Night of Long Shadows

CHAPTER 7

The second day of Long Shadows

Far, the 27th day of Vult, 998

The city of Sharn existed in its current form only because it was built on a manifest zone that linked the city to the plane of Syrania. This link strengthened any kind of spell related to levitation and flight, and thus the vast towers within the city were able to soar without risk. If the link between the planes were to fail, most of Sharn’s towers would collapse beneath their own weight.

But within this magical zone were anomalies, areas where the magic was slightly distorted, where the influence of Syrania was felt, but in unexpected ways.

The Hanging Gardens was one such place. It occupied the entire top half of a tower in Middle Menthis, and it made the most of its fame by catering to as many needs as possible. It had numerous shops, four restaurants, two theaters, eleven taverns, and four inns. The Hanging Gardens was almost an entire ward in its own right, and entrepreneurs fought (sometimes literally) to get on the waiting list.

What was so special about the Hanging Gardens was that by some strange quirk in the connection between planes, gravity was reversed.

From the perspective of someone entering the base of the tower and glancing up, it was like looking into a mirror. The whole top half of the tower was upside down. The heads of tiny people could be seen as they moved about the pathways and bridges.

Cutter hated it, but he had no choice but to go there if he wanted to get the information he needed. He climbed one of the special ramps designed for access to the Gardens. The ramp started amid normal gravity, but as it climbed around the inside of the tower, it gently curled around on itself until he was walking upside down. He glanced up and saw the Gardens ahead of him, now the right way up. He looked to where he had entered the tower. Everyone seemed to be hanging from the ceiling.

He entered one of four entrance courtyards to the Hanging Gardens. The square was wide and unroofed, as was everything in the Hanging Gardens except private rooms. Pale white marble shot through with blue veins paved the courtyard. Looks like Karrn cheese, Cutter thought. Ivy climbed up the walls all around him, and greenery of all kinds had been planted seemingly at random, giving Cutter the impression that he was standing in some ancient city discovered in Xen’drik.

On the other side of the courtyard was an arched doorway. A decorative trellis carved with the likeness of the Ring of Syberis followed the curve of the opening. The various moons of Eberron, carved from different kinds of precious gemstones, dotted the lattice at regular intervals.

Cutter ducked through and followed the short corridor beyond to a wide thoroughfare crowded with people. This was the main street of the Gardens. Vendors were set up all along the road, selling snacks and clothing, books and drinks. Cutter moved with the flow until he came to a huge tavern on his right. A sign with a picture of a decapitated gargoyle hung from the eaves. He pushed his way out of the throng and slipped through the doors.

A busy night. Cutter used the cover of the crowd to make sure Tiel wasn’t seated at his usual booth. He did a lot of his business at the Gargoyle. Cutter was in luck. No sign of the halfling.

Cutter allowed himself a small sigh of relief and headed to the bar. Katain, the halfling owner of the Gardens, spotted him and raised a hand in greeting. He finished serving a shifter, then approached him behind the bar, grabbing a bottle and two glasses as he came.

“Cutter,” he said. “What brings you to my humble establishment? Thought you hated the place.” Katain poured two shots of the lethal spirits he imported from the Talenta Plains and slid one across to Cutter.

Cutter raised the glass in thanks and tossed it back. He smacked his lips. “I do. But I need information, and you were the only one I could think of.”

Katain grinned. “Five years out and you lot still come to me for help.”

“Just because you’re retired doesn’t mean you don’t keep your ears to the ground.”

“You’re right. In fact, I reckon I pick up more information now than I did when I was working for the Boromars. I should have opened this place years ago. To think of all that time standing on street corners in the middle of the night, waiting for contacts to show up. I could have done it all from here.”

Cutter shook his head. “You would have been drunk all the time. Too much temptation.”

“True. In fact, I’m drunk now.” Katain grinned and downed another shot. “So. What do you need?”

“I’m looking for Salkith. He did a job for the Boromars tonight and he hasn’t turned up. People are worried.”

“Worried about him or worried he’s run off with their money?”

Cutter shrugged. “I don’t ask questions.”

“Wise man.” Katain looked thoughtful for a moment. “Salkith. He usually unwinds at a place called Silvermist. It’s a dream parlor in Callestan. But if he’s there, he might not be much help to you.”

“Thanks, Kat.”

