Skein of Shadows (12 page)

Several of the members of the crowd started to move away, murmuring in disappointment. Sabira was relieved to see more than one sword make its way back into its sheath. It would be nice to settle this without having to bloody her shard axe.

Kanjira’s father placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but she shrugged him off. Another man moved up behind her, and by his size and florid complexion, Sabira guessed he was either Kanjira’s maternal uncle or her brother.

“I don’t care what you say, I don’t care who you are—I
know
that warforged attacked my daughter, and he’s going to
pay
!”

“Melcare!” her husband yelled in warning, but it was too late. The woman pulled a dagger from her voluminous skirts and darted around Sabira to try to get at Guisarme.

With an annoyed sigh, Sabira set her feet and grabbed the woman’s long braid as she passed. Just as the slack played out, Sabira put all her weight on her right foot and yanked as hard as she could. Melcare’s head snapped back and she was lifted several inches off the ground as Sabira pivoted and then released her hold in one smooth motion. The woman went tumbling into the dirt courtyard, skirts fluttering as she fetched up against the base of the tree and lay there, unmoving.

“What have you done to my mother?” the red-faced man shouted, drawing a pair of long knives from sheathes hidden in his sleeves and advancing toward her.

“Pulled her hair and got her dress dirty?” Sabira replied,
reaching around to unharness her urgrosh as she took a step back to give herself more room to maneuver. “Considering she drew a weapon against a Sentinel Marshal, she’s lucky she’s still breathing. Are you really that anxious to find out how far your family’s luck—or my patience—will hold out?”

“Save it, you metal-loving bitch!” he growled, bringing one blade down in an overhead strike while he lunged at her midsection with the other, as if he were trying to enfold her in a deadly, drunken hug.

Sabira whipped her shard axe out and across, catching his left elbow with the cheek of the axe and sending the knife headed for her stomach flying into the courtyard. The force of her blow rocked him back and the other blade went wide. On her backswing, she brought the sharpened dragonshard that formed the spear tip of the urgrosh down into the meatiest portion of the man’s right thigh, then jerked it back out again with equal force.

As blood spurted, he dropped the other blade and clutched at his leg. A kick sent him sprawling onto the ground, where he rolled around in agony.

Sabira turned to face what remained of the crowd, her shard axe held across her body in an easy two-handed grip.

“So. Who else is feeling suicidal today?”

There was a sound behind her and Skraad yelled, “ ’Ware the mother!”

Sabira spun, expecting to see Melcare. Instead, the blade the woman had thrown skimmed Sabira’s cheek before impaling itself into the wood of the building behind her with a quivering
thunk
.

Stupid, stupid
, she chided herself, even as she advanced
on the woman who stood up against the tree, dagger held out in front of her. The scar would serve her right for disregarding a potential foe just because she looked more like a washerwoman than a warrior.

Melcare’s eyes were wide and frightened, but determined. She’d thrown her son’s knife, which had landed on the ground near her when Sabira disarmed him. While the woman was definitely skilled with a blade from a distance, it was clear she wasn’t as comfortable in hand-to-hand combat, and the dagger shook in her grasp. But she didn’t lower the weapon as Sabira stalked toward her; instead, she raised her chin defiantly.

Sabira had no desire to hurt the woman. Melcare obviously really believed Guisarme was the culprit, all evidence to the contrary, and she was simply trying to protect her daughter—and now, her son. Sabira could understand the maternal instinct, even if she didn’t share it.

Ideally, she’d disarm the woman and put her in shackles, but that would mean putting her shard axe aside while there were still potential enemies at her back. Sabira had already let her guard down once today and had blood seeping down her face as a result. She didn’t particularly want to add blood from a sword thrust to the ribs into the mix.

So she did the next best thing. She transferred her urgrosh to her left hand with a flourish meant to distract the other woman. When Melcare’s eyes left hers to follow the axe, Sabira pulled her right arm back and punched the hapless woman under the chin. Melcare’s head snapped up against the trunk of the tree and her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. As she dropped the dagger and her knees gave out, Sabira caught the other woman around the
waist with her free arm and lowered her to the ground. She made sure to step on the dagger blade this time, just in case the woman was a better actress than she let on.

