The Grieving Tree

CHAPTER 2

Looking out over the rooftops of Zarash’ak under the bright light of morning a little more than a week later, Dandra had to concede that Natrac was right. So far, this visit to the City of Stilts was different from her previous experiences. The first time she’d been to the city-as a psicrystal-Tetkashtai, Virikhad, and Medala had fallen to Dah’mir’s waiting power within an hour of their arrival. The second time, she and Singe hadn’t even made it off Vennet d’Lyrandar’s ship before the treacherous half-elf had attacked them in an attempt to capture her for Dah’mir.

This time, they’d simply paddled up to one of Zarash’ak’s public water landings the previous day and walked away from their boats without even looking back-Batul and Krepis had left them several days before, striking west for Fat Tusk territory on a swiftly built raft. Once he’d set foot on the raised wooden streets of Zarash’ak, Natrac had become a changed man, resuming the role of the confident, brash merchant they’d first met on Lightning on Water and shedding the aura of grim survivor he’d taken on in the swamps. “By Kol Korran’s golden bath,” he had sworn, looking around with satisfaction, “I am never leaving Zarash’ak again!”

He’d escorted them through the city as if they were visiting dignitaries, pointing out the sights and parting crowds with shouted commands. His house, a tall structure in a well-cared for section of the city, looked like it was shut up when they arrived, but more shouts and a fist pounding on the door had brought an old, gray-haired servant to the door. The man had almost fallen down at the sight of Natrac-and then recoiled at the sight of the stump of Natrac’s right wrist. “Dol Arrah, master-the rumors were true!” he’d gasped.

“It depends what those rumors were, Urthen,” Natrac had said, throwing his good arm around the servant’s shoulders and drawing him inside. “Now come to your senses. We have guests to look after!”

Like Natrac, Urthen had seemed to undergo a transformation as he’d opened up windows, set rooms to airing after his master’s absence, and rushed to accommodate five unexpected guests. He’d apologized extravagantly for a hasty dinner of rough food-chickens spread with a spicy sour paste and crushed flat to make grilling them easier-fetched from a nearby tavern, lukewarm baths with hard soap, and beds improvised from cushions, but after so long traveling, Dandra felt as though she was surrounded by luxury.

Waking in the morning without the dawn sun shining in her face was even better, and when she had finally risen, it was almost as if she’d woken in a palace. Urthen had taken her clothes away while she’d slept and had them laundered overnight; they’d been returned smelling of herbs and flowers. She’d sought out the old man in the kitchen to thank him and had been directed up several long flights of stairs to a wooden platform built across the flat roof of the house. Under a canopy of white canvas, he’d served her a breakfast of cool mint tea, fruit, and fresh golden ashi bread smeared with honey.

Maybe, Dandra thought as she sat back and stared out over the railing around the platform, there was something to be said for Zarash’ak.

“Twelve moons, you look like the lady of a great house.”

“I feel like the lady of a great house.” Dandra turned and smiled at Singe as he stepped out onto the platform. The wizard’s clothes had been laundered as well, and his freshly washed blond hair shone as bright as the rooftops of Zarash’ak.

In her mind, Tetkashtai made a noise of annoyance. Stop that! she said in waspish tone.

Dandra held back a grimace. The presence had slowly shed her persistent state of fear during their journey downriver. Unfortunately, much of that fear had transformed into stinging bitterness. She hadn’t quite forgiven Dandra for breaking the great shard and ruining Dah’mir’s device, her only hope for regaining her body. Dandra had tried to make her understand that Dah’mir would never have reversed what he had done to them-that in fact he might not have been able to-but Tetkashtai had settled into a deep resentment.

For the sake of peace within her own mind, Dandra turned her thoughts away from Singe as he sat down. Urthen came hurrying up from inside the house with another tray laden with bread and tea. “How was your breakfast, Mistress Dandra? I wasn’t certain what kalashtar preferred.”

“It was very good, Urthen,” she assured him.

It was coarse, said Tetkashtai. She spun out a memory of her favorite breakfast: taslek broth taken with an egg swirled into it.

That sounds so bland, Dandra said.

It wasn’t bland, Tetkashtai replied. It was subtle.

Dandra fought her instinct to crinkle her nose for fear of offending Natrac’s servant.

