“Look beyond the obvious, child. If the tales are true, the civilization of the dragons is over a hundred thousand years old. These creatures… they are the children of Eberron and Siberys, the earth and sky. Magic is in their blood. Now look at us, with our short lives and the narrow-mindedness that accompanies such frailty. Weak but arrogant, always pressing forward, shattering walls and breaking barriers, heedless of what might be on the other side. The great Houses always striving for more gold. The nations going to war for pride and ambition—and these last few years have shown us the price of such arrogance.”
He was referring to the Mourning, the disaster that had destroyed the nation of Cyre and brought an end to the Last War… at least for now. No one knew the cause of the Mourning, but most assumed it was tied to the war—either a new weapon that spun out of control or the combined result of the magical forces used during the war.
“What would the dragons have to gain from conquering us?” Tolar continued. “Even if they had the power, why would they want such short-sighted subjects?”
“To keep things like the Mourning from happening again.”
Tolar nodded, and Zaehr could sense his satisfaction in the minute shift of his mouth and the faintest change to his scent. “A good answer. But perhaps they wish to help us find that path for ourselves instead of forcing us on it. Where are the gods?”
“What?”
“The gods. The Sovereign Host. People revere them, believe that they guide and protect, but you never see them. If the gods exist, why wouldn’t they conquer the world to enforce proper behavior?”
“That’s why I’ve never believed in gods,” Zaehr said.
Tolar smiled. “Ah, yes. The eternal pragmatist.” He dismissed the conversation with a wave of his hand and began walking again. “We’re wasting time. Tell me what else you found. I want to know everything before we arrive at Stormwind Keep.”
“Stormwind Keep?”
“Home to Lord Dantian d’Lyrandar, the owner of Pride of the Storm.” He smiled ever so slightly and tapped his cane against the densewood cobble. “It seems we have a mystery to solve.”
“Here’s a mystery,” Zaehr said. “Why do people build things like this?”
Dantian d’Lyrandar was a dragonmarked lord of the House of Storm, heir to the Lyrandar line’s mystical power to control wind and water. House Lyrandar had built a vast mercantile empire around this magical ability. Their raincallers provided “insurance” against drought to the farmers of Galifar, a policy some called extortion. Lyrandar merchantmen had long dominated the seas, and now their airships were carving new trade routes across the sky. Only half-elves could carry the mark, and for many people Lyrandar defined the race. Certainly it had transformed them from a race of outcasts to a proud folk who stood on equal ground with both humans and elves.
Dantian’s abode spoke to that pride. A densewood funnel stained in black and silver, shaped like a tornado rising up to the sky, formed the base of the tower. This was topped by a massive kraken, whose long tentacles wrapped around the tower. The beast was carved from densewood, but it was remarkably realistic; the blue paint covering its skin glistened as if wet. The eyes of the kraken were octagonal windows, and golden light burned behind the panes.
“The kraken is the sigil of House Lyrandar,” Tolar said.
“He’s got his kraken boat and his kraken house. Does he wear a big golden kraken with tentacles wrapped around his chin?”
“It is his gold, Zaehr, to dispose of as he will.”
Zaehr growled. Her childhood had been a constant struggle for survival, and she still felt an instinctive disdain for the wealthy.
“Where’s the door?” she said as they drew closer to the tower. While a broad stairway rose up from the street, it came to a stop at the junction of two tentacles.
“I’m sure it will appear, in due time,” Tolar said. He paused at the base of the steps. “What can you tell me?”
Zaehr studied the labyrinth of sounds and smells around her. Following scents was like gazing into the past, and city streets were always overwhelmingly chaotic, flowing with the traces of hundreds of people. It was as difficult to pluck a scent from this mass as it would be to listen to a whispered conversation in a noisy crowd, yet the task had its own satisfaction, much like piecing together a complex puzzle.
“A gargoyle has been here within the last hour,” she said, closing her eyes to better taste the wind. “Been and gone, staying only for a few moments. A gnome came later—ink and leather, still within. Many half-elves. Perfume and silk in the past, but the recent smells are soot and rain.” She breathed in again. “Unless it rained in the last hour and I didn’t notice, I think it’s the blood of the dragon.”
“As expected,” Tolar said. “You said Lyrandar salvagers were at the scene. Naturally one or more would arrive to inform Lord Dantian of the disaster.” He started up the flight of stairs and was halfway up when a voice rang out.
“Who approaches?” It was deep and inhuman, the sound of a storm at sea.
“Tolar Velderan, from the Globe Agency of House Tharashk,” Tolar replied. “And my associate Zaehr. We are expected.”
“You were not called for.”
“Nonetheless, we are expected. Lord Dantian received a message from Lady Solia d’Lyrandar within the last hour, delivered by gargoyle courier. Surely Lord Dantian will respect his aunt’s wishes on the matter.”
No response. The only sound was the faint wind blowing through the densewood spires.
“We’re working for Globe?” Zaehr whispered. “How did that happen?” The dragonmarked House Tharashk used its Mark of Finding to dominate the field of private investigation. Tolar was bound to the house by blood, but he did not bear the dragonmark, and there was a rift between the old man and a few of his more successful relatives—especially Lady Kava of the Globe.
“I still have connections in the house, child,” Tolar murmured. “And it’s not every day we see something like this. Now hush.”
A moment later, the wooden tentacles before them burst into animate life, pulling back to reveal a massive doorway. The door split down the center and creaked inwards.
“Enter.”
Zaehr stepped in front of Tolar. She did not draw any of her knives, but her hands were poised by her favorite blades, and every muscle was tensed and ready for action. Cautiously, she stepped into the hall.
Fresh rain.
The smell of mist and water filled the hall—the scent she had judged to be the blood of the dragon outside. It overpowered all lesser odors and had to be generated by magic. But to what end? Did Dantian d’Lyrandar enjoy the smell of the storm, or was there some stench he wished to conceal?
“Welcome to Stormwind Keep!” a voice boomed.
As a race, half-elves were not known for their girth. Whether it was cultural or the result of their fey heritage, the half-elves were usually slender and delicate. The speaker shattered these expectations. Zaehr and Tolar could have both fit beneath the man’s silk robes and had room to spare.
“I am Kestal Haladan, and it is my honor to manage Lord Dantian’s affairs.” His eyes twinkled beneath deep rolls of flesh. He mopped his brow with a heavily scented kerchief, and Zaehr wrinkled her nose at the sweet smell. “You, good man?” he said to Tolar, “You are the representative of the Globe Agency? My humblest apologies for the delay at the gate. We were of the impression that our inquisitive would have a little more… gray blood in his veins.”