The woman wielding the hammer was House Medani, judging by the sinuous Mark of Detection that wound its way from the back of her hand, up her left arm, and beneath the short sleeve of her tunic. A rival inquisitive, then? Or someone’s bodyguard? Perhaps for the man lying twisted on the cobbles below, covered in what was left of the dwarf’s door?
The dwarf himself, who must be d’Kundarak, wore a grease-smudged shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal arms thick with corded muscle. A wide gold bracelet studded with silver charms glinted dully on his forearm. His hair was a riotous tangle, but his short beard was neatly trimmed. In one hand he held the flaming sword-and scorch marks on the half-elf’s leather cuirass gave testament to the fact that he’d gotten in at least one good hit. In the other hand he held a thin clear vial that narrowed to a needlelike point. It was filled with some swirling liquid that glowed a nacreous green. He threw the vial with practiced precision, right at the half-elf’s face.
She brought her warhammer up to deflect the glittering projectile and whipped her head to the side, but the quarters were too close. The tip of the vial sank into her cheek, releasing its contents into her bloodstream.
With a yelp, she batted the vial away from her face, succeeding only in breaking the delicate ampoule and leaving its sharp point lodged firmly in her skin. Then her eyes widened as whatever had been in the vial began to take effect. She paled and began to sweat profusely. Then, with a horrified look, she turned and vomited over what was left of the railing.
She looked up at the dwarf through a curtain of honey-colored hair, and her violet eyes were murderous.
“This isn’t over, dwarf,” she promised, spitting bile at him as she turned and fled, unsteadily, down the stairs. The dwarf just watched her go.
“No, I suppose not,” he said with a sigh, then turned to Zoden.
“Zoden ir’Marktaros?” he asked as the flames licking his blade guttered and died. At Zoden’s nod, he held out a grimy hand. “Greddark d’Kundarak. Been expectin’ you.”
After checking to make sure the d’Medani woman had cleared out, taking her friend with her, Greddark led Zoden through the broken doorway into his office. The interior was every bit as dirty as Greddark’s appearance had led the bard to believe it might be-possibly worse. Tables cluttered with mechanical parts and bits of forgotten food were scattered haphazardly throughout the room, while bizarre tools and unfathomable mechanisms hung on long chains from hooks in the ceiling, requiring Zoden to duck and bob as he tried to follow the dwarf to his desk, which was itself covered in schematics, scrolls, and bubbling beakers. The walls were papered in drawings and maps, layered over each other with no discernable pattern. And something smelled vaguely like burning oil.
Greddark pushed a bulging sack off a low stool, spilling the metal scroll cases it held, seemingly oblivious to the racket they made as they bounced and tumbled across the scarred wooden floor. He motioned for Zoden to sit, while he cleared a small space and sat on the edge of his desk.
“So, people are dying in Aruldusk, the local Bishop’s blamin’ it on shifters, but you disagree. That about it?”
Zoden, somewhat flummoxed by the dwarf’s succinctness, replied, “Well, yes, if you’re painting in monochrome and using only the broadest of strokes.”
Greddark grunted. “I don’t get paid to tell pretty stories, bard.”
“What do you get paid for, exactly?” Zoden asked, with a pointed glance at the scroll cases still rattling around on the floor. From what he could see, the dwarf was more of an artificer than an inquisitive, or a “security specialist,” for that matter, considering he’d been fending off-what, thieves? bounty hunters? — when Zoden had arrived. And he sincerely doubted the adjective “master” applied to the wild-haired tinkerer in any of those roles.
“Finding answers people don’t want found, mostly. Like the fact that you’re a coward and a drunk from a nearly destitute family who feels both guilty and secretly relieved that the murderer missed his target and killed your brother instead.” Ignoring Zoden’s outraged spluttering, he continued. “But I could have gotten all that from Dzarro. How about this? You’re carrying a dagger in your left boot, and you’ve got a stolen bottle of Frostmantle Fire in that bag on your hip-down by about two fingers since you opened it when you got off the rail this morning. Probably drank it to calm your nerves after that fight you ran from.”
“How-?” Zoden managed, then quickly recovered. “Magic.”
“No. Observation. Reason. Deduction.” Greddark slipped off his desk and jabbed a meaty finger at Zoden’s boot. “Never mind the tell-tale bump. When you walk you put slightly more weight on your right foot to compensate for the dagger’s presence. And it has to be a dagger, doesn’t it, because what else would fit in such a fashionably tight boot? Though that particular style of footwear went out in Aruldusk two seasons ago. The fact that you haven’t upgraded your wardrobe tells me more about your financial situation than Dzarro’s briefing ever could.”
He moved to stand in front of Zoden, pointing at the bag half-hidden by the bard’s scarlet cloak.
“I can smell the Fire on your breath. It has a distinctive odor that’s released the moment the seal is cracked and becomes more acrid the longer it’s exposed to air. There’s also an undercurrent of ironspice in it that gets stronger the more you drink. Someone familiar with the spirit-a dwarf originally from the Mror Holds, say-can pinpoint exactly when a bottle was opened and how much has been consumed. Two fingers, as I said, and only within the last quarter bell or so. And it would have to be in your bag, given the size of the typical bottle, since that’s the only place both big and inconspicuous enough for you to carry it. And it’s obviously stolen, since there’s no way you could afford it-probably from the lightning rail, since you were riding first class.”
He leaned forward to tap Zoden’s cheek. Twice. Hard.
“Finally, you’ve got a bit of blood on your lip and a bruise forming on your face. Either you ran into a door, or someone whopped you upside the head, probably with the flat of their blade, given the size and shape of the bruise. With your history, I’m betting on a fight, and since the only blood on you is your own-or the old stains on your cloak-you must’ve run.”
The dwarf crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk.
“Any other questions?”
Zoden had only one.
“When can you start?”
Chapter FIVE
Zol, Therendor 17, 998 YK
If you’ll just take a seat there, Captain Entarro will be with you shortly.”
Andri nodded and sat where the guard indicated. They were in the Sigilstar station’s private lounge, reserved for members of House Orien and the Wayfinder Foundation. The lounge was spacious and every bit as luxurious as the first-class cart they’d just left. Its amenities included a fireplace, bookshelves packed with everything from histories of Xen’drik to old copies of the Sharn Inquisitive, a bar, and a string quartet. The musicians had been practicing the popular Aundairian ballad The Epic of the Valiant and the Vigilant, a tale of two lovers trapped in the besieged twin towers, each thinking the other safe when both, in fact, were doomed. It was one of Andri’s personal favorites, and he’d hoped to hear the musicians’ interpretation of it, but when they saw the Orien guards leading him and Irulan in, they gathered up their instruments and made a hasty exit. Given their disheveled state and the blood that stood out stark and red on Irulan’s tunic, Andri couldn’t blame them.