The others joined them slowly, all looking well-rested and-except for Ashi-well-scrubbed. The Bonetree hunter had splashed water over herself and her clothes, but no more. Natrac arrived last to the table. The half-orc wore robes of fine fabric with full sleeves that fell to cover his missing hand. “Urthen,” he said as the old man poured cold tea for him, “there’s a wright in Drum Lane who’s supposed to be particularly talented at making artificial limbs. I think I’d like to call on him tomorrow.”

“I’ll make the arrangements, master.” Urthen handed Natrac a note that had been folded and sealed with a dollop of yellow wax. “A response to the message you sent last night.”

Across the table, Singe raised an eyebrow. “Is this from your would-be historian, Natrac?”

Natrac had been coy about the contact he thought might be able to help them. He’d kept his or her identity a secret, but had hinted that it would be someone likely to impress them-or at least to impress Singe. Dandra was certain the half-orc wanted to prove to him that Zarash’ak was more than just a collection of buildings built on stilts above a swamp. It seemed that he was determined to draw the suspense out until the last minute. His only answer to Singe’s question was a cryptic smile as he struggled to open the folded note with one hand, a smile that turned into a growl as the paper defied his efforts. He raised his right arm, shook the knife mounted over his wrist clear of his sleeve, and slit the paper neatly.

Dandra caught a glimpse of careful, clean handwriting before Natrac held the note up and away from the rest of them. His smile returned and he folded the note once more, tucking it into his robe. “Urthen, we’ll be out for dinner. You know where.” He winked at his servant.

The old man smiled back and bent his head. “Master.” He picked up his tray and moved away.

“You’re still not going to tell us?” asked Dandra.

“You’ll find out.” Natrac sipped his tea. “We shouldn’t waste the day though. Shall we find out what House Tharashk can tell us about the Spires of the Forge?”

Dandra and Singe nodded, but Geth growled and tore into a thick piece of bread. “Not for me,” he said. “You do what you need to do-I’m not going to be stuck inside talking all day.” He looked to Orshok and Ashi. “Do you still want to see the sights of Zarash’ak?”

“Dagga!” said Orshok eagerly.

Ashi shrugged, but gave a little nod.

Natrac set his tea down and spread his hands wide. “If you’re sure,” he said. “It probably would make things easier if there weren’t six of us looming over someone, but …”

“I’m sure,” Geth said flatly.

“If you insist.” The half-orc reached for bread. “We’ll be spending most of our time near the herb market. Why don’t you meet us there around mid-afternoon? The market is easy to find. There’s a shrine to Arawai and Kol Korran in the heart of it. Look for us there.”

“Done.” Geth took another bite of his bread and gave Dandra and Singe the grin of someone who had just escaped from an onerous task.

“That was easier than I thought it would be,” Singe muttered as he stepped out from Natrac’s house and onto the street a short while later.

“Let someone think an idea is their own,” said Natrac with satisfaction, “and they’re more likely to follow it.”

Dandra felt the slightest twinge of guilt as she followed the two men out into the morning sun. “I’m still not sure I like tricking Geth and Ashi,” she said-then held up a hand as Singe looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. “I know,” she added. “It’s for the best.”

While the human and half-orc members of House Tharashk often spent much of their time in the wilderness, Tharashk was still one of the great dragonmarked houses. Its most talented members carried the Mark of Finding. Getting answers from them was going to take respect, diplomacy, and a certain amount of charm. Geth and Ashi, on the other hand, had a tendency to act before they thought. Even Dandra could see that their absence was likely to make their search smoother-and that simply telling them that they should find something else to do wasn’t likely to work. Instead they’d enlisted Orshok in their scheme of persuading the rough pair that the search would be tedious and time-consuming.

The druid had taken to the lie eagerly. Dandra was fairly certain that he had no desire himself to be engaged in talk when he could be exploring Zarash’ak, but she still felt as though she was somehow corrupting the young orc.

Natrac reached out and patted her shoulder as they walked. “Don’t worry, Dandra, they won’t get into trouble. Zarash’ak isn’t as dangerous as all that.”

She gave him a level look. “You told us to carry our weapons.” She shifted her spear in its harness across her back.

The half-orc smiled. “You’re less likely to get trouble if you look like you can give trouble back. That’s just common sense.” He drew her after him. “Come on-we’ve got a lot of the city to see ourselves.”