“No problem.” Someone called for his attention. The halfling turned and waved. “I’ll leave the bottle here. See you round.”

Katain went to attend to his customers. Cutter poured another drink, but this time sipped it slowly.

“Well, well. Always knew I’d find you propping up a bar someday.”

Cutter froze, then swallowed the drink and carefully replaced the glass. He took hold of the bottle and turned around on his stool.

He’d often wondered what he’d do if he ever saw Jana again. And now, here she was. She still looked the same-pale skin, black hair down to her lower back. It was even tied in the same tight braid she always wore. But as he stared at her, he noticed there were changes. She looked thinner than before-harder. He remembered how he used to stare into her wide brown eyes and think they were the most beautiful he’d seen, but now they were continually narrowed as if she was suspicious of everything around her.

She still smelled like a miracle, though. Of jasmine in summertime. He realized with a guilty start that it was the same scent he had bought for Rowen. How had he not noticed that before?

He waited a moment to make sure his voice was calm. “Jana. Had a promotion, I see.”

“Captain.”

“Congratulations. Who’s your pet?”

Jana glanced at the man to her right. Cutter reckoned he was in his early thirties.

“This is Corporal Conal. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Poor man.”

Jana cocked her head to the side. “You look older, Blackbird.”

“I am.”

“No. You look older than your years. Where have you been?”

“Valenar.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Being a slave. For four years.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. Not much, but enough that he noted.

“And the name’s Cutter now,” he said.

Jana cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of a name is that?”

“The kind of name I earned. One that I’m proud of.”

“What? You’re not proud of Blackbird? It suited you so well.” She turned to Conal. “He was always after the shiny stuff, you see. Couldn’t keep his beak out of trouble.”

Cutter took a swig of spirits, watching them both.

“So what are you up to nowadays, Blackbird?”

“None of your business.”

Jana stepped forward. “Be nice to me, Blackbird. I can haul you off to jail and no one would even notice.”

“Like you did before?”

“Exactly like I did before.”

Cutter stood. “Well, it’s been lovely catching up. We should get together again, have supper or something.” He turned to Conal before he left. “Watch your back, corporal. She’s a dangerous one.”

Silvermist was a dream parlor, a place where people went to experience illusions and shows different from the more run-of-the-mill plays and supper theaters of the upper wards. The changeling Jix even got a write-up in the Chronicle for her one-woman opera, a review that gave the parlor a brief dabbling of fame as the upper class, bored with the usual routine, organized coach parties complete with bodyguards and packed suppers (just in case the food wasn’t up to standard), to take them down into the dangerous wards of Lower Dura.

This was something that quite upset the Boromar clan, as they secretly owned Silvermist and were using it as an illegal dreamlily den.

Steps had to be taken, and Cutter had been one of the Boromar employees hired to hassle and intimidate the guests until they stopped visiting. It had been his first job for them.

He nodded to the doorman and stepped into a dimly lit dining room. The smells of the night’s dinner service lingered in the air. Roasted meat and vegetables. Seafood and lemon. Fried potatoes. His stomach grumbled in response. He ignored it and looked around.

A bright flare of blue and orange light forced him to shield his eyes. An intake of breath sounded throughout the room, sounding like a sigh of wind. He had entered right at the beginning of a show.

The blue and orange light coalesced into a gently spinning ball that hovered in the air over the stage, the separate colors twining and bleeding into each other like paint in water. Then it split into two separate balls that drifted apart until they were hovering close to the walls. They spun faster and faster, their glows growing in strength until one side of the room was bathed in blue, while the other was suffused in orange.

The onlookers’ faces were bathed in color. Cutter looked around and saw that the dream parlor had a full house.

The light slowly dimmed. Cutter looked to the front and saw the balls condensing into tiny points of light. After a moment of near darkness, the balls burst open in a silent explosion, flinging globes of multicolored light in all directions. The audience gasped. Some tried to reach up and touch them, but the spheres darted away as if they were alive, drawing appreciative chuckles from the spectators. The balls stopped moving and again shrunk down in size, the light fading until Cutter realized with a small shock of perception that he was actually looking at the night sky, the balls of light now thousands of stars.

Then tiny dragons swooped through the air, banking around tables, swooping in to hover before the delighted faces of the patrons.

Cutter could see Salleon standing on the stage, the gnome’s hands extended as he wove the illusion with deft flicks of his fingers, his eyes closed in concentration.

