“It must be difficult to perform your duties as a Marshal with such a large entourage,” the gray-robed dwarf remarked as she led the way to a wide marble staircase. Sabira thought she detected a note of disapproval in the comment, and bristled.
“I didn’t ask for the escort,” she replied sharply, then gave a sardonic chuckle. “Besides, if you think that was bad, you should see it when I visit Frostmantle. Your guards got off easy.”
The dwarf woman frowned at that, apparently not sharing Sabira’s amusement.
“We assume you are here for the Tordannon trial?” she asked as they walked down a flight of stairs to the level of the audience chamber. Sabira looked at her askance, wondering why the dwarf woman insisted on referring to herself in the plural. Then she saw the black-and-white Octogram the dwarf wore on her left hand and realized the woman was a priestess of Aureon. So she was either referring to herself and her staff or herself and her god. Either way, it was irritating.
“Yes. My services have been retained on behalf of Aggar Tordannon.”
“This is the first we’ve heard of it,” the priestess said, and Sabira wondered suddenly if she were actually speaking on behalf of the Council and not as some divine mouthpiece.
“There was some question as to my … availability,” Sabira replied, unwilling to give the dwarf more information than was absolutely necessary. If the Council members wanted answers from her, they’d have to ask her themselves—though preferably not while she was standing on Aureon’s sigil.
“We wonder that news of the trial reached as far away as Karrnath.”
Definitely fishing.
“Word of injustice always reaches the ears of the Marshals,” Sabira answered, her tone mild but her words acerbic. The priestess frowned again, but thankfully made no further attempt to question her after that.
They came to a set of iron doors, not much smaller than those on the front of Ferrous House. These doors, Sabira knew, opened onto the main audience chamber. But instead of entering, the dwarf woman bypassed them and turned down a side hallway lined with more doors, though these were made of plain, rough wood. Sabira guessed they led to waiting rooms—or cells—where the accused were stowed until it was their turn to address the Council. The priestess led her to the only door boasting a guard—an urgrosh-carrying Narathun whose blond, beaded beard flowed past his waist, where he wore a matching long-handled knife. Sabira wasn’t surprised at the choice of jailor: The Tordannons and Narathuns had a long-standing blood feud that spanned centuries. Who better to ensure a prisoner didn’t escape than his worst enemy? Though now that Aggar was involved with the Aurum, the Narathuns were probably the least of his concerns; they were certainly no longer his deadliest adversaries.
The priestess nodded to the other dwarf, who stood aside to allow Sabira entry.
“We will leave you with your client, then, Marshal. But know this: If there have been any injustices committed in this case, it has not been by us.”
Well, not yet, Sabira thought, but she held her tongue. She’d already pushed the priestess as far as she dared, especially if the dwarf woman was the one who’d be in charge of ascertaining the truth of Aggar’s statements before the Council.
So she just nodded at the priestess and grabbed the handle of the door. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped into the room.
Aggar was on the far side of the cell, his back to her. He was naked from the waist up and rust-colored hair clung in sweaty strands to the nape of his neck. Muscles rippled along his back and gold rings sparkled on his fingers as he went through the motions of swinging an imaginary axe against an equally insubstantial foe. The many beads and trinkets in his beard clattered and chimed with each practiced movement.
“Finally,” the Tordannon heir said without turning to look at her, not missing a step in a complicated pattern of slices and thrusts. “I’ve been asking for water since midnight.”
“I’m not here to bring you water. I’m here to haul your carcass out of the fire—again.”
At the sound of her voice, Aggar stopped so fast he almost stumbled and whipped about as though yanked by an invisible cord. The color fled from his normally rubicund face, and his green eyes stood out like crown gems.
“Saba? What in the name of Onatar’s huge hairy backside are you doing here?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sabira narrowed her eyes.
“What am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
But Aggar didn’t answer. Instead he rushed toward her, and from the manic look in his eyes, Sabira wasn’t sure if he was intent on hugging her or killing her. She also wasn’t entirely certain which of those two eventualities she found less appealing.
The dwarf held up at the last moment, regaining a modicum of his proper dwarven composure. Or perhaps he’d simply realized that he would probably knock her on her backside if he didn’t slow down. Either way, he came to a stop just in front of her and reached out to clasp her hands in his own, smiling hugely.
“Onatar’s ale-filled gut!” he swore again softly, looking at her in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Sabira wrinkled her nose, pulling her hands away from his and taking a step back.
“Host, Aggar! When was the last time you bothered to bathe?” She was only partly jesting; the dwarf was ripe, and Sabira couldn’t help but wonder just how long he’d been waiting in the tiny, sparse room.
“Why do you think I was asking for water?” Aggar quipped, lowering his hands. Then his smile faded, and his expression grew earnest. “In all seriousness, Saba—as happy as I am to see you, why am I seeing you? Has something happened? Are you in trouble?”
“Am I in trouble?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “You’re the one on trial for murder. And why are you so surprised to see me? You sent for me. Or did you really think I hated you so much that I wouldn’t come?”
Aggar was shaking his head, frowning, and Sabira realized with a start that it wasn’t in response to her rapid interrogation.
“You didn’t send for me.” It wasn’t a question.
Mountainheart. That dirty, conniving son of a Jhorash’tar.
“So let me get this straight. You’re saying you didn’t ask your nephew and fellow Concordian to go to Elix and basically threaten to end the trading partnership between the Tordannon clan and House Deneith if I didn’t come here to defend you from some trumped-up murder charges?”
Aggar’s thick brows made a V above the bridge of his nose, its vertex getting sharper and sharper as she spoke.
“No, no, no, no, and, most emphatically, no,” he replied, his expression growing darker with each denial. “That is, assuming that you’re talking about Orin?”
“You have more than one nephew?” Since Aggar had no siblings, the existence of even one nephew had been a bit of a surprise, but given the multifarious nature of family ties in the Holds, Sabira supposed anything was possible.
“I have five now, actually, and a niece. My father finally remarried four years ago—in part, I think, because he was hoping it would spur me on to do the same. His wife, the Baroness Meridella Deepspring Mountainheart, has three older brothers, and they’ve all been abundantly blessed with children and grandchildren, as Meridella herself has not.”