Dandra had spent the first part of her existence in Sharn, but as Natrac led them deeper into Zarash’ak, she began to think that even the vertical neighborhoods of the City of Towers were nothing compared to the tangled streets of the City of Stilts. Built up from individual stilted platforms and raised walkways, Zarash’ak was a confusing sprawl of a city. The wooden streets turned and crossed seemingly at random. New sights appeared without warning around corners, between buildings, and across bridges.

She smelled the great herb market, however, before she saw it. Zarash’ak was a city of pungent, marshy odors, but gradually Dandra became aware of a new scent on the air. The smell was complex: strong and wet, resinous and sharp. It teased at her nose with soft perfumes and bit at it with harsh, peppery notes. She breathed deep, drawing it all in. “Is that the market?” she asked Natrac.

He nodded then led them around a corner.

A wide wooden plaza opened up before them, crowded with people of many races and alive with noise. Human merchants called out from stalls, declaring the freshness and potency of their products. Half-orc and orc farmers and gatherers sat among big baskets, trying to attract the attention of the traders who would buy their crops in bulk. Porters raced among the crowds, sacks and bales balanced atop their shoulders. Buyers strolled the paths of the market, shouting back at merchants and farmers and porters alike. At the center of the market, a round structure painted green and gold rose above the stalls-the shrine Natrac had mentioned, Dandra guessed.

The astounding odor she had smelled before lay over everything, the mingled scent of innumerable herbs. “Amazing!” she whispered.

What? Tetkashtai demanded. What is it?

The presence could see and hear, but she had no sense of smell, only memories of it. The market smells wonderful, Dandra told her. She tried her best to communicate the odor, but Tetkashtai just scowled.

A true kalashtar would find such an unsophisticated stink revolting.

Dandra had to work to keep her anger from showing on her face. I like it.

Of course you do, Tetkashtai said.

Natrac led them across one side of the market. Both Dandra and Singe stared at the plant life displayed in the stalls they passed. Dandra had imagined the market would sell only leafy herbs, but instead all conceivable fragments of a seemingly infinite number of plants were on sale. Leaves of all shapes and sizes. Twigs. Stalks. Bark. Chips and slivers of wood. Flowers. Seeds. Roots. Fresh. Dried. Each stall was enveloped in its own particular scent as well: some peppery, some sweet, some acidic, some utterly foul.

“Where do all of these come from?” asked Singe above the noise.

“Some of the common ones are grown in villages around the city,” said Natrac, “but a lot are wild. Locals gather them, pool them, and send someone into Zarash’ak to sell. A few come from really deep in the Marches or are particularly rare.” He pointed to a merchant who was shaving slices off a big, hard stalk as if it were some kind of woody cheese. “That’s rotto stem. A piece that big probably earned whoever found it enough money to live off for two months.”

“What’s it used for?”

“You cook it in wine, then make a face cream out of it. It takes away wrinkles.”

“Truly?”

Natrac gave him a suffering glance. “No,” he said, “people pay a small fortune just for the pleasure of putting hot mush on their face.”

Dandra looked around them. “Do you think the people who bring the herbs in from the deep Marches will be the best ones to ask about the Spires of the Forge?”

“Not just them,” said Natrac. “Anyone who spends time in the wilds tends to congregate around here-especially members of House Tharashk. Dragonshard prospectors, herb scouts, and bounty hunters all have the same concerns when they’re in the wild and they like to share information.”

He stopped in front of one of the buildings that faced onto the market. It looked strange to Dandra’s eyes-part tavern, part tea room. Through a window, she could see a mix of rough humans and half-orcs sipping gingerly from steaming mugs. “What kind of place is this?”

“It’s a gaeth’ad house. You don’t find them much outside of the Shadow Marches. Just think of it as a tavern.” Natrac stepped up to the door. “Wait here. I may not be long.”

He went inside. Dandra glanced at Singe. “What’s gaeth’ad?”

“The herbs from the Shadow Marches can do more than take away wrinkles,” the Aundairian told her. “Gaeth’ad is herb tea with a kick. A skilled gaeth’ad master can brew a custom tea that will make you feel however you want to. House Jorasco has hired masters to brew sedatives, but mostly gaeth’ad needs to be really fresh to be potent.”