Cutter gave himself a mental shake and pulled himself away from the show, winding his way through the tables to a door in the far wall. The door led to a corridor, with the kitchen and private dining suites on either side. At the end was another door, which Cutter found to be locked.

Cutter knocked and waited. It opened a moment later, and he stared into the face of a half-orc.

Cutter racked his brain, trying to think of his name.

“Uh … Dajin, right? How’s it going?”

The half-orc said nothing.

“Fine. Listen, I need to speak to Salkith. Instructions from high up.”

The half-orc stared at him.

“I know he’s here. And so does Tiel. You know who Tiel is?”

Cutter saw the eyes flicker slightly. He took that for a yes.

“Good. Now if you know Tiel, you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I have information to deliver. Are you going to let me in?”

Dajin paused for a moment, then stood aside.

“Thanks.”

Cutter stepped into a large room. Couches lined the walls, along with glamerweave tapestries depicting cityscape scenes from Gatherhold in the Talenta Plains. Seven doors nestled between the tapestries. “Which one?” he asked.

Dajin gestured at a door to Cutter’s left. Cutter opened it and slipped inside the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

The room was tiny. A young dwarf attendant stood beside a bed on which the tanned, wiry form of Salkith was lying. His long, sandy hair was carefully braided and placed on the pillow above his head. The attendant looked at Cutter in surprise, pausing in the movement of lifting a small vial of white liquid to the halfling’s mouth.

“What are you doing?” she said. “You can’t come in here.”

“Wrong. Salkith’s needed back at work. How much have you given him?”

The attendant frowned and glanced at the unconscious figure. “He’s already had one dose tonight. I was just about to top him off.”

“Don’t. I need him awake. How long before he comes out of it?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Guess.”

“About half a bell.”

“Thank you. Now, get out and don’t disturb us. I may have to hurt you if I thought you overheard something you shouldn’t have.”

The woman drew herself up in protest. “I resent-”

“Resent all you want. Just tell me if you understand. That way, I won’t feel bad killing you if I catch you spying.”

The woman paled. “I … I understand.”

“Well done. Now get out.”

The attendant hastily left the room. Cutter waited to see if Dajin would come bursting in, but either she didn’t tell the half-orc, or he thought it was best to stay out of it.

The room was empty except for the bed. He checked underneath it and found two drawers built into the frame. They were filled with white sheets, freshly laundered and folded. Cutter pulled one out and used his Khutai blade to cut it into strips, then lifted Salkith’s arms above his head. He tied them together with the torn sheet, then ran the strip beneath the bed and did the same with his feet.

Cutter stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. No way he was getting out of that. Cutter pulled the other Khutai blade from its sheath and knelt on the floor, placing the knives to either side of him.

He closed his eyes and waited.

It took a little more than half a bell for the halfling to wake. Cutter heard the rustle of the sheets and opened his eyes. He saw Salkith turning his head from side to side as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Cutter picked up his blades and stood. Salkith’s eyes widened slightly as he saw Cutter rise up from the floor.

“Who-” Salkith licked dry lips. “Who are you?”

“Here’s how it works. You’ve already wasted my time-”

“I’ve been asleep,” he protested.

“Is that what you call it? Anyway, that’s not my problem. I’ve been waiting here more than half a bell now, and that’s all the time I was going to give you. Which means you need to talk very fast to tell me what I want to know.”

Salkith strained against the bindings, his corded muscles standing out against his tanned skin. Cutter was glad he’d tied him up. The halfling looked like he could be quite a handful.

“I’ll kill you,” said Salkith. “And your family. Do you have a wife? A woman? Children? They’re dead, you hear me? I’m going to strip their skin and hang it out to dry!”

Cutter stared at him for a moment. “You have no idea what a bad choice of words that was,” he said softly. He leaned over the incapacitated halfling. “Listen to me carefully,” he whispered. “I’m going to hurt you now. I’m going to keep on hurting you until you tell me what I want to know. If you scream, I’ll kill you. I’ll slit your throat. If you make any sound above a whimper, any sound that can be heard outside this room, you’re dead. Do you believe me? Just nod.”

Salkith stared into his eyes. After a long, trembling pause, he nodded.

