by Jeff LaSala
When Jotrem led them out of the Cathedral, Soneste saw Aegis standing at the base of a statue. Thankfully, the older inquisitive hadn’t noticed him. She gestured discreetly for the warforged to stay away, praying he would understand and follow behind from a distance.
Soneste walked behind the squad of seven White Lions, where Tallis was prodded along between them. His wrists were manacled together. His weapons had been seized. Two guards flanked him and a third held a ceramic wand at his back, capped with a piece of amber.
Jotrem strode alongside the group rather than in the lead.
The Lions knew where they were going. Most criminals were brought to one of the barracks situated near the city’s major gates, where they were dealt swift release or punishment at the whim of the commanding officer. Men like Tallis, sought by higher powers, were claimed by the Justice Ministry directly. She’d heard that General Thauram himself wanted Tallis’s blood. This wouldn’t end well.
Her eyes flicked to Jotrem. His jaw was set, his expression exalted. Then she saw his hands at his sides, flexing constantly, the tremor of a nervous man. She’d expected trouble from the older inquisitive, but something had changed within him.
She needed answers. With a thought, Soneste fell into herself and summoned her psychic net. She grasped it firmly in imagined hands and cast it out in a circle, where residue from every emotion within a dagger’s throw was snared.
Bravado, Karrnathi pride, and chauvinism in abundance exuded from the White Lions as they paraded their notorious captive between them on the open streets. From Tallis she felt only an emotional hollow, an unknowable ache that dissolved her lingering doubts of his involvement in Lenrik’s fate. His head lifted, a torpid curiosity, having heard the fading remnant of her mental song.
Then something else, a gnawing fear, bled in from her catch—Jotrem’s strained sensibilities again. But there was more to it now, something she’d felt only a trace of earlier in the day but now roared from his mind as never before. A despondency out of place, a craving …
A psionic pulse.
Soneste let her power fade as she fixed knowing eyes upon Jotrem. He still walked with the stride of a confident man, but beneath the veneer of triumph there was a slave. She recalled all that she’d observed of this man since she’d met him in the Justice Ministry. There were contradictions that didn’t seem right, a new addiction that revealed him. Unless …
This wasn’t the same man. The moment she thought of it, she knew she was right.
She spotted an Orien courier further down the street walking in their direction. When the girl started to turn into a side street, Soneste decided her opportunity had come. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. It was time to cross the line of certainty.
Soneste stared at the back of Sergeant Bratta, who led their procession, and with a thought planted a preternatural interest within his mind. If it worked, he would feel an inexplicable desire to be near the Orien girl. The moment it was done, she pulled out her hand crossbow and primed it.
The other Lions exchanged glances when Sergeant Bratta turned their path into the side street but said nothing. It was something of a detour. The narrow street had fewer pedestrians, sheltered between two tall structures.
“M-miss,” Bratta called out, his tone uncertain. “Hold for a moment, please.”
The courier turned, startled to see a squad of guards approaching her. Tallis looked up, vaguely aware that something had changed. Jotrem watched suspiciously, tucking Tallis’s hooked hammer under one arm as he drew out the Rekkenmark blade at his belt.
Seven armed soldiers, Soneste’s instincts warned her, but now wasn’t the time for doubt. Only action. Olladra be with me, she prayed. She holstered the hand crossbow, the bolt still loaded. She looked furtively over her shoulder and wished Aegis were there.
Bratta ignored his fellows and approached the girl. The others stopped, unsure. “Sergeant, what are you doing?” Jotrem asked loudly.
Soneste stepped up to the wand-bearing Lion who stood behind Tallis. The Karrn’s ear turned in her direction. He was listening, ready.
“Sovereigns save us!” Soneste said, feigning panic in her voice. “What is that thing?” She wrapped her fingers around the wand in the guard’s hand and turned him around as if to aim at some invisible foe. She used her body to hide her hands from view of the others.
“What!?” the Lion demanded.