Natrac’s business inside the house took almost no time at all. “We’re in luck,” he said as he emerged. “There’s a Tharashk bounty hunter in the city at the moment who’s supposed to know western Droaam. He favors one of the other gaeth’ad houses, but the person I spoke to thinks he might be there now. I’m told he’s the best available.”

“That sounds like a good start,” said Singe. “Let’s find him.”

The gaeth’ad house that Natrac led them to had a crooked hunda stick like Orshok’s hung over the door to serve as a sign. Unlike the previous house, its windows were covered in slat shutters that allowed air to circulate but gave those within a greater degree of privacy. Dandra paused for a moment inside the door to let her eyes adjust. The interior of the house was a dim, quiet room broken up by screens made of coarse paper. The screens made it hard to judge how many people might have been in the place-perhaps half of the tables that she could see were occupied, though she couldn’t always see whether their occupants drank their tea alone or in the company of someone else. The atmosphere was thick, humid even for Zarash’ak, and laced with a sweet-acrid smell.

Natrac walked up to the bar, a long polished counter that stood in front of jar-lined shelves more suitable to an apothecary’s shop, and spoke in Orc to a young half-orc on the other side. A few coins changed hands, disappearing into her sleeves, and she nodded. She pointed deeper into the maze of screens. Natrac turned back to Singe and Dandra.

“He’s here,” he said. “Follow me.”

Behind a screen at the very back of the house, a high-pitched voice was speaking softly in a harsh language Dandra didn’t understand. Every few minutes, a deeper voice would add something in the same language. Natrac paused just beyond the screen and cleared his throat. The high-pitched voice broke off and Dandra was certain that she heard the soft whisper of a dagger being drawn.

“Yes?” called the deeper voice.

“I’m looking for Chain d’Tharashk,” said Natrac.

“Come through,” said the deep voice. “All three of you.”

Dandra felt a trace of unease. She held up the three fingers to Singe and mouthed silently, how did he know?

The wizard looked unimpressed. He lifted a foot and pointed to it. Chain had heard their footsteps, Dandra realized.

“Old trick,” Singe murmured as Natrac disappeared around the screen. Singe gestured for Dandra to follow the half-orc, then fell in behind her.

The man who sat at the table on the other side of the screen was large. No, Dandra thought, “large” didn’t do him justice. Standing up, he would be taller than Natrac, maybe as tall as Ashi. His muscles were nearly as thick as Geth’s, bulging out from beneath a stained, sleeveless leather shirt. Nearly obscured by hair on his left forearm, a small dragonmark twisted and turned in a slash of color. The thick stubble on the man’s face matched the length of the stubble on his shaved head. Beneath heavy eyebrows, his eyes were dark and alert. “You’ve found me,” he said. “I’m Chain.”

His voice matched the rest of him-dark, heavy, and threatening. Any doubts Dandra had about leaving Geth and Ashi behind vanished immediately. Chain was a walking challenge. She didn’t think either the shifter or the hunter could have even spoken to him without starting a fight.

There were two chairs before the table. Natrac took one and Singe gestured for Dandra to take the other. She seated herself, shifting her spear out of the way. There was a fourth chair, but it was occupied by the source-or so Dandra assumed-of the high-pitched voice she had heard before. A goblin crouched in the chair, his slight frame tensing as Dandra touched the shaft of her spear. Reddish eyes in a flat face the color of dirty parchment watched each of them closely. One of the small creature’s hands was hidden by an enormous account book. Dandra guessed that it was holding the dagger she had heard drawn. She made a show of moving her hand away from her spear and he relaxed. Slightly.

Chain sat back, his chair creaking under his weight, and looked them over with such intensity that Dandra felt as though he was committing their appearances to memory.

As soon as Natrac had finished introducing himself and them, Chain asked, “So what do you want?”

Singe was just visible out of the corner of Dandra’s eye. She saw his face tighten. “Blunt, aren’t you?”

“People don’t hire me for my charm. You want charm, hire an elf.” The big man reached out and picked up a mug of gaeth’ad. “You want the best, hire me.”

Chain’s manners grated across Dandra’s nerves worse than Tetkashtai’s bitterness. “We didn’t say we wanted to hire you,” she said.

“Then you’re wasting my time.” Chain turned his head and nodded to the goblin. The little creature look back to the account book and began babbling in his harsh language as he ran thin fingers down a column of close-written text.

