That left the kitchen. The dinner rush had just started, so it would be crowded, but it would allow them access to a back alleyway and a more likely means of escape than any of the other exits. And it would at least have the benefit of an array of sharp utensils to choose from if they were somehow backed into a corner.
“This way.”
Sabira unharnessed her shard axe as she moved down the hallway, just in case some of Thecla’s men had the same idea she did and cut through the backstage area to block off their escape route. She heard movement in front of her and signaled to Greddark, who drew his own blade, which she could see now had a groove running down its length on either side. Then they rushed around the bend, weapons raised, and Sabira nearly beheaded Hart Brantby as the glitter-covered gnome squealed and dived to the floor at the sight of her, whining about having already paid Daask and pleading for her to spare his shardhorn.
Daask? So the Droaamish crime syndicate was putting the squeeze on the Glitterdust now? Interesting. Too bad she didn’t have time to do anything with the information, but she’d be sure to pass it on to the proper authorities when she got the chance-the proper authorities being any Marshal other than her, of course.
“Sorry,” Sabira muttered, moving around the musician to check the door he’d just come through. The backstage area was dark and empty; apparently the horn player hadn’t alerted the rest of his band when he decided to vacate the premises. Given how he cowered against the wall using his beloved shardhorn as a shield, she wasn’t particularly surprised.
There was a sound of wood slapping against stone somewhere behind them and she heard Thecla call out.
“You, down that way. You three, with me.”
She and Greddark didn’t need any further encouragement. They broke into a quick trot, passing through another set of double doors and into the muggy kitchen, which was abustle with cooks, servers and delivery men hauling in casks of Nightwood ale from the back alley on soarsleds.
Dodging steaming dishes, hot stoves, and the occasional rolling pin, the duo made their way toward the back door, open to the evening air to both cool the occupants on a busy night and to allow the brewers easy access to the wine cellars below.
“There they are!” Thecla was inside the kitchen now, but he must have realized he couldn’t keep them from reaching the exit. He took a different tack. “A hundred dragons to whoever keeps the redhead from leaving!”
A hundred? Just how much had that crystallized dreamlily shipment she’d impounded been worth, anyway?
Sabira tensed, preparing to be mobbed by House Ghallanda halflings, but the kitchen staff ignored Thecla’s offer-apparently their jobs were worth more to them than platinum. Either that, or their fear of the club’s owner overcame their greed, which was perhaps not so remarkable if Daask had its hand in the Glitterdust’s till.
The delivery men, on the other hand, had no such compunctions. The two nearest Sabira aimed their empty soarsled at her knees, and only a quick twist of her hips and a sidestep worthy of the dance floor saved her from being served up to Thecla on the floating disk like a pig on a platter.
Greddark, behind her, proved a bit more nimble, grabbing the soarsled by its leading edge and whipping it around, sending it back into the gawking delivery men with a grunt. The two went down flailing, knocking a cooling rack full of oven-fresh beesh-berry tarts from their perch and onto their exposed arms and heads. Their yelps of pain almost succeeded in drowning out Thecla’s growl of frustration.
“Get them!”
She leaped over the writhing men, Greddark on her heels, and was almost to the door when another pair of delivery men entered with another soarsled, this one burdened with a cask of Brelish redeye brandy. Moving too fast to avoid a collision, Sabira did the next best thing and went low, rolling under the wooden disk to safety.
As she sprang to her feet, Greddark yelled.
“Sabira! The cask!”
She didn’t stop to ask why; instead, she brought her urgrosh around and slammed the axe-blade into the smooth wood of the barrel. It exploded into a shower of splinters and alcohol. Greddark jumped out of the way as the crimson flood poured out onto the floor. He brought his own weapon to bear and for a moment, Sabira thought the dwarf had taken leave of his senses and was actually trying to attack the gushing liquid. Then she saw him push a button on the hilt of his short sword. Alchemist’s fire raced from the flask in the pommel down the length of the blade, setting it aflame. When Greddark thrust the sword into the pool of brandy, the whole thing went up with a loud whoosh, nearly singeing his boots.
As the kitchen staff erupted into movement to try and douse the blue and orange flames, Sabira looked over the conflagration at Thecla, who was effectively trapped, unless he decided Arach’s bounty was worth burning for. Olladra knew, for a hundred platinum dragons, she’d consider it.
But Thecla apparently valued his appearance more than that and made no move to cross the flames, instead standing on the other side and glaring, his good hand clenched into a white, quivering fist.
When she saw he was giving up, Sabira flashed him a smug smile and raised her hand in a quick wave. Then she and Greddark darted out the door and into the alleyway, the smell of burnt alcohol fading away behind them as they made their way out into the street and hailed a coach.
As they climbed in, Sabira looked over at the inquisitive.
“Clever. I just hope Breven’s letter of credit will cover my half of the bill.”
Greddark’s lips twisted in an amused smile.
“Better hope it covers the whole thing.”
“And why is that?” she asked warily.
The dwarf laughed.
“You don’t honestly think I gave them my real name, do you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK
Sharn, Breland.
The last of the seven bells was just echoing off the high towers of Upper Central Plateau when Sabira pulled the rope outside the door of the Wayfinder Foundation offices in Korran-Thiven. A deeper note sounded from somewhere within the thin minaret attached to the tower that housed Riak’s Fine Imports. The main tower boasted massive darkwood doors and an intricate carved facade of scenes from inner Xen’drik-quite accurate, from what Sabira could see, though she’d only been there once herself. In contrast, the Wayfinder spire was plain and unremarkable, the only thing differentiating it from a thousand other similar pinnacles throughout the district was a small gold-plated placard next to the pull embossed with a simple “W. F.”
There was no answer for several long moments, and the armed guards in front of Riak’s started giving them unfriendly looks. Of course, in a financial district more obsessed with hoarding wealth than acquiring it, neither the guards nor their demeanor were that unusual. Still, Sabira didn’t particularly want to have to flash her brooch at them to get them to mind their own business-the fewer people who knew she was here, the better, especially if Greddark decided he needed to dabble in arson again.
Finally, a middle-aged woman in silvercloth pants and a matching brocaded jacket opened door.
“You’re late,” she said, looking down her nose disdainfully at Sabira’s glitter-spangled hair. Sabira resisted the urge to brush the sparkling dust off her shoulders and returned the other woman’s irate look with one of her own. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d taken a quarter bell to answer the door. But Sabira had dealt with that aristocratic arrogance more times in her career than she could count, and she knew bringing that fact to the other woman’s attention would be pointless-among the rarified circles of Sharn’s upper city, the truth was always secondary to the balance in your House Kundarak account.