 11th of Sypheros, 998 YK
Soneste set out from Verdax’s shop with Aegis beside her. The warforged’s composite plating was repaired, the deep cuts made by the assassin’s blade smooth again. The artificer’s infusions had restored Aegis to his full physical capacity. Verdax charged her several times an acceptable amount, but now wasn’t the time to argue cost, especially since the funds weren’t her own. She knew what they were up against now, and the assassin evidently knew how to find them. She needed Aegis at his best. It would take a lot more than a few rapier stabs to bring him down again.
Despite his mended condition, the warforged’s spirits were low.
“I have failed again,” he said.
Soneste rapped on the pauldron that served as the warforged’s shoulder. “I paid for your repair with the Citadel’s gold. You’re called to serve a duty, Aegis. To Breland. You haven’t failed your king yet.”