Natrac winced at the dismissal and shot Dandra a glare. She felt her stomach flinch-and Tetkashtai’s silent derision-at her misstep.

Natrac leaned forward. “Poli, Chain-my friend tends to talk before she thinks. We do want to hire you. We’re told you know the western barrens of Droaam better than anyone.”

“I know all of Droaam,” Chain said. The goblin paused as soon as his boss spoke, one finger still pressed against the account book.

“I’m sure of it,” Natrac agreed quickly. “But the west is really all that-”

“Just get to the point. Who do you want found?”

Natrac coughed. “Not who. What. We’re looking for a place.”

Chain’s eyes narrowed and he looked them over again as he drank from his mug. The goblin pursed his lips and spoke a few words. Chain nodded, his face darkening. He sat forward and slammed the mug down on the desk. “You’re treasure hunters.”

“What?” asked Dandra. “What makes you think we’re treasure hunters?”

“By the look of you, you’ve seen a lot of traveling very recently, but if you’re looking for some place in Droaam, you’re not finished yet. And you’re an unlikely mix-a well-dressed half-orc who’s been through rough times, a kalashtar, and an Aundairian who, unless I’m wrong, has served with the Blademarks.”

Dandra saw Singe stiffen.

Chain snorted. “Don’t look surprised. You sweat Deneith discipline.” The bounty hunter leaned back and crossed his arms. “Treasure hunting and war are the only things that bring together a mix like that and as far as I know, the war is still over.”

“Fine,” said Singe. “Call us treasure hunters. Does it make a difference?”

“Rates go up. I help you, I get a cut of whatever you find.” Singe raised his head and gave Chain a hard look. “That’s mercenary.”

“You’ve worked for Deneith. You should know all about that.” Chain rubbed a rough hand across his chin. “What’s on the schedule, Preesh?”

The goblin flipped ahead in the account book, checked a column, and said in words Dandra understood, “You’re clear.”

Chain leaned across the desk. “Tell me more.”

Natrac glanced at Singe and Dandra, then looked back to Chain. “Have you ever heard of a place called the Spires of the Forge?”

Chain rapped his fingers against the tabletop. “Ten silver,” he said.

“What?”

“Ten silver,” Chain repeated. “Sovereigns, trade bits, matching weights-I don’t care. You’ve just asked me a question. You want an answer, it’s ten silver.”

“You said to tell you more,” Dandra protested.

“Tell, not ask.”

“Ten sovereigns is a steep price for a simple answer,” said Singe. “Either you’ve heard of the place or you haven’t.”

Chain picked up his mug and took another drink. “You’re taking up my time,” he said. “A man needs to eat and Preesh doesn’t work cheap. Ten silver could clear this all up right away.”

Singe grumbled under his breath and looked to Natrac. The half-orc reached into a pouch and produced ten silver sovereigns, pushing them across the table to Chain. “There,” he said. “Now-have you heard of the Spires of the Forge?”

The big man scooped up the coins. “No.”

Dandra stared at him. “No?” she said in shock.

Chain shrugged. “Never heard of them.” He raised his heavy eyebrows. “They were what you were looking for?”

“Yes!”

“Then we’ve just saved ourselves a lot of trouble.” He drank again.

Dandra rose to her feet, fury and the close air of the gaeth’ad house making her head pound. “You just took our money!”

“You paid for an answer. I gave it to you,” the big man said. “Don’t blame me if it’s not the answer you wanted to hear.” He remained seated but the goblin had tensed again.

Singe put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy,” he said. “He’s right.”

She could tell from the sound of his voice that he wasn’t happy either. She glared at Chain. “What about the Hall of the Revered? Have you heard of that or is it going to cost us another ten sovereigns?”

Chain’s shoulders tightened, making his muscles bulge. “I’ll throw it in for free,” he said. “No. I’ve never heard of the Spires of the Forge or the Hall of the Revered.”

“Thank you,” said Natrac. The half-orc rose quickly. “We’ll be on our way, then. Maybe someone else-”

Chain moved with a speed that shocked even Dandra, surging up out of his chair to lean across the table and snap in Natrac’s face. “You try,” he said. “You just try. But here’s another free answer: if I haven’t heard of a place in Droaam, then it doesn’t exist. You ask any other bounty hunter, prospector, or scout and they’re not going to be able to help you either. You’ve already come to the best. If I can’t help you, nobody can!” Natrac flinched back. Chain flung up an arm, pointing back out of the gaeth’ad house. “Get out.”