“Good.” Cutter drew the razor-sharp edge of the blade down Salkith’s arm. Blood welled from the cut and stained the white sheets. Salkith squirmed and moaned, his eyes never leaving Cutter’s.

“That was to show you I’m being serious. Now, what happened tonight at the professor’s rooms?”

Salkith’s brows drew together at the sudden change in topic. “What … happened? I don’t understand.”

Cutter punched Salkith in the face. Hard. The halfling’s head jerked to the side. Droplets of blood sprayed over the white wall.

“Wait!” he snarled. “I don’t understand! What do you want to know?”

“What happened?”

“But … nothing happened. I was supposed to pick something up from him. A … a package. But he changed his mind and didn’t want to give it to me.”

“You were supposed to pick it up from him?”

Salkith nodded desperately.

“What was in the package?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a courier!”

“So what did you do?”

“I left. I wasn’t about to argue with him. I reported it and came here. That’s all I know.”

Cutter frowned. “What were you supposed to do with the package?”

“I was supposed to meet someone at a tavern in Khyber’s Gate. The … the Goblin’s Revenge, it was called.”

“Khyber’s Gate?” said Cutter in surprise. “But that’s Daask territory.”

“That’s all I know! I swear.”

“Last question. Did you see a girl there? With red hair?”

Salkith frowned. “Nobody else was there. We were alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am! Now let me out of here!”

Cutter gathered his knives, then leaned over and picked up the vial of dreamlily the nurse had been holding. The bottle held at least twenty doses.

Cutter poured it all down Salkith’s throat, clamping the halfling’s mouth shut so he was forced to swallow.

That should keep him out of commission for a while, he thought, closing the door on the halfling’s incoherent cries.

Cutter sighed. Another dead end. He was no closer to finding Rowen. He sheathed his knives. What was he supposed to do now?

Dajin was nowhere to be seen. Cutter yanked open the door that led to the corridor.

Two men stood there. Cutter reached for his knives but someone gripped his arms from behind. He kicked out, feeling his boot connect with a hard stomach. One of his attackers staggered back, struggling to regain his breath.

Cutter was just about to kick out again when the other man lifted a glass vial filled with white fluid. He splashed it into Cutter’s face.

The scent of the liquid hit him and seemed to crawl down his throat of its own accord. He felt it course through his body, a trail of warmth and heaviness.

Couldn’t swallow.

Couldn’t breathe.

His veins felt like they were filled with sluggish fluid. His whole body felt heavy. He sagged, his eyelids drooping.

The last thing he saw was the boot of the man he had just kicked coming at his face.

Cutter yawned and stoked the fire, sitting close to the low flames in an attempt to feed some warmth into his body. Dawn was approaching, a single line of pink and orange that stretched across the wide horizon. The solitary cry of an eagle echoed over the steppe. He looked up, but the bird was invisible against the night-touched sky.

A slight wind shivered the short grass of the steppe, but it was warm, carrying the scent of flowers and rain. Finally, thought Cutter. The first hint of spring.

The camp began to stir as the morning slowly brightened. Elves crept from their low, stretched-out tents and called greetings to each other. Wood was piled atop banked fires, hands held before the flames. The wind might promise spring, but the early mornings still belonged to winter.

He heard movement behind him, the scuffing of soft leather soles on the dry scrub. A moment later, Thalian knelt next to him.

“The Ancestors bless your day,” the Keeper said formally.

“And yours,” replied Cutter.

Thalian didn’t say anything else. Cutter glanced sideways at him, studying his angular face. The young elf was a Keeper of the Past, the priesthood of the Valenar elves that maintained the memory of the great elf heroes of Xen’drik. They had known each other for three years now, so Cutter could tell when something was bothering the elf.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The messenger who arrived yesterday …” began Thalian.

“Yes?”

“King Vadallia has called our clan to serve him in Taer Valaestas.”

“And?”

“And, slaves are … frowned upon by the King.”

Cutter frowned and turned to the fire. The events of three years ago ran through his head. It was as if he were seeing them in the flames, replayed in the fire like they were replayed every night in his dreams.

He had been sleeping when it happened-or more accurately, passed out. He awoke to the horrendous rending of splintering wood as the ship he traveled on hit a reef off the southeast coast of Valenar. He was flung from his bed into the cabin wall. All around him was pitch darkness. He hadn’t bothered to activate the everbright globe when he started drinking that afternoon. He could hear the screams of the passengers, the shouts of the captain and his crew as they tried to do something to save the foundering vessel. But it was too late. He crawled on hands and knees to where he thought the hatch should be, and yanked it open. Icy cold water lapped at his hands and knees. A few seconds later, it was up to his wrists.