Then she straightened and looked back at the father. He was alone now, save for three House Cannith monitors who had their crossbows trained on Sabira. The rest of the crowd had disappeared, deciding they hated warforged less than they wanted to be arrested.

“Drop the—” one of the monitors began, then caught sight of her brooch. He lowered his weapon, motioning for his companions to do the same.

“Your pardon, Marshal. We heard a commotion and came to see what the problem was.”

More like, they heard a commotion and watched until they were certain they wouldn’t have to lift a finger themselves to resolve it before stepping in to take credit for keeping the peace. But what were a few pertinent details among fellow defenders of law and order?

“The ‘problem’ is that you stood by and let a mob form to persecute an innocent warforged and got a Sentinel Marshal wounded in the process. You’re just lucky I don’t have time to take this up personally with your superiors, but rest assured that Captain Greigur will hear about this and
he
will make the time.”

She had no intention of filing a report with Greigur, of course, but the monitors didn’t need to know that.

“According to this man here, Marshal,” said another of the monitors, clearly taking umbrage at her tone, “he and his companions were trying to conduct an orderly, lawful citizen’s arrest on this warforged when you interfered and wounded two unarmed Cannith residents in the process.”

Sabira’s brows shot up and she couldn’t suppress an incredulous laugh. She kicked the dagger toward him.

“Sure, they’re unarmed
now
—how exactly do you suppose they got that way? Or do you think maybe I threw that knife at myself?” she asked, pointing to the blade stuck in the wall near the ventilation shaft.

“The Sentinel Marshal speaks truly,” Guisarme said, though after seeing the dark looks he got for it, Sabira sort of wished he hadn’t. She didn’t really think his support would earn her any favor in the monitors’ eyes. “The fleshlings accused me of assaulting their daughter, but I have been here working on this ventilation shaft since the first bell. Those were my instructions, to work until the fourth bell, or until the fan was fixed, whichever came sooner. As you can see, two of the fan blades are still in need of straightening. As I have not yet completed my task, I have not left my post.”

“The ’forged is right,” came a gruff voice from above. Sabira looked up to see Skraad standing on the stairs that overlooked the courtyard. She’d wondered where the orc had gotten off to, but assumed he’d left when the monitors showed up, like the others. She saw a hand crossbow hanging from his belt that hadn’t been there before and realized he’d moved to better cover the courtyard. “Humans came looking for warforged blood, and his was the most convenient. If the Marshal hadn’t been here, you’d’ve had a corpse to clean up instead of two rabble-rousers to arrest. You should be thanking her, not aiming a quarrel at her.”

The third monitor, a woman who hadn’t spoken yet, leveled her crossbow at Skraad.

“You telling us our job, orc?”

Skraad raised his hands and shook his head, backing
down. Probably a wise choice.

Too bad Sabira wasn’t the backing down type.

“Somebody has to, apparently,” she said. “I’ve no doubt a crime was committed, but not by this warforged.” Not this time, anyway. Sabira wasn’t about to vouch for the metal man’s innocence in any other regard. Dolurrh, he
could
have assaulted Kanjira, for all she knew—the mob just didn’t have anything resembling actual proof of it. “So let’s not compound one wrongdoing with another, hmm?”

The first monitor—the one who’d had sense enough to apologize for pointing his weapon at her—spoke again, but his voice wasn’t nearly as conciliatory the second time around.

“You’re absolutely right, Marshal. Which is why I’d suggest you and your new friends leave the enclave now while you have the chance. I can’t guarantee that mob won’t be back, and we can’t be everywhere at once.”

It wasn’t a particularly subtle threat, but she supposed it didn’t need to be. Brooch or no, this was Cannith’s enclave, and even the authority of the chimera would only stretch so far.

“Well,” she said, looking over at Guisarme, “I
did
come here to offer you a job.”

“I already have a job,” the warforged replied, gesturing to the bent fan blades.

“No,” Sabira answered, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think you do.”