“I-” Natrac started to say, but Singe grabbed the half-orc with his other arm and hauled both him and Dandra away. Dandra caught a last glimpse of Chain as the big bounty hunter slammed himself back down into his chair. Curious faces peered at them as they hastened out of the house and back into the herb market.

“Twelve bloody moons!” cursed Singe. “What a-”

“What a dahr!” said Dandra through clenched teeth. She looked at Natrac. “Do you think he was lying?”

He shook his head. “That was business, Dandra. He had no reason to lie.”

“What about trying other people? Do you think it was just his ego talking when he said no one else would know anything?”

“It doesn’t look like he would admit to having rivals, does it?” said Natrac. He shrugged. “There’s no harm in trying to find other sources, but Chain was supposed to be the best in the city right now. If he doesn’t know, maybe House Tharashk isn’t the answer.”

“We were only gambling that Tharashk would have the answers we need, Dandra,” Singe pointed out. “There’s still Natrac’s historian.”

Dandra took a deep breath, trying to cool her rage at Chain’s grating manners, and lifted her chin. “But we’re gambling on that, too, aren’t we?” she said with determination. “I’m not going to give up on Tharashk that easily. I don’t think Chain knows as much as he thinks he does.”

“We’ve got time to ask around.” Singe squinted up at the sun, still high in the sky. “We’re not supposed to meet Geth and Ashi for a long while yet.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Twelve moons, we might as well have had them with us all along!”

Dandra glanced at him. “I don’t think that would have helped.”

“No, but I would have enjoyed watching them beat down Chain. That would have been worth ten sovereigns.” He smiled wistfully.

“Do you really think we fooled them?” asked Ashi.

“Probably,” said Geth as they moved through the crowds on one of Zarash’ak’s broader streets. The sun was high; the day was hot. He, the hunter, and Orshok had lingered at Natrac’s house well after the others had gone. Geth had luxuriated in the shade of the canopy on Natrac’s rooftop, napping on a stomach full of bread and honey and grateful for the first day in weeks that there was no need to paddle a boat or hike across country. He twisted as he walked, loosening muscles that had been knotted for too long and added, “Singe likes to think he’s clever.”

“He is clever,” Orshok pointed out.

Geth gave the young orc a glare but bared his teeth in a grin, too. “When you’ve known Singe for as long as I have, you get used to him. You can tell when he’s up to something. I would have known he was trying to get rid of us even you hadn’t said anything, Orshok.”

The druid looked vaguely disappointed. “You would have?”

“A clever man is most vulnerable when he’s trying to be clever. Someone wise told me that.”

“Who?” asked Orshok suspiciously.

“Robrand d’Deneith, the man who recruited me and Singe into the Frostbrand company of the Blademarks when we were your age. One of the greatest commanders to ever lead a Blademarks company.” Geth let out a little snarl of satisfaction. “He had Singe figured out. The old man could keep him in knots if he wanted to.”

Ashi’s face darkened. “So we fooled Singe by doing exactly what he wanted us to do?” She looked down at Geth. “How is that outwitting him?”

“Because we chose to do this ourselves.” He stretched his arms out in the bright sunlight. His ancient Dhakaani sword was a weight at his side, but he’d left his great gauntlet behind. There was no need for it and the day was too pleasant to worry about armor. “I like House Tharashk-they tend to be more honest than other dragonmarked houses-but I don’t want to spend all day going from tavern to tavern talking to them.”

“That was Singe’s argument, too,” said Orshok. “We’re doing what he wanted for exactly the reason he said we should.”

Geth opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He gave Orshok another glare. This time the orc smiled. So did Ashi. Geth glowered. “Come on,” he grumbled, “Let’s see what we can see.”

They followed the crowds, less out of any random choice than out of another principle handed down by Robrand d’Deneith: where there were people, there would be something interesting. Geth’s old commander’s wisdom didn’t fail them. They wandered through a market where merchants from beyond the Shadow Marches offered the finest items from across Khorvaire. They passed a theater where criers called out the coming evening’s bill, while mummers on the other side of the street gave a show for thrown coins. At a shrine dedicated to the Sovereign Host, they stopped and went inside so that Orshok and Ashi could marvel at a faith unfamiliar to both of them. Geth stood by the door, nodding to the priests tending the shrine, as the druid and the hunter stared at the shining images of the nine gods.