He staggered up to the deck and saw the captain and his first mate lower the tiny fishing boat strapped to the side of the ship and make their escape. Everyone else was forced to leap into the sea and fight for their lives against the fierce breakers that tried to pound them against lethally sharp rocks.

Out of thirty, only seventeen survived, dragging themselves to the shore and gasping for air, crying out thanks to the Sovereign Host and the Silver Flame.

They should have saved their prayers. All they’d done was exchange one danger for another. Malleas and his war clan had skirted the coastline as the ship sailed north. The Valenar captured the weakened group, the chief’s pet wizard binding them with a spell that he said was infinitely more powerful than cold steel.

Cutter hadn’t believed him. That first night, he tried to escape.

As soon as he stepped beyond the boundaries of the camp, his whole body exploded with pain. Burning fire surged through this limbs, every vein a tiny river that carried red-hot lava to every part of his being. Each step he took increased the intensity of the pain, sent slivers of splintered glass stabbing into his brain until he had no idea who he was or where he was going. All he knew was that he had to keep moving, had to escape.

He managed to walk a full mile before he collapsed. Scouts carried him back to the camp, where Thalian watched over him, tending his body as Cutter spent the next week hovering between life and death.

Only six of the original captives were left, the others dead from accidents or killed by Malleas for displeasing him.

“Did you hear me?” asked Thalian, adding wood to the fire.

“I heard you. What does he plan on doing with us? I assume releasing us isn’t on the agenda.”

“I … don’t think so, no.” Thalian leaned closer to Cutter. “Maybe I can help. Find out how to break the spell-”

“Forget it. The only way we get free is if Malleas lets us go.”

Cutter stood and stretched his limbs. He glanced at the largest tent, set in the center of the camp.

He looked to Thalian and smiled coldly. “Or if he’s dead.” Cutter strode toward the tent. “Malleas!” he shouted. “Face me, you coward!”

Cutter was aware of the whole camp turning to look at him in amazement. He didn’t care. What did he have to lose? He was dead if he did nothing. He might as well go out fighting.

It was what he did best.

He stopped before the entrance to the tent. A moment later, two hands slipped between the flaps and parted the hide to both sides.

Malleas ducked through the opening. He yawned and looked around the camp, checking to make sure everything was proceeding normally. Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. Only when he had satisfied himself that all was well did he turn his gaze to Cutter.

“What did you say, little man?”

“I said you are a coward. Your ancestors have abandoned you, Malleas. You shame them with your actions.”

Malleas stepped forward. He was the same height as Cutter, but Cutter was broader than the chief, the labor of the past years sculpting his body.

“What do you know of my ancestors?” Malleas said softly. He rested his hands on twin Khutai blades strapped to his waist. “My ancestor came to this continent with four companions at his side. They raided a human village and defeated their best fighters. The rest they took as slaves.” He took another step forward until he was no more than an arm’s length from Cutter. “So do not presume to tell me I shame my ancestors. I praise them.”

“So do I. Every morning when I take a piss.”

That did it. Malleas’s eyes went dead. He moved forward until his face was inches from Cutter’s. “You will choke on those words, outlander. I raise prayers to the ghosts of my ancestors every night and they whisper sweet compliments in my ears.” His voice rose in volume. “I please them with my actions. The pyres I burn lift their names to the sky in honor! Every death, every wound inflicted is a salute to their names, and never is it enough! So do not tell me I shame my ancestors!” Malleas stopped, seemingly aware that he was losing control. He straightened, glanced about at those watching, then turned to Cutter with a smirk. “Now run along and do your job, Cutter. Chop the wood I will use to burn your worthless carcass. I will inhale the smoke of your soul. I will own your death.”

Cutter waited a moment, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. He was dead. He knew that. He reminded himself that the only choice left was to decide how he would go. He wondered what his brother would think of him now. Would he be proud? Disappointed?

“You will own no part of me, vadis nia.” In the months he’d spent among the Valenar, Cutter had picked up a lot of their speech-especially insults, which they often hurled at the prisoners. Vadis nia was about the worst thing one could call a Valenar-disgracer of the blood.

