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Authors: Marsheila Rockwell
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foundation-sponsored expeditions, the stillness of the Sharn office was more akin to that of a library. Or a tomb.
Maybe that’s what it was, Sabira thought. Ever since Boroman had returned from his last foray into Xen’drik, he’d been slowly wasting away, the victim of some curse for which even the greatest healers and wizards in Khorvairecould find no cure. Though the halfling tried to remain active in the everyday affairs of the foundation, and still retained executive control over its Conclave, he’d been retiring to the Sharn office more and more frequently over the past year, supposedly to “recuperate.” Given the office’s convenient location in the financial district, Sabira wondered if he weren’t actually getting his affairs in order.
The silver-clothed woman paused before a nondescript door on the tower’s third level and knocked once. Though Sabira heard nothing from the other side, the woman gave her and Greddark a stern look and then pushed the door open and led them inside.
Based on what she’d seen below, Sabira had expected to find an office crammed with a desk, shelves groaning under the weight of maps, and bizarre collectables from the world over shoved into every nook and cranny. Instead, the woman ushered them into a small, almost utilitarian bedroom dominated by a huge canopied bed.
In the middle of the bed, dwarfed by massive pillows and nearly buried in paper, lay a halfling wrapped in a green velvet robe and sucking on a long, curved pipe. Sabira recognized the pungent aroma of firepepper leaves, native only to the volcanic fields of Xen’drik. The Sulatar drow of the region believed the leaves of the potent pepper had healing abilities, but most found the cure worse than the disease, and Sabira couldn’t blame them—the acrid smoke from ir’Dayne’s pipe was already making her eyes water.
“You may leave us now, Hendra,” the halfling croaked, his voice reedy and tired. Hendra’s tight face registered surprise for a moment, but she quickly covered it with her habitual haughtiness. She inclined her head, but cast awarning glance at Sabira and Greddark as she left, closing the door quietly behind her. Sabira was sure the other woman was just on the opposite side of the door, ear pressed up against the wood as she strained to hear what went on inside the small room.
“Come closer, Marshal.”
Sabira complied, though Greddark hung back.
“You, as well …?”
“Greddark d’Kundarak,” the inquisitive supplied, apparently more willing to use his real name when there weren’t as many witnesses to impending mischief.
“Ah.” Then the halfling’s eyes narrowed. “The same Greddark who was kicked out of the Tower of the Twelve after the death of—?”
“Yes. The same,” the dwarf interrupted flatly, his face hard.
Sabira had known that Greddark had been asked to leave the arcane institution founded by the dragonmarked Houses, but she’d never known why. She’d always assumed it had something to do with his gambling—or, more accurately, with his cheating.
Well, now she had a better idea why he wanted to leave Khorvaire.
“Cleared of all charges, as I recall, though Helanth d’Medani still bears a grudge.” At Greddark’s narrowed eyes, the halfling gave a small laugh that turned into a coughing fit. Wheezing, ir’Dayne continued, “You forget—the main House Medani enclave is just down the road from here, in Wroat. It was all over the broadsheets.”
Wonderful. Sabira wondered how many of the half-elven House’s bounty hunters would be dogging their steps toXen’drik.
“Not what we’re here to talk about,” Greddark said brusquely.
“No, but almost as entertaining,” the halfling replied with an impish grin that made his careworn face look surprisingly youthful. Though Sabira wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him describing Tilde’s disappearance and the death of thirty Blademarks as entertainment.
Ir’Dayne shoved some papers aside
Maybe that’s what it was, Sabira thought. Ever since Boroman had returned from his last foray into Xen’drik, he’d been slowly wasting away, the victim of some curse for which even the greatest healers and wizards in Khorvairecould find no cure. Though the halfling tried to remain active in the everyday affairs of the foundation, and still retained executive control over its Conclave, he’d been retiring to the Sharn office more and more frequently over the past year, supposedly to “recuperate.” Given the office’s convenient location in the financial district, Sabira wondered if he weren’t actually getting his affairs in order.
The silver-clothed woman paused before a nondescript door on the tower’s third level and knocked once. Though Sabira heard nothing from the other side, the woman gave her and Greddark a stern look and then pushed the door open and led them inside.
Based on what she’d seen below, Sabira had expected to find an office crammed with a desk, shelves groaning under the weight of maps, and bizarre collectables from the world over shoved into every nook and cranny. Instead, the woman ushered them into a small, almost utilitarian bedroom dominated by a huge canopied bed.
In the middle of the bed, dwarfed by massive pillows and nearly buried in paper, lay a halfling wrapped in a green velvet robe and sucking on a long, curved pipe. Sabira recognized the pungent aroma of firepepper leaves, native only to the volcanic fields of Xen’drik. The Sulatar drow of the region believed the leaves of the potent pepper had healing abilities, but most found the cure worse than the disease, and Sabira couldn’t blame them—the acrid smoke from ir’Dayne’s pipe was already making her eyes water.
“You may leave us now, Hendra,” the halfling croaked, his voice reedy and tired. Hendra’s tight face registered surprise for a moment, but she quickly covered it with her habitual haughtiness. She inclined her head, but cast awarning glance at Sabira and Greddark as she left, closing the door quietly behind her. Sabira was sure the other woman was just on the opposite side of the door, ear pressed up against the wood as she strained to hear what went on inside the small room.
“Come closer, Marshal.”
Sabira complied, though Greddark hung back.
“You, as well …?”
“Greddark d’Kundarak,” the inquisitive supplied, apparently more willing to use his real name when there weren’t as many witnesses to impending mischief.
“Ah.” Then the halfling’s eyes narrowed. “The same Greddark who was kicked out of the Tower of the Twelve after the death of—?”
“Yes. The same,” the dwarf interrupted flatly, his face hard.
Sabira had known that Greddark had been asked to leave the arcane institution founded by the dragonmarked Houses, but she’d never known why. She’d always assumed it had something to do with his gambling—or, more accurately, with his cheating.
Well, now she had a better idea why he wanted to leave Khorvaire.
“Cleared of all charges, as I recall, though Helanth d’Medani still bears a grudge.” At Greddark’s narrowed eyes, the halfling gave a small laugh that turned into a coughing fit. Wheezing, ir’Dayne continued, “You forget—the main House Medani enclave is just down the road from here, in Wroat. It was all over the broadsheets.”
Wonderful. Sabira wondered how many of the half-elven House’s bounty hunters would be dogging their steps toXen’drik.
“Not what we’re here to talk about,” Greddark said brusquely.
“No, but almost as entertaining,” the halfling replied with an impish grin that made his careworn face look surprisingly youthful. Though Sabira wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him describing Tilde’s disappearance and the death of thirty Blademarks as entertainment.
Ir’Dayne shoved some papers aside
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