Orshok gave him a solemn look as they left the shrine. “When the daelkyr came from Xoriat to invade Eberron during the Daelkyr War, the Gatekeepers fought them. We sealed the gates to Xoriat and bound the surviving daelkyr in Khyber. What did the Sovereign Host do?”

“I don’t-” Geth ground his teeth together. “Ask Singe. He’s the clever one. Who’s hungry?”

The streets of Zarash’ak were dotted with vendors selling cheap food that people bought and carried with them, eating as they walked. Geth had seen the process when they had been in Zarash’ak before: he led Ashi and Orshok to one stall where they bought thick rounds of ashi bread, then on to another to buy roast vegetables or spicy grilled meat to stuff inside. The meat was snake-Orshok insisted on checking stalls until he found some that he declared fresh enough to eat. The orc tending the grill gave them a hearty grin and extra slatherings of the hot and sour sauce that spiced the meat.

The sauce numbed Geth’s mouth and brought tears to Orshok’s eyes, but Ashi just ate her meal in solemn silence as they wandered. Geth recognized this area of Zarash’ak-they were heading toward the deep water docks where ships coming up from the ocean found berths. If they wanted news of the world beyond the Shadow Marches, this would be a good place to find it. His eyes were on Ashi, however. Her body was tense, her posture guarded. Geth frowned over his food, “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

The tall woman’s face twisted. She answered with blunt honesty. “I don’t like cities.”

Geth look around them as he took another bite of food. For all that Zarash’ak was an isolated island of civilization, it was also the only city of any size in the Shadow Marches-in the whole southwest of the continent of Khorvaire, in fact-and attracted an astounding diversity of inhabitants and visitors. The crowd on the street was made up mostly of humans, orcs, and half-orcs, but there were also elves and halflings and bandy-legged goblins. He could even spot another shifter on occasion, striding confidently among the other races. Their trio of orc, shifter, and human savage wasn’t at all out of place.

“It’s the crowd, isn’t it?” Geth said. “So many people in one place?”

Ashi nodded tightly. “Having so many strangers around me-so many outclanners …”

She bit off her words, but Geth understood. Shifters were descended from the mingled bloodlines of humans and shapechanging lycanthropes. Their lycanthropic heritage gave them useful gifts, but also a predator’s instincts. Crowds weren’t that much different from herds and herds were either prey or a threat. It had taken him time and effort to ease the edge of being around strangers. Ashi was a hunter. She had the same instincts. He grunted. “You’ll get used to it,” he told her. He looked at Orshok. “What about you?”

The orc wrinkled his thick nose. “I like Zarash’ak,” he said. “I miss Fat Tusk, though.”

“At least you’re welcome to go back to it,” said Ashi.

“Do you miss the Bonetree?” Geth asked her. “Do you regret turning against your clan?”

“Do you miss your people?” she snapped at him in return.

Geth’s gut knotted as Adolan’s face flickered before him: his friend had died under a Bonetree hunter’s axe. His lips twitched back, baring his teeth reflexively, and he growled at Ashi. The hunter jerked back and her hand went instantly to her sword-then fell away as a flush crept up her face.

“I’m … sorry,” she said. “Blood in my mouth, it was not a good thing to ask.” She hung her head. “I miss friends among the Bonetree. If they were dead, I wouldn’t miss them as much.”

Other faces joined Adolan’s in Geth’s memory, the faces of people he-and Singe-had served with in the Frostbrand. People he’d last seen in the northern Karrnathi town of Narath. People who were dead because of him. He clenched his jaw tight. “I understand,” he said through his teeth.

Ashi’s hand dropped back to her sword, though this time only to rest on it. The weapon had belong to her grandfather, absorbed into the Bonetree clan after being found wounded in the marches. Singe had identified the weapon as an honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith. That Ashi carried the blood of Deneith was one of the surprises they had discovered among the Bonetree. “Singe says that I’ll have a new clan in House Deneith,” she said. “Do you think that they’ll take me in?”