“Oh, gods!” Soneste shouted in his ear then pried the wand upward to point at the man’s own face. She didn’t know what the magic device would do, but she hoped it wouldn’t kill. He locked her fingers around the shaft and shook it.
Orange light flared from the amber tip as the guard flinched. His face slackened visibly, and his eyes lost all focus. The man was physically stunned by the wand’s magic and could utter not a word. Elated, Soneste pulled the wand from his feeble grasp even as she drew her rapier.
“White Lions!” she announced as all eyes turned to her. She pointed the wand at Jotrem. “This man is a changeling.”
The guards froze, unsure who to attack. Tallis exploited their indecision, erupting into motion even as Soneste released another store of the wand’s magic at the false Jotrem. The man threw up one hand defensively, but the spell took hold—he blinked and struggled against the magic that sought to stupefy him.
Even manacled, Tallis was dangerous. He could not move his wrists apart, bound as they were in black iron, but he knew how to turn anything into a weapon. Soneste glanced quickly his way and saw that he’d already struck one of the Lions down with the crossbar of his manacles.
Tallis pushed past the guard nearest him and grasped the pick’s head of his hooked hammer, which was still loosely tucked under the pretender’s arm. With a two-handed grip, he pulled it away with all his might. The wedge at the hammer’s end struck the false Jotrem in the shoulder blade, doubling him over in pain and dropping the sword from his hand.
The White Lions had gathered their wits and attacked now in full. Soneste dodged the axe of the guard who engaged her, knowing her slim blade would not suffice to parry his swings. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tallis strike down the stunned Lion with his hammer and turn to face the rest.
Sovereigns, forgive me.
Soneste danced away from her attacker, searching for her opening. She gestured with the wand, but its power had been spent. The guard rushed forward and struck low, aiming to cut her legs. She stepped aside the wild swing and placed the point of her rapier against his collar … angled it away from his throat then pushed. Her blade sank into his shoulder. He screamed.
“Sovereign bitch!” he swore, clutching at the stream of blood which had opened at his should as he stumbled to his knees. She brought her rapier down against his hand, dropping the axe in one painful strike.
The imposter Jotrem had gathered his senses. He leaned down to pick up his sword and met her eyes. There was fury there, but Soneste still saw that omnipresent fear.
“Who are you?” she demanded, pointing her rapier at him.
With Tallis engaged by the remaining Lions, the man could have attacked her freely now. Why didn’t he? Was he no warrior at all? Not half the soldier the retired officer should have been.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
Sergeant Bratta appeared beside the imposter. The sudden battle and the courier girl’s flight had erased his psychic attraction. The guard lifted his crossbow, the steel-tipped bolt leveled at Soneste’s chest. He stood not ten feet away. There was no way in Khyber she could dodge that.
“Drop it,” Bratta prompted her.
She dropped both the wand and her rapier. She let her hands fall to her sides, where she slowly grasped the sleeve of her right hand and searched for the hidden pouch.
“Tallis!” the sergeant called out, spittle flying from his lips. “Throw down your weapon or you’ll being pulling this bolt from the wench’s heart.”
Soneste noted the false Jotrem stepping slowly away. He knew his
ruse was up.
“Fine!” Tallis answered, holding his weapon upright for all to see. Only two Lions remained standing around him. The rest lay bleeding and unconscious on the cobbles. The two flanking the Karrn ceased their attack but watched him warily.
The sergeant’s eyes flicked to Tallis. “Throw it down!”
“I said … fine!” Tallis said, bringing his arm down and hurling the hooked hammer straight at Sergeant Bratta. The Lion deflected the spinning weapon with the chain mail of his arm, but the thwack of its impact sounded painful. The weapon tumbled from his grip—
—and Soneste pulled her smaller crossbow out, tearing the packet where she’d placed her blue whinnis and applying it swiftly to the bolt’s steel tip.
She lifted her weapon and sighted down the retreating imposter. She pulled the trigger.
