Teron flexed Praxle’s finger. He rolled his head toward the gnome in weary disbelief. “Stop spinning this yarn,” he said, “and speak the truth. Do you seriously expect me to believe that someone else just happened to steal this Orb of yours the same day you arrived at its location?”
“No,” said Praxle, breathing hard to resist the pain, “I don’t expect you to believe that. Not without the rest of the story.”
“Proceed,” said Teron, an untrusting look in his eye. “But just so you know, you’re running a ledger of five breaks thus far.”
Praxle tugged at his collar and cleared his throat before continuing. “About a week ago I met with someone in Wroat.”
“A friend?”
“No,” said Praxle, “not in the slightest. I only befriend a very select sort of person, monk. He was merely a contractor.” He coughed in a vain attempt to clear the nervous tremor from his voice. “A freelance investigator. Our meeting was disrupted. My associate was killed, and someone stole the information he had for me. To the best of my knowledge, this person is called the Shadow Fox and is a notorious Cyran thief.”
“Really?” Teron leaned forward.
“There were others,” continued Praxle, “and the story is rather convoluted, but it appears that my associate had leaked his information to a Cyran who tipped off this Shadow Fox person. The stolen information pointed to your monastery as the place where the Orb was hidden. This I learned from my associate’s dying breath. I made to reach the monastery as soon as I could, hoping to beat the Cyrans there, I could afford the lightning rail. I hoped they couldn’t.” Praxle paused a moment and marshaled his thoughts. Now that he had warmed to his subject, he was quite oblivious to the fact that Teron still held his hand in a grip that could easily break several fingers. “I don’t know how much detail was in my associate’s report. Perhaps everything. Perhaps not much, and the Cyrans were spying on me at the same time that I was prying secrets out of your people. Perhaps both. There’s no way to know. Now let me tell you what I don’t know, monk.” He looked Teron square in the eye. “I don’t know who stole the Orb, nor how, nor even when, other than the loss was discovered while I was at the monastery. I don’t know how they escaped. I do know that I was arrested, tortured, and then I escaped, and I do know that you followed me, which means that you monks don’t know who actually stole the Orb, either.”
Teron leaned back against the wooden wall. “I do,” he said, “I was there.”
Across the border in Thrane, the lightning rail accelerated into the waning day to Thaliost. Oargesha basked in the success of their ploy, her feet straddling the bag that held the Black Globe. She wished to talk, to joke, to celebrate their minor victory (and the answer to her prayer), but after waiting so long on the platform, Fox excused herself to use the privy as soon as the lightning rail got underway again.
Oargesha looked down at the large, leather bag and relived the moment in her mind. The easy glide the bag made, thanks to the curious counterintuitive properties of the Globe within. Fox’s perfect aim. Her flawless movement as she gathered the bag along with her other luggage.
She started to play with the bag between her feet. She pressed against it with one foot, hard, then as soon as it started to move, released the pressure. The bag glided across the floor to her other foot, and she had to apply counterpressure for a few seconds before it slowed its progress. She batted it back and forth several times, trying to apply just the right amount of pressure to negate its momentum, without reversing the direction of its travel. Eventually she tired of the little game—or, more accurately, the muscles on the inside of her legs tired of it, and she pressed the bag to the floor until it stopped moving.
Her mood darkened as she remembered those who had given their lives for this artifact. Rander, Roon, and Gram, all killed by that monk in the catacombs. The once-fine team had dwindled to Fox and herself, but if the Globe was as powerful an artifact as the Fox said it was, it would be worth the sacrifice for the rebirth of Cyre. Or so she told herself as the tears welled up once more.
Just a few more hours until they reached the rail stop at Daskaran Ferry. Then it was across the sound and off to Fox’s safe house in Flamekeep.
Oargesha swayed to the right as the rail line turned. At her feet, the bag drifted to the wall, carried by its own peculiar inertia. Its unnatural motion piqued her interest. Slightly bored from the long day, and looking for anything to distract herself from replaying the deaths of her friends over and over in her mind, Oargesha studied the bag on the floor.
It looked so ordinary. Just a black leather bag, neither polished like new nor worn as if old. The straps were heavy and sturdily attached. It bulged slightly with the valuable relic inside. Oargesha leaned forward and undid the snaps that held the bag shut, one by one. As the last snap opened, the bag opened slightly, like the inviting lips of a lover … or the mouth of a hungry black toad.
Oargesha pushed the bag open wider, curious about the mail lining that Fox had mentioned. The sides of the bag were indeed lined with fine-mesh chainmail. The rest of the bag was filled with the heavily swaddled Globe as well as padding to fill the empty portions.
Oargesha ran her finger inside the bag, near the top edge, feeling the soft rippling sensation of the chain links passing her fingertip, one by one. As her hand passed close to the Globe, she felt the little hairs on the back of her wrist start to stand on end. She held her hand closer to the Globe, not daring to touch its pale shroud. Her palm felt alternately cold and rashy.
Her hand seemed to move unbidden, and her fingernail traced a fold on the drab fabric that swaddled the Globe. She felt a tugging, as of a whirlpool, drawing the tip of her finger closer. Her chin began to tremble as though she might cry.
She caressed her fingers across the fabric then spread her hand like a claw and clutched at the Globe’s wrappings. She gasped, although she did not know if it was a gasp of surprise, revulsion, or ecstasy. Despite the fact that the material was clearly dry, it felt greasy to her touch and seemed to move beneath her fingers.
Fearful, she pulled her hand back, but despite her intent her curling fingers clutched at the fabric, undressing the Globe, pulling away its mask. All light seemed to fall into the ebon surface of the ancient artifact as it was exposed, devouring the coach, the countryside, evert her own hand, leaving her with nothing else to see. Her eyes were drawn in fascination and anguish to the ancient creation, lacquered so deep a black that it seemed to swim with colors. Her hand reached out, and she gently stroked one of the many curved, sliding segments that covered the surface of the Globe. It started to move ….
12
Betrayals
“So you believe us,” said Praxle with some relief. He looked to Jeffers, who had just come back into the room and was eyeing the monk warily. Praxle saw him glance to the blade, which still lay on the floor, and he gave his head a sharp shake.
Teron drew in a sharp breath and let it out. “Not necessarily,” he said, letting go of Praxle’s fingers, “but I cannot locate anything that you have said that does not mesh with what I know.” He scooted back on the berth and leaned his shoulders into the corner.