Skein of Shadows (9 page)

“Although there is one more thing …,” he added, digging again at the mound of papers, coming up with an old tattered bit of cloth pressed between two thin sheets of glass. “Ah, yes. Here it is.

“This was recovered in Waterworks beneath the
Stormreach harbor. I believe it’s variant of the same Prophecy.”

He brought the glass-encased strip of fabric up to his face and squinted to read it. Sabira could see it was part of an ancient tapestry, though the writing was different from that of the other bits of Prophecy she’d seen.

“Then again,” ir’Dayne said, as if reading her mind, “since it’s written in a little known dialect of the ancient giants, I can understand why some of the others think differently. But I thought you should know about it, since it may change the nature of your mission.

I
t doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it means, you know.”

Sabira didn’t look over at the inquisitive, instead keeping her gaze on the city of Stormreach spread out below them. As the
Seeker
skimmed through the air toward Falconer’s Spire, Sabira couldn’t help but marvel, as always, at the architectural medley that was Stormreach. Remnants of giantish ruins, scavenged hulls from sunken ships, floating towers reminiscent of Sharn, Thrane curves and Karrnathi angles all coexisted in a surprisingly cohesive tapestry of colors, textures, and shapes. It was, in its own very peculiar way, beautiful.

Though she’d only been gone a couple of months, it still seemed as if the city had reinvented itself entirely in that time, with walls and buildings springing up where she didn’t remember there being any before. But that was the way of Stormreach, as it was of the inhabitants who lived here—constantly changing, ever growing, always surprising. It was what attracted so many explorers and
adventurers to this vast continent, and what kept them coming back. No matter what it had been like when they left, they could be guaranteed it would be different when they returned.

In many ways, the city was the exact opposite of places like Krona Peak and Frostmantle in the Mror Holds, which prided themselves on constancy, and even some of the older human cities like those in Karrnath, too steeped in tradition to change easily, let alone willingly. Natives of Sharn, on the other hand, might find the city’s growth a bit too staid for their tastes, which probably explained why it had taken so long for groups like the criminal Boromar clan to find their way to Xen’drik’s shores. But that was changing now, too, and the city that had once been little more than an outpost for outcasts was becoming a metropolis in its own right. Where would the castoffs go when that happened? Farther south, into the jungles and desert? Even farther, to the edges of civilization, like Everice and Frostfell?

It wasn’t just idle musing on her part—the farther those who’d broken the law ranged, the farther Marshals like her would have to go to find them, wherever they were in Eberron.

Or under it.

The Lyrandar piloting the
Seeker
swung her expertly over the harbor, giving his passengers a magnificent view of both the lighthouse and the giant Emperor Cul’Sir with his double handful of light spearing up into the heavens. They passed over the Marketplace with its iconic red tent and then docked smoothly at Falconer’s Spire under the watchful eye of Zerchi the Spire-Keeper.

As they waited for the gangplank to be lowered, Sabira
turned to Greddark, finally deigning to respond to his comment.

“And what do I think it means?”

The dwarf cocked a blond brow at her tone.

“Oh, I don’t know … that you’re destined to destroy everything and everyone?”

“Well, see, that’s the funny thing. First the Prophecy was referring to Tilde, and then Tilde failed to regain the artifact—or only partially succeeded, at any rate—and now suddenly it refers to me. And if I don’t make it back, then they’ll find someone else … Granite d’Deneith from Lakeside, maybe. That’s how prophecies and oracles and auguries work—they predict what someone in power decides they’re going to predict, and even if they don’t, they’re made to. It’s all a bunch of superstitious nonsense—something I’d think a self-proclaimed inquisitive and artificer would know.”

Greddark frowned.

“Prophecy is just another form of magic, which both artificers and inquisitives use quite liberally. Why wouldn’t I believe in its power?”

“Precisely. You
use
magic and make it do what
you
want it to. Just as people like ir’Dayne and Breven use Prophecy to do what
they
want it to.” She looked at him askance. “If the Prophecy is real, then whatever it predicts is going to happen regardless of what we do, so why bother with it at all? Unless you want to use it to control what
other
people do.”

Greddark laughed and shook his head in mock amazement.

“Aggar was right about you. You
are
a dwarf in a human
body.”

Sabira snorted.

“Better than a human in a dwarf’s body, Sir Shortbeard. And what was that back in Sharn, anyway? ‘Make mine tea.’
Tea
? Really?”

After ir’Dayne had dropped his “end of the world” bombshell, he’d succumbed to a long coughing fit, making further conversation impossible. When he’d recovered, he’d summoned Hendra, who’d taken them to a small sitting room while the Wayfinder wrote out a quick letter of introduction to his cohort, Brannan ir’Kethras. Hendra had offered them drinks while they waited. Sabira had requested Frostmantle Fire. Greddark had asked for Silverleaf tea.

“It’s a drink that stimulates without dulling the senses or loosening the tongue,” he responded haughtily. “Something quite beneficial in my line of work—and in yours, too, I would imagine.”

“Like I said,” Sabira replied smugly. As far as she was concerned, the dwarf had just proven her point for her.

She was saved from having to hear his response by the airship captain, another Lyrandar.

“Wayfinder Kupper-Nickel can take you the rest of the way from here, if you can afford him. He’s the warforged lurking around the base of the docking tower—can’t miss him.”