Guisarme turned to the monitors and read the truth of her words in their faces. With a noise that would have been a sigh in a race that actually needed to breathe, he hefted his hammer up onto his shoulder.

“Well, then, House Cannith will have to find someone else to keep this machine running for them. And I will retrieve this, as it is part of my armor and so technically belongs to my
new
employer.” His hand darted into the spinning fan blades faster than Sabira could see and pulled out a finger plate he’d used to jury-rig the fan. With the bit of metal removed, the fan slowed to a stop with a clanking noise and black smoke started wisping up from the shaft in a matter of moments.

Sabira bit her lip to keep from laughing and looked up at the orc.

“What about you? Interested in a job?”

Skraad’s nostrils flared.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How much I make and how many I get to kill,” the orc said with a grin.

“Plenty of both where we’re going.”

The grin widened.

“I’m in. Just have to say good-bye to my brother Garsk first.”

Sabira nodded.

“Meet us at the Bull in a quarter bell, then. We leave on the hour.”

As the orc jogged down the stairs and out of sight, Sabira slapped her urgrosh back into its harness. Then she strode over to the monitors, sidestepping Melcare’s son, who was still lying in the dirt and whimpering softly, even though the blood had long since stopped flowing from the wound in his thigh. He glared at her as she passed, which she thought was rather unfair, considering she’d intentionally avoided
the femoral artery. You’d think the man would be grateful he was still alive to feel the pain, dull as it must be by now.

She stopped by Kanjira’s father, who at least had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I hope you find who attacked your daughter. Just make sure you have the right guy before you try to gut him this time, hmm?”

She smiled up at the monitor who’d invited her to leave.

“Great enclave you have here. I’ll make sure to tell all my friends
not
to visit.”

Then she walked away with Guisarme at her side, wondering how in the name of Khyber a Sentinel Marshal, a dwarf, two warforged, and an orc were going to be able to accomplish what a powerful sorceress and a seasoned group of Blademarks had been unable to. Given a hand like that in Jarot’s Bluff, she’d have folded without a second thought. Unfortunately, quitting wasn’t an option. She could only hope winning still was.

G
reddark wasn’t waiting for them at the Burnished Bull, but a small warforged with reddish armor was. Glaive introduced him as Jester, though it wasn’t really necessary—the lyre on his back and the rapier at his hip gave him away. Considering the last warforged Sabira had seen carrying a musical instrument had lifted her pouch back in the Mror Holds, she resolved to keep an eye on this one. Given the choice, she’d trust a self-proclaimed thief over a bard any day—at least you
knew
the thief would try to rob you; the only question was when. With a bard, the questions began with “if” and ended in “how” and the only one you’d ever really know the answer to was “why”—because it would make a great story.

After his introduction, Jester told her that Greddark had instructed him to wait at the bar for her, and said that if he wasn’t back by the time she arrived, to head for the airship and he would meet them there. Then the dwarf had gone over and spoken at length with the dark-haired elf woman before leaving the enclave via the Maker’s Gate.

That piqued Sabira’s curiosity. Was the dwarf’s craving for tea really so strong he had to go seek it out right before they were scheduled to leave? He was worse than a pampered noblewoman in her eighth month!

She strode over to the elf, whose head was buried in her book. The elf woman looked up as she approached, and Sabira caught a glimpse of the book’s title:
True Teachings on Death and Resurrection
.

Ah. The elf was a Flamer. She should have guessed.

One of the newer religions on Khorvaire, worship of the Silver Flame revolved around a human paladin, Tira Miron, who, together with a couatl, had merged with a pillar of argent fire almost seven hundred years ago to stop a demon from escaping Khyber and destroying all of Eberron. Its worshipers believed that Miron had become immortal in that union and spoke to their leader—the so-called Keeper of the Flame, the one who’d summoned Elix, who was currently an eleven-year-old girl—through the silver fire that still burned beneath Flamekeep, their holy fortress in Thrane. They saw it as their mission to rid Eberron of all evil, though from what Sabira could tell, the exact nature of that evil varied from worshiper to worshiper.