That got the reaction Cutter was looking for. Malleas roared and pulled his blades out, but his anger stripped his attack of any precision. Cutter stepped into his reach and blocked the frenzied swipes with his forearms, the dull smack of skin on skin louder than the elf’s snarls.

Cutter waited until he saw Malleas forcibly calm himself, saw the light of calculation enter his eyes, and in that instant of transition, Cutter lashed out and connected with Malleas’s face. His first punch broke the elf’s nose. Then he grabbed hold of the warlord’s wrist and rammed the hilt of the blade into his head. Blood flowed from the scalp wound and dripped into his eye, forcing the elf to blink rapidly to clear his vision.

Cutter managed to get one more hit in, a blow to the stomach, before he leaped back. But before he could dodge out of Malleas’s reach, the elf brought one of the blades down in a wild slash that left a deep gouge in his arm.

The two circled each other warily. The whole camp gathered around to watch the confrontation. Cutter tried his best to ignore them. He was under no illusion that he would survive this day. Even if he won the fight, he would be executed by the clan. Honor would keep them from interfering in the fight, but it wouldn’t stop them from cutting his head off and dragging it behind the horse of the new clan leader.

But that gave him the edge. It meant he had nothing left to lose.

So he ran straight for Malleas. The move surprised the elf, if only because it was suicidally stupid.

Just before he charged within reach, Cutter dropped and barreled into the elf’s legs. They both tumbled to the ground in a confusion of flailing limbs.

Cutter felt a searing pain along his back as one of the blades cut through his clothing. They tussled for position and Cutter grabbed the first thing he could lay his hands on-Malleas’s kneecap. He twisted it as hard as he could. It popped and the elf screamed in pain, thrashing beneath him.

Something smashed into the side of Cutter’s head-the pommel of one of the blades, held awkwardly in Malleas’s hand. Cutter grunted and snapped his head forward, again and again, smashing his forehead into Malleas’s face. All the while he could feel the elf reaching over his shoulder and stabbing into his back with the free blade. The thrusts were weakening, however, and Cutter loosened his grip so he could grab hold of the elf’s neck.

But it was a ruse. As soon as he tried to shift his hold, Malleas grunted and pushed up with his leg, lifting Cutter to his feet. The human stumbled back a few steps, trying to keep his balance, but his heel caught on a clump of scraggly grass and he fell onto his backside.

Malleas was on him in an instant. He collided with Cutter knees-first, forcing Cutter flat onto his back, and brought his knives in on either side for killing blows. Cutter punched the elf in the throat. When Malleas swayed backward, Cutter pulled his legs out from under the elf and kicked him as hard as he could in the chest, sending the elf staggering back into the fire. His trousers caught in the flames, and Cutter used the distraction to push himself to his feet.

He felt blood trickling freely down his back from the numerous wounds. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. He staggered forward and picked up a piece of wood from the fire. Flames licked at his hand and he felt his skin blistering. Cutter ignored the pain. He brought the log up in a swinging arc that caught the elf beneath the chin. Cutter heard the crack as Malleas’s jaw broke. His head snapped up. Teeth and blood burst from his mouth and fell sizzling into the fire. Cutter dropped the brand and grabbed hold of Malleas’s wrists. He still held the curved knives, now covered in Cutter’s blood. He looked into Malleas’s eyes. The white of the right eye had filled with blood. His face was a ruined pulp of meat. He heard a wet, nasal gurgle as the elf tried to breathe.

Cutter gasped for breath. “You … named me Cutter. You … you thought it an insult.”

Malleas struggled in his grasp.

Cutter tightened his grip. “It is not. I accept the name.”

With that, Cutter lifted Malleas’s arms and forced the elf to cut his own throat, the razor-sharp blades slicing deep into the soft skin of his neck.

Malleas gurgled as he tried to speak, the action causing bubbles to burst from the wound. Then he twitched and fell backward into the fire, sending up an explosion of sparks and smoke.

Cutter staggered away from the flames, then fell to his knees. He was aware that he was holding Malleas’s blades. When had he grabbed them?

He lifted his head to face the death he knew was coming. The elves hadn’t moved. They stood watching Malleas’s body as his clothes caught fire and the flames consumed him.

Then one stepped forward. Vael. He was-had been-Malleas’s second in command. He stood before Cutter, looking down at him.

