“Thanks,” Khouryn said. “Now let’s go.”
Medrash retrieved his sword as they prowled up the staircase. At the top was the communal room that likely took up most of the second floor of the human habitation. And it was on fire, albeit burning in the leisurely way of damp, rotten wood. Flames licked across a portion of the floor and up one wall, devouring the designs and symbols painted there. Papers charred in the hearth. Smoke drifted through the hot air, irritating Medrash’s nose and almost making him cough again.
Aoth, Gaedynn, and Jhesrhi came through a doorway. Each had suffered what looked like blisters and burns, and for some reason each was dripping wet. But none looked seriously hurt.
Medrash was glad to see them. But the feeling turned to dismay when the humans aimed their weapons and spread out to flank their allies.
“Move away from them, Khouryn!” rapped Aoth. The head of his spear glowed crimson.
“It’s all right,” said the dwarf. “We know-the Green Hands are dragonborn. But these two dragonborn aren’t Green Hands. They fought the ones we met downstairs.”
“You’re sure?” The point of the spear shone brighter, and Medrash could have sworn that the strange blue light in Aoth’s eyes did the same. “It couldn’t have been some sort of trick?”
“No,” Khouryn said. “They saved my life and came close to dying themselves.”
Aoth mulled that over for a heartbeat, then gave a nod. “All right. Medrash, Balasar, my apologies. Jhesrhi, can you put out these fires?”
“Yes.” Her voice rising and falling, the wizard chanted. The quick, soft words resembled the whisper of dancing flames. As she recited the last one, the fires guttered out.
Arrow still resting on his bow, Gaedynn turned and peered around. “We seem to have cleared the house.”
“Yes,” Khouryn said. He turned to Aoth. “Dragon, dragonborn… Now we understand your vision.”
“I suppose,” said Aoth. “Unfortunately, we understand too late to give our friends from Clan Daardendrien advance warning of what’s to come.”
FOUR
7-18 TARSAKH THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Jhesrhi looked at Aoth, whose tattooed face was shiny with the pungent ointment he’d rubbed on to help heal his burns, and thought, Look at us. Not one but two evil mages, veritable demons in mortal guise, in the war hero’s audience chamber. I imagine it’s been awhile since that’s happened.
Unless, of course, the mages in question were facing execution or something like that.
Hatred welled up in her, and she struggled to quash it. She’d managed to serve the zulkirs, despicable tyrants though they were. No reason she couldn’t fight for Chessenta too. And fortunately, her resentful fancies to the contrary, she and Aoth weren’t the ones in trouble today, even if the hostile stares of some of the courtiers might have led one to imagine otherwise.
But Zan-akar didn’t look hostile, even though, from what Jhesrhi understood, Aoth had undermined him when they met before. In fact, the stormsoul approached with a warm smile on the dark, narrow face so intricately etched with silver lines that it put Aoth’s tattooed mask to shame.
“Captain.” Zan-akar shifted his gaze to Jhesrhi, Gaedynn, and Khouryn. “Lady and sirs. Heartfelt congratulations on your achievement.”
“Thank you,” said Aoth.
“I want you to understand, we genasi cherish the Chessentan people like our own kin. And so, by aiding them, you’ve likewise earned the gratitude of Akanul.”
“That’s good to know.”
As they chatted on, Jhesrhi noticed Medrash, Balasar, and Perra staring. She could hardly blame them for their concern. It was a bad sign that Shala Karanok had even invited an enemy of Tymanther to attend the council. It no doubt seemed a worse one that said enemy was talking to the witnesses to whom the dragonborn looked for help.
But it would have been stupid for Aoth to be anything less than cordial. The Brotherhood might want to work for Akanul someday. It didn’t mean he or his lieutenants would slant their testimony. She wished she could reassure the dragonborn, but just then, horns blew a brassy fanfare and Shala entered through a door in the back of the hall.
Men bowed, and held the pose while the war hero mounted her throne. Women had to curtsey. As usual, this particular ladylike gesture of respect made Jhesrhi feel awkward and ridiculous.
“Rise,” Shala said. She surveyed the crowd arrayed before her dais. “First, let’s rejoice in our good fortune. The Green Hand-or rather the Green Hands-are dead, and for that we thank Captain Fezim and his soldiers.”
Aoth bowed again.
“How did you find the killers?” Shala asked.
“We just searched-on griffonback, mainly-until we got lucky,” Aoth replied. It was safer than admitting they’d convened an illegal conclave of the local arcanists and laid a temporary curse on a portion of the town.
“Well, I’m certain it took skill and valor as well as luck,” the war hero said. “Which is to say, you promised you’d earn my trust, and you have. I’ll gladly send you to defend the border. Provided, of course, that Lord Nicos is still willing.”
“Completely, Majesty,” said the nobleman with the broken nose. Since he employed the Brotherhood, their triumph reflected well on him. But to Jhesrhi’s surprise, he seemed less delighted by it than Zan-akar.
“Excellent!” Shala said. “Now, however, we must deal with the troubling aspect of last night’s events. It turns out the murderers were dragonborn.”
“As I warned you, Majesty,” Zan-akar said, “Tymanther is High Imaskar’s friend, not Chessenta’s.”
“That’s a lie!” Perra snapped. “Majesty, I swear, the vanquisher’s government had nothing to do with this.”
Shala sighed. “I’d like to believe that. An alternative explanation would help.”
“And I don’t have one,” Perra said. “What I can tell you is that my embassy keeps track of all the dragonborn who visit Luthcheq. Yet I don’t recognize any of the ones who died last night.”
Medrash took a step forward. “Majesty, may I speak?”
Shala gave a brusque little nod.
“As the ambassador said,” Medrash continued, “we don’t know any of the dead dragonborn. What’s more, I noticed that none of them had clan piercings like these.” He touched a claw to one of the white studs in his left profile. “The piercings every Tymantheran carries.”
“So they took them out,” Zan-akar said.
“I doubt it, milord,” Medrash replied. “I couldn’t find scars to show where any had ever gone in.”
“This is a transparent attempt to obscure the truth,” said Zan-akar, pale sparks dropping from his markings. “Where do dragonborn come from except Tymanther?”
“Majesty,” Perra said, gritting her teeth. “Is Lord Zan-akar here to serve as your inquisitor?”
“No,” Shala said. “But I want to hear what he has to say. Because we now share similar concerns.”
“Majesty,” Perra said, “your concern should make you want to understand what’s really been happening in Luthcheq these past several tendays. And it’s obvious we still don’t.”
“How so?” Shala asked.
“When we believed there was only one killer,” the stooped old dragonborn said, “we could ascribe his crimes to madness. That can’t explain the actions of an entire conspiracy. So what was the point of the murders?”
“To create unrest and undermine confidence in Her Majesty’s rule,” Zan-akar said. “An end to which any foe might aspire.”
Perra kept her gaze fixed on the war hero. “Sir Balasar and Sir Medrash tell me the Green Hands started fires.”
“When discovered, spies and assassins often try to destroy their papers,” Zan-akar said.
“They also tried to obliterate esoteric symbols painted on a wall and floor,” Perra said.
Somewhat to Jhesrhi’s dismay, Shala turned to her. “Witch, I understand you saw these symbols.”
Jhesrhi took a breath. “By the time I put out the fires, the marks were mostly gone. I believe they had mystical import, but I can’t tell you anything more.”