Sabira nodded her thanks to the fair-haired half-elf, then headed down the gangplank, Greddark in tow, fuming.

Wayfinder Kupper-Nickel was not, as it turned out,
lurking at the base of Falconer’s Spire, but Loghan d’Deneith was. The mustached and goateed lieutenant called out to her as she and Greddark passed by.

“Sabira! Change your mind about helping me with my little problem?”

She paused, considering. She wasn’t going to help him, of course—the idea of leaving the Gladewatch garrison undefended in an attempt to lure the area’s raiders into an ambush was lunacy, and not something she wanted any part of. But Loghan might know where the warforged Wayfinder had gotten off to, so it might actually be worth a few moments of her time to speak to him, just this once.

“Still not interested in leading soldiers to their untimely deaths just so you can try to jump ranks, no. But if you help me with something, I might be able to recommend a few men who are a little more suicidal than I am.”

“Done!” he said, a little too eagerly for her taste. “What do you want to know?”

“Have you seen Kupper-Nickel?”

The Deneith man arced a curious brow.

“Headed out to the desert? What for?”

“My dwarf friend here’s spent a little too much time underground; Rhialle over in the Jorasco enclave prescribed some sun. Now, do you know where the Wayfinder is or not?”

“I’m pretty sure he headed over to the Cannith enclave, probably the Burnished Bull. Warforged seem to like it there; I guess because it’s where all the artificers go to drink.”

“Probably because they serve tea,” Greddark muttered, but Sabira pretended not to hear him.

“Thanks, Loghan. Try down at The Rusty Nail. Ask for a fat halfling named Gurobo, or find him at the bar. He’s got a long brown goatee and wears spectacles—I think he thinks they make him look smarter. Anyway, don’t let his appearance fool you; he’s actually a very accomplished wizard and he’s got a lot of friends. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you out.” Well, for a price, but she’d let Loghan do his own haggling. And then Gurobo would help himself to a little more while the lieutenant wasn’t looking. Which would serve him right for going ahead with this ridiculous plan in the first place.

“Obliged,” the Deneith man said, nodding at them both as he headed off for the tavern.

“Come on,” Sabira said to Greddark after the lieutenant had left. “Let’s go get you some tea.”

Sabira was wary as they walked the short distance through the Marketplace toward the Cannith enclave. It was a little too close to that of House Kundarak, and if Thecla had already been released from custody, it was a fair bet that Arach had, as well. If he’d ever actually been arrested at all. She would have preferred to wait for the warforged Wayfinder to return to his post, but there was no telling how long that would take, and Sabira could well imagine every hour they delayed being tallied on Tilde’s skin with a bloody stylus.

She could have gone to the Phiarlan enclave and found Iosynne. The fair-haired elf archer led a caravan out to the desert on a fairly regular basis, but that would take days
compared to hours on the airship. Sabira simply couldn’t afford the delay.

Or rather, Tilde couldn’t.

She tried not to think about the fact that Ned’s sister might already be dead. Or what it would mean for Sabira—and Elix—if she were.

The gates to the Cannith enclave were emblazoned with a stylized bull overlaying a tower that represented the House’s Manufactury, a vast complex that was home to all the enclave’s offices, warehouses, laboratories, and workshops. The foundation of the Manufactury was a golden gear, and three golden houses floated in the background—one each for Cannith South, Cannith East and Cannith West. The House had fractured after its ancestral forgehold in Cyre was destroyed on the Day of Mourning and the House patriarch was killed, leaving no direct heir.

Tellingly, the crest portrayed one house larger than the other two. Sabira was sure that must be Cannith South, headed by Merrix d’Cannith and controlling the family’s holdings in Breland, Zilargo, Darguun and now, apparently, Xen’drik.

As they entered through the gates, Greddark paused.

“It’s very … blue.”

Sabira snorted. It was that. Everbright lanterns in the shape of dragonshards adorned virtually every curved cornice, rounded windows blazed with light, and the undercarriages of magically-powered lifts similar to those in the City of Towers glowed even in the noontide sun. And they were all a bright, blinding blue.

“Maybe it’s Merrix’s favorite color?”

The Burnished Bull was on the left, but Sabira’s
attention was caught by a House Cannith monitor challenging a group of three warforged just to the right of the enclave gate. Though she couldn’t hear everything, it seemed clear that the warforged were unhappy at being treated as mere laborers—or worse, virtual slaves—and were taking out their frustrations verbally on the hapless human. Sabira decided she didn’t particularly want to be around when the argument moved from heated words to unsheathed blades.

“This way.”

She led Greddark over to the tavern, passing beneath the sign that spun between two dragonshard-tipped horns. The motif was carried throughout the entire establishment—and indeed, the whole district—with the ends of steam pipes fashioned to look like snorting bulls and posts and poles on every edifice echoing the curvature of a gorgon’s horns.

The Canniths liked to style the Burnished Bull as an open-air establishment in the same vein as the Bogwater over in the Phiarlan enclave. But where the Bogwater was spacious and open to the sky, the Bull was dark and cramped, huddled under a wooden building supported by heavy vertical timbers, with some tables situated in the resulting shade and others open to the elements on a small patio. Posters were tacked up on some of the posts and on the patio walls, advertising everything from repair services for warforged to custom goggles for artificers. One small sheet showed a picture of an iron defender and offered grooming services, but Sabira was fairly certain it was meant as a joke.