“Ashi,” Geth said, “I think House Deneith is going to be as surprised to learn about you as you were to learn about it.”

The crowd thinned around them as the street they had followed opened onto the docks. Orshok’s eyes went wide at the sight of the sailing ships gently rising and falling with the water. “Kuv!” he said in awe.

“You didn’t see these last time you were in Zarash’ak?” Geth asked, turning to saunter along the docks.

“No.” Orshok shook his head. “I stayed where Batul directed me to go, watching for the Servant of Madness. I didn’t see much of the city.” The druid stared at the ocean-going vessels they passed. “I’d heard they were big, but I did really imagine …” He looked ahead of them and his eyes grew even wider. “Look at that! What kind of ship needs no sails?”

“A Lyrandar elemental galleon,” mumbled Geth as he stuffed the last of his bread and meat into his mouth. He looked up to follow Orshok’s gaze-and the food in his mouth seemed to turn dry and tasteless.

Only three berths along, Lightning on Water nestled against the wood of the dock, the great elemental ring that drove it glinting like blue glass in the sun. A much smaller boat-a river craft-was tied up beside it and the galleon’s crew were busy loading it with supplies as though for a voyage. The hair on Geth’s forearms and on the back of his neck rose. Black herons rode the breeze around and above the Lyrandar galleon, perching boldly on its rails, among the rigging of nearby ships, and atop the piles of the docks.

Dah’mir’s herons. Vennet d’Lyrandar’s ship.

Beside the laboring crew stood two figures. One wore a dove-gray coat and had long blond hair that fell in a tail down his back. The other wore robes of fine black leather.

Their attention was on the crew, but as Geth stared Vennet and Dah’mir started to turn, walking toward them.

Barely thinking, he grabbed Orshok and Ashi and shoved them into the shelter of a narrow alley between two buildings. Orshok’s gray-green face was flushed dark.

“That was …” he croaked in frightened disbelief.

“I know,” Geth told him. “Be quiet!”

Ashi gripped the hilt of her sword. “Geth, we could end this! There’s three of us and two of them.”

“But one of them is a dragon!” he hissed at her. “Fighting Dah’mir would be suicide. Now be quiet and get back!”

Neither Vennet or Dah’mir had seen them and there was light at the alley’s far end-he hadn’t just hidden them in a dead-end. Geth thanked Grandfather Rat for a moment of good fortune. If they tried to make a break for it though, their movement was certain to draw the men’s attention. The floor of the alley was covered in foul litter. Geth ignored it-he dropped to his belly and lay flat. Behind him, he heard Orshok and Dandra press back as well.

The black stones of Adolan’s collar went cold around his throat. A moment later, Dah’mir and Vennet passed by the mouth of the alley.

Geth could barely bring himself to look up, but he did and caught a brief glimpse of the two men. Vennet looked the same as he had the last time Geth had seen him, though there was a hint of tension in his face. Dah’mir, on the other hand … When they had seen him before, the dragon’s human shape had been always been elegant, graceful, and perfect. Inhumanly perfect. Now, however, he moved stiffly and there was a draw on his features. He looked tired. He looked like he was in pain.

The two men were talking. Geth strained his ears to catch their words.

“-will find enough fresh water to sustain the crew while we’re gone.” Vennet was saying. “Two weeks? You’re certain.”

“At most,” answered Dah’mir, and the sound of his oil-smooth voice sent shudders along Geth’s spine. “By the way, you might not want to pick your best men to accompany us, captain. The journey can be dangerous-”

His words cut off sharply. “Lord?” asked Vennet. “What is it?”

Geth’s heart felt like it had stopped beating. The light from the mouth of the alley vanished as Dah’mir stepped back, his nostrils flared as if he smelled something bad.

For an instant, time seemed to stop as Geth and Dah’mir stared at each other, and Geth’s attention focused on a single detail: the blue-black Khyber dragonshard that had glittered on the chest of Dah’mir’s leather robes before was gone, shattered by Geth’s sword, its place marked by a wet stain and a crudely mended tear in the leather.

Then Dah’mir’s acid-green eyes flared. His lips peeled back, “You!”

A predator’s instincts might have been focused on hunting and fighting-but predators knew when to flee, too.

Geth thrust himself away from Dah’mir, twisting to his feet as he moved. “Run!” he roared at Ashi and Orshok. “Run!”