The dart-sized bolt struck him between the shoulder blades, easily penetrating the wool of his uniform. He cried out and tried to sprint to the main avenue, but already his steps were growing sluggish. Bystanders at the street’s edge gaped at the melee.
Soneste looked back to Tallis. Another Lion was down. The Karrn was grappling with Bratta, for he’d attempted to retrieve his hammer and the furious sergeant was fast upon him. With his wrists still locked close together, Tallis couldn’t maintain his grip and fend off attacks. He was forced to endure a mace blow to the shoulder from the remaining Lion.
“Just … get Jotrem!” Tallis growled through the pain without even looking back at her. He pivoted on his feet, swinging the sergeant’s body around to shield him from the next blow. The diamond-headed mace crashed into Bratta’s temple.
The Justice Ministry will have my head next, Soneste swore silently.
The imposter Jotrem had almost reached the avenue, but his steps dragged. The sleep poison was taking effect. Soneste paused only long enough to pull out her crysteel dagger.
The imposter reached the end of the street and turned.
And ran headlong into the large metal body of a warforged.
“Aegis!” she exclaimed. “Hold him!”
The construct grabbed the weakening man, who collapsed in his grip and hung there like a puppet. The false Jotrem wasn’t unconscious—not yet—but he struggled anyway.
Soneste caught up to them. “Thank you, Aegis. Drop him and help Tallis.” The warforged complied, and the imposter crumbled to the cobbled street. “Just don’t kill anyone!” she called out after Aegis tramped past.
She crouched down, turned the imposter over, and placed the razor edge of her dagger to his throat. “I know you aren’t Jotrem,” she said in the man’s ear and stroked the blade gently across his skin, “so tell me who you are.”
The man’s heavy-lidded eyes tried to focus on her.
“Let mmme go, Brel … saved you … from yyyowler …”
Yowler? This was useless. She couldn’t question him out here. Already she could see passers-by running off to summon another patrol of White Lions. This had to end now or she was as doomed as Tallis.
At the thought, she looked back. One of the White Lions dented Aegis’s shoulder with a sound blow from his battle-axe, for which the warforged pounded the man to the ground. Behind the construct, Tallis brought the hammer’s blunted end thudding into the sergeant’s stomach. Bratta fell hard. With seven White Lions lying unconscious on the street—Host, let none of them be dead—Soneste watched as Tallis set about searching for the key to his manacles. He looked up and offered her a weak smile.
What was the point? Innocent or not of the murder of ir’Daresh, Tallis was an enemy of the state, and Soneste had just firmly established herself as his accomplice. She thought of the Sharn skyline, her apartment in Ivy Towers, and the proud face of Thuranne d’Velderan. She would never make it home now.
Then Soneste looked to the imposter who lazed stupidly before her. He still shifted, drifting on the edge of consciousness. Therein lay her answers—and she was determined to have them out. If she was going to die for this, she at least wanted to know why.
Soneste stood and sprinted after an empty coach that trotted near. “Driver!” she called. “Five dragons to buy my friends passage across the city with no questions asked?”
Interlude
There had been more activity around him than usual, but the man in the chair was ignorant of his only visitor. A promise was made to him—a promise of freedom—but he continued to stare, unhearing.
Sverak stands at the railing, stooped over a panel of scrolls and creation schemas. One of the titans—Rejkar One, the same one to which I have devoted the last week—stands on the ground level below, but the twenty foot tall construct still looms above the railing. It was animated weeks ago, but its ability to take action, to reason at all, is minimal. It should be inoperable, situated at the other end of the hall to await further work.
Yet here it is, one arm raised and frozen in place. A block of granite, bolted between a metal vice, serves as the hand.
A group of workers has gathered near, afraid to approach, with Leonus at the front.
“Stop that!” my nephew shouts.
My eyes return to Sverak. At his feet are several broken slates. He holds a flat, wooden schema in one hand. I recognize it. It contains the recorded instructions for activating one of the creation pods of the forge below. Before our eyes, he takes the schema in both hands and snaps it in half.
