The City of Towers: The Dreaming Dark - Book I (18 page)

The half-orc, whom Bal called Korlan, split off from the group after they arrived in High Walls; apparently he had a personal errand to attend to. Zae and Bal accompanied the trio to the Manticore. The other patrons quickly dispersed once Bal entered the common room, though Daine couldn’t say whether it was due to a sinister reputation or simply his diseased appearance. The innkeeper grumbled, but once Daine gave her a few crowns she quickly returned with a pot of steaming tal.

Little Zae ducked under a table and watched them. Two rats emerged from the folds of her cloak, and their movements mirrored her own.

“Chew this,” Bal said, handing Daine a dried, leathery leaf. “It will help with the symptoms.”

Daine considered the leaf and finally began to chew. The worst it could do was kill him, and with the way he was feeling that might be a relief. Though he hadn’t gotten any worse since they’d left the lift, he was still feeling dizzy and weak.

“What did you do to me?” he asked.

Bal took a slow sip of tal, watching Daine closely. “The chilling touch is my inheritance. It is a gift that I share with Rasial Tarkanan.”

“Tarkanan …” Lei breathed in sharply. “You’re aberrants!” She pushed her chair back from the table.

“I am blessed, child of Cannith,” Bal said. His voice was level, but his eyes glittered. “Shall we compare the power of our gifts?”

Zae giggled in the shadows of the table, her rats chittering beside her.

“Lei!” Daine barked. “Calm down! What are you talking about?”

Lei took a deep breath and pulled her chair back up to the table. “What do you know about the War of the Mark?” Daine shrugged.

“Halas Tarkanan was the mightiest of the aberrant lords. When the pure lines sought to cleanse the darkness, it was Tarkanan who organized those who bore aberrant marks into an army.”

Bal showed his teeth. “‘Cleanse the darkness.’ A pleasant way to talk about murder.”

Lei glared at him, and for a moment Daine thought she was about to draw a weapon. “The aberrant marks are dangerous to body and soul! Fire, darkness, death … these are not forces the living were meant to channel!”

“And yet we do. You fear what you cannot control. You build. I destroy.”

“Enough!” said Daine. The pieces were beginning to come together. “You said we could help each other, Bal. What is it you want?”

“Rasial is one of us, and he’s missing. He returned to the city two days ago, but in that time he hasn’t been seen. We are concerned that he has placed himself in danger, and we wish to find him before he is harmed.”

Daine wished Jode was around. Reading faces wasn’t his specialty. “Why do you think he’d be in danger?”

“Rasial was working in the shadows. We know he wasn’t telling us about some of his activities. We have our suspicions.
Which leads me to ask: Why
are you
looking for him?”

“We were hired by the Windguard of Daggerwatch. They want him back for the upcoming race, and no one knows where he went.” Daine had spent the last ten minutes coming up with this story, and he cursed Jode for not being around. Lying was not something Daine did well.

“Daggerwatch?” Bal considered this. “So. The guardsmen of Daggerwatch hired a group of Mourners to do their work?”

Damn! Daine thought. If only they’d had time to buy new clothes. Lei spoke before he could answer. “I believe they gave us the job on my account,” she said. “I may be from … the Mournland, but I am of Cannith first and foremost. And I am of an age to be betrothed. I believe the commander hoped to win my favor by offering this work to my friends. And to be honest, I believe that he enjoys ordering a former Cyran captain about like a paid dog.”

Bal nodded slowly. “I suppose he might, at that. But Rasial won’t be coming back to your employers. Rasial Tann is dead. He is Rasial Tarkanan now, and his place is with us.”

“I understand,” Daine said. “But surely you understand that the longer we continue the investigation, the longer we get paid. Perhaps we can help you. We’re new in the city, and we could use a few friends. If we discover any more information, I’d be willing to pass it along—for the proper considerations.”

There was a pause as Bal drank the last of his tal. Finally he set the mug down. “Very well, Mourner. Prove your worth. You can contact me through the Illian Apothecary in Dragon Towers.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up. Beneath her table, Zae was carrying on a quiet, animated discussion with two rats and a mouse. In unison, the rodents disappeared into the folds of her cloak.

“Before you go,” said Daine, “is there anything you can tell us that could help us find him?”

Bal paused. “I believe he was dealing with someone in this district. But I don’t know who.” He nodded to Zae, and they moved for the door. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Mourner. Next
time, I’d think carefully before you draw your weapon.”

Daine stared at him, face grim. “Next time, surprise won’t be on your side.”

The rotting man held his gaze for a moment then left without a word.

Dassi the innkeeper finally broke the long silence that followed. “Good to see the back of that one, General. I’m sure you saw worse in your day, but I certainly didn’t like the looks of him. Why don’t I get you another cup of tal, and you can tell us the story about the Olaran orphanage again?”

Daine nodded and smiled, though inside he was cursing all lying halflings.

It was not long before Jode returned. The four retired to their room, and Daine recounted the events of the last two hours.

“Aberrant dragonmarks … interesting,” Jode said, rubbing his own dragonmark thoughtfully. “Disturbing,” Lei said.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand about this,” Daine said. “I’ve heard of aberrant dragonmarks before. But in the stories I’ve heard, the people with these black marks sour milk or scare dogs—that sort of thing. Killing with a touch is a far cry from making paint peel. How come I haven’t heard about this before?”