Cutter tried to smile. “Do what you will. I die free.”

“You will not die this day, Cutter. You have fought fairly and honorably against an armed opponent. Your ancestors would be proud.”

Oh, really? You hear that, brother? Cutter’s thoughts dripped with sarcasm.

“Many here were not … comfortable with Malleas’s leadership of the clan. We-I-planned on challenging him when we reached Taer Valaestas, with the High King as witness.”

And now I’ve done your dirty work for you. Cutter laughed inwardly.

Vael seemed to sense what he was thinking. “Travel with us, Cutter. As a free man.” Vael glanced around, then dropped to his knees so he was level with Cutter. He leaned forward and placed his forehead against Cutter’s, his hand over his heart. “You are a fighter of skill and honor. I invite you to join our clan. Will you accept?”

Cutter hesitated. “Release the others-the slaves.”

“Done. Slavery has no place in my clan.”

Cutter raised his hand and placed it over Vael’s heart.

“Are we one?” asked the elf.

“We are,” said Cutter, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed.

Cutter opened his eyes to darkness.

Is it still night, then? His head swam.

He should get back to sleep. They were moving in the morning, heading west to Taer Valaestas. It would be a long ride, and he needed his rest. His head throbbed. His mouth was parched. He smacked his lips, trying to find some moisture, but it was a pointless exercise. Had he been drinking last night? Couldn’t remember. Regardless, he needed water.

He tried to get up but found that he couldn’t move. His hands and legs were tied to a chair. What was this? Betrayal? Cutter blinked his dry eyes, trying to focus on something, anything, in the dim light. Vague shapes began to materialize-crates, barrels of ale, a few chairs, a broken table.

It took him only a moment more to realize he wasn’t in Valenar. He was in the storeroom beneath Silvermist. He thought back to what had happened. Opening the door onto his attackers. That noxious fluid in his face.

Dreamlily. They had given him a concentrated dose of dreamlily. A wave of panic washed over him. How long had he been under? How much time had passed?

He strained against the ropes binding his arms, but they were too tight to give. He tested the bindings around his legs and found they were a bit looser. He braced himself and strained against the bonds. The old chair creaked, the wood slowly giving. He paused for breath then tried again. The wood creaked and splintered, groaning as if in pain. Then, with a final crack, the right front leg snapped and the chair collapsed beneath him. He landed on one knee, the jolt sending a wave of pain through his body.

Cutter winced and pushed himself up. He was hunched over, a leg and both arms still tied to the broken chair. He hopped over to the wall and swung his body around, slamming the chair as hard as he could into the stonework until it smashed apart. He quickly untied the rope and picked up one of the broken legs. It wasn’t heavy, but it would have to do as a weapon. The bastards had taken his blades.

What did they want with him, anyway?

He could make out a faint rectangle of light outlining the door. He hurried through the darkness and put his ear to the wood.

Then he pulled away. He could hear voices on the other side, the sound of people approaching.

He looked quickly around the room. It was too late to pull out another chair and pretend he was still tied up. He had to face them.

He pushed himself up against the wall. A moment later, the door opened and the light from the hall flooded into the room. He could see the shadows of two men in the swath of light that fell across the floor.

“-couldn’t believe it when I saw him. Word is, Tiel wants him bad.”

Tiel? What in Khyber’s name does he want?

Then it hit him. The money he was supposed to collect. Tiel thought he’d stolen it. Cutter frowned. Tough for him, then. He didn’t have time for this.

The two men entered the room. They froze when they saw the pieces of broken chair, but Cutter didn’t give them a chance to do anything more. He stepped forward and swung the chair leg into the back of the near one’s head. The man cried out and dropped to his knees. Cutter shifted his grip and swung again, this time backhand. It slammed across the face of the other man. His head jerked to the side and Cutter brought the leg back for another hit, sending him sprawling on his face. The first man was trying to get to his feet. Cutter brought the leg down on his skull. Blood sprayed across the floor and he collapsed to the side, his head hitting the floor first.

Cutter didn’t hang around. In the room beyond were a table and two chairs. On the table were an empty bottle, two glasses, and a pile of cards.

And his blades. Sitting near a small pile of coins. The bastards were playing cards for his weapons.

He picked up his knives and the money, then climbed the stairs to the club beyond.