Lord Charoth rushes forward, confronting my assistant. “Touch not one more!” he roars, pointing his wand at Sverak. “Back away from there now, or you will die today, warforged!”
These schemas are the lifeblood of the facility, magical possibility in its purest, recorded form. They allow the Cannith machines—especially the creation forges—to function. Sverak has already destroyed the worth of thousands of gold pieces.
“Sverak, please,” I say, hoping my assistant will reason with me. “What are you doing this for?” He does not understand the fury of Lord Charoth Arkenen. The director does not give empty threats.
In answer, Sverak holds up another schema before him—one he’d concealed behind his back. In the bright lights of the central hall, I recognize it as I know my superior must: a narrow slate of gold, in which are carved powerful sigils from ancient Xen’drik.
This particular schema is vital to the Orphanage’s work, the catalyst from which all of our research springs. It should have been guarded, under lock and ward. Only the director and I have access. How did Sverak get it? Why does he hold it?
“It would be unwise to discharge that wand,” my assistant says to Lord Charoth.
Chapter
TWENTY-FIVE
Enthralled
Wir, the 11th of Sypheros, 998 YK
Verdax grunted irritably when he heard Tallis’s hammer upon his door again. He set the damaged darkvision lenses down and jumped down from the table, wondering if they had completed their mission. Perhaps the female was ready to talk about Sharn. He cheered himself with the thought of pulling Kapoacinth out of port and beginning the long voyage around Khorvaire to the city of Sharn.
He’d had that daydream many times.
Verdax didn’t bother checking the spyhole. He knew Tallis would be coming back to restock eventually. That’s what he liked about the warmblood. Unlike most of the surface-dwelling races, he didn’t lapse into stagnancy at the war’s end.
Which meant he kept the gold coming. Yes, Tallis was his best customer.
When the door cracked open, the half-breed elf pushed through with a body in his arms—and it wasn’t the female. Another stranger? Moody warmbloods! Verdax revoked his renewed admiration for Tallis.
“Who is you brought now?” he shrieked.
“Not now,” Tallis said, his face paler than usual. The half-breed’s tone was harsh, his words peremptory. Verdax didn’t like it.
Tallis and his burden entered the workshop, and the female came aboard behind him. Verdax moved to shut the door, but then the warforged pushed its way in. “Cursed warmbloods and construct
s,” the kobold muttered in his mother tongue then sealed the door and followed them in.
The stranger showed evidence of a sound beating. Verdax said nothing, hoping he wasn’t expected to heal the man. The indignities heaped upon him this day were numerous enough, thanks to his “best customer.”
Tallis dropped the man unceremoniously to the ground. Verdax scrambled to clear away his most valuable tools from the area and hastily removed all glass devices. It looked like the Tallis was going to get rough. Apparently he’d forgotten whose boat this was!
“He’s still awake,” Tallis said. The man who wormed on the ground looked like a military officer. His wrists were locked in by a pair of manacles.
“No more bringing law man here, Tallis,” Verdax insisted, baring his teeth. First the half-breed worked with them, then he beat them up. Tallis was losing his head.
“Water, Verdax,” the half-breed said without looking at him. “Now. Please.”
The kobold fetched a wooden cup, the largest one he had, newly filled with water from the Karrn River. Tallis dumped it on the man’s face. The military man sputtered and came to. Verdax sympathized—the river water was like ice, especially so late in the year.
“Soneste tells me you are not Major Dalesek,” Tallis said to the man, “so tell me who you are.”
The battered officer fixed his eyes on his captor. “Forget it. The only good choice for you now is to run from here.”
Tallis punched him in the face. “No. What’s your name?”
The officer spat at him. The female crouched down low to the man. “You’re a changeling,” she said simply. Verdax fumed in silence. He didn’t like lawmen or tricksters on Kapoacinth. Khyber’s cauldron, this one was both!
“No changer-mans here!” Verdax exclaimed.