“Most of the aberrants were wiped out over a thousand years ago,” said Lei. “These days, they usually only appear when two people from different dragonmarked houses have a child together. Instead of possessing the mark of either house, the child may develop a warped, damaged mark—usually with a weak power or no power at all. The common theory is that the damaged mark reflects damage to the soul of the bearer, and those who bear aberrant marks often go mad, or so I’ve heard. That’s why the dragonmarked houses aren’t supposed to mingle their blood.”

“Killing with a touch doesn’t strike me as a weak power.”

“I met a man with an aberrant mark once,” Jode interjected.
“He had a chilling touch, much as you described. An unpleasant fellow, no question there. But I wouldn’t think he’d have been able to take you down, Daine.”

“I know.” Lei paused and thought for a moment. “There is one other possibility … but it’s just a legend.”

Daine shrugged. “Tell me a story, then.”

“The War of the Mark established the twelve dragonmarked houses that exist today. Supposedly, the houses came together to put an end to aberrant marks—to prevent crossbreeding and to destroy those already tainted by the darkness.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“All we have to work with now is legend and hearsay. But according to the tales, the aberrant dragonmarks possessed by Lord Tarkanan and his allies were not weak, damaged marks. They could spread plagues, call fire from the sky, break the earth with tremors, and far worse. But the human mind and body were not made to channel these dark powers, and the marks drove their bearers to madness or caused them to grow ill and die.”

“Which would explain the walking boil and the girl who spends more time talking to rats than people.”

“It’s just a theory.” Lei paused, considering. “I’ve also heard of a substance called dragon’s blood, which increases the power of a dragonmark for a brief period of time. I imagine it would work on an aberrant mark just as it would on a true mark.”

“And don’t forget Korlev,” Jode said, referring to a sorcerer who had served with them for a few months during the war.

While he had no dragonmark, Korlev had learned to manipulate mystical energy to produce a wide range of effects. He claimed to be one of the “teeth of Eberron” and had been quite useful before the Valenar killed him.

Daine shook his head. “Fine. Maybe they’re drug-addled aberrations. Maybe they’re sorcerers. So just don’t let them touch you. Let’s focus on Rasial. Did you find anything useful, Jode?”

“Rasial was well liked. Honest, by all accounts. Had a real knack for working with hippogriffs, and a lot of friends in
the local enclave of House Vadalis. Racing and flying were both passions of his. All in all, he was handsome, talented, popular—a rising star. Then he suffered those two accidents. A week later, he vanished. No one has seen him since.”

“Hmm.”

“With that said, there were a few guards who weren’t telling the whole truth—and not the nicest bunch. Rasial may have been honest to begin with, but I think he’s been dealing with these Tarkanans recently—probably to help hide his smuggling activities.”

Daine nodded. “So the real question is why. Why does a successful, honest man throw away everything he has and turn to the other side of the law?”

“Maybe he didn’t have a choice,” Lei said. The others turned and looked at her. “Think about it, Jode. Dragonmarks … pure dragonmarks … don’t appear at birth. They appear late in life, usually triggered by stress. If Rasial really had this chilling touch, what if it first manifested during the Race of Eight Winds? What if
he
killed his mount?”

Jode nodded. “He gets excited during the races, his mount dies … that would be a dilemma.”

“He could have joined the Tarkanans to learn about his mark.”

“And from the sound of it,” Daine said, “once you sign up, you’re in for life. But there are still a few loose ends. I don’t think the Tarkanans know about the connection between Rasial and Alina, and we’d better keep it that way. But what was Rasial doing for Alina? Why did he betray her, and who is he dealing with now? What is he hiding from the Tarkanans? And where is he?”

“All good questions,” Jode said. “But as I recall, we’re supposed to meet Councilor Teral for dinner at the seventh bell.”

“And?” Daine said.

Outside, the seventh bell rang. Jode smiled. “Shall we be off to dinner, Lord Daine?”

K
orlan hated Sharn. He was a child of the deep swamps, and he missed the tranquility of his homeland—the nights spent alone with the sounds of shadowtoads, water, crickets, the wind in the rushes …

The towers of Sharn were unnatural, and the constant babble of voices was a constant assault on his ears. He hated the mobs of people; eyes everywhere he looked, watching him, shouting and squabbling, filling the air with noise and stench.

But the marshes were no longer his home. When he was ten, the mark had appeared, the fire flowed in his blood, threatening to consume his spirit if he did not grant it a release. In a moment of madness, he had killed his brother with a gout of fire that burst forth from his hands. That was all it took. He was driven from the Marches, tainted and touched by the Deep Wyrm, and if he returned to his family they would do their best to kill him. For a time he had wandered, feverish and dazed, through the western plains—and then the Tarkanans had found him and taught him to control his gift. He hated Sharn, but it was the home of his true family. It was the only place he would ever belong.

Korlan had the pink skin of a Brelander, but his muscular physique and fiery temper hinted at his inhuman ancestry, and oversized canine teeth protruded from his lips when he was angry. Today, his fangs were in full view. Bal had said that
intimidation would be the best approach, and Korlan wanted to get this over with quickly, so he could return to his quiet room in Dragon Towers.

There was a guard in front of the tentflap. But Korlan had grown up hunting duskwisps, and it was a simple matter to slip through the shadows without being seen. A single powerful blow was all it took to send the guard to the ground in a crumpled heap.

His target was already waiting for him when he stepped inside the tent. The man appeared to be unarmed, but Korlan was well aware of how deceiving appearances could be. Korlan concentrated, and there was a moment of terrible pain as the blood in his veins burned with a terrible heat. He focused the pain on his palm, and flames flickered around his fingers.