The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III (11 page)

The hunter sat back with her eyes wide above her scarf.
“Ha’azit teith,”
she said in awe. “How is all this possible, Singe? Even magic has limits, doesn’t it?”

Singe smiled. “You know about other planes of existence like Xoriat and Dal Quor,” he said, trying to keep concepts simple for her. “Xoriat is the Realm of Madness and Dal Quor is the Region of Dreams. There are other planes as well,
worlds that are the pure expression of an element or concept. Sometimes they’re far away from Eberron, other times they’re closer. Sometimes the reality of one of those other planes bleeds through into Eberron, making a permanent connection. Wizards call those places manifest zones, and things are possible in them that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else. The Shadow Marches has many small manifest zones of Xoriat. It’s one reason the daelkyr and the cults of the Dragon Below are so powerful there.” He gestured around them. “Sharn is built within a manifest zone of Syrania, the Azure Sky. Magic related to flight works better here, sometimes with hardly any effort at all. That’s how towers can be built so tall and why lifts and skycoaches—” He rapped his knuckles against the hull of the coach. “—work at all.”

Ashi still looked as if she was struggling to understand his explanation. Singe tried to think of an even simpler way to describe the nature of Sharn to her, but the coach driver beat him to it. “Things don’t want to fall down here,” she said, and Ashi’s face cleared in comprehension.

They curved in a wide arc, passed over another dark chasm, and entered another ward. Their driver began naming sights again, and Ashi once more became entranced. “The Old Spire of Deniyas. Kavarrah Concert Hall. Looks like there’s a performance tonight—I think it might be Egen Marktaros, the Thrane exile. Dalannan Tower and Morgrave University.” The coach dipped sharply, diving between towers so closely packed it might as well have been flying through tunnels. They emerged into a district that smelled of alchemical experiments and shone with magical light in myriad hues.

“Everbright, the wizard’s district,” said the driver—then plunged into a real tunnel bored through the thick stones of one of the great towers and came back out into the night.

A wall of sparkling lights, a sweeping view of an entire arm of the city, rose above them in a spectacle so unexpected and breathtaking that even Singe found himself amazed. Their driver slowed the coach so that they seemed to be drifting into Sharn’s embrace like a leaf on the wind. The wall of light swelled before them, breaking slowly into individual lanterns in streets and windows. The coach eased up beside a landing, and
the driver broke the spell by calling out, “Deathsgate district!” She grinned at Ashi. “How did you like the ride?”

Wordlessly, Ashi bent her head and touched her fingers to her shrouded lips, then to her forehead.

“That means she liked it,” said Singe. He paid the fare and added a generous tip. The driver grinned and helped them out of the coach, then sent the vessel skimming back off into the darkness. Singe looked at Ashi. “Are you going to blink?” he asked.

“I don’t think I can,” she told him.

They set off into Deathsgate. Located in the middle levels of the great towers, the district had a strangely contained feel to it. Although the ground was far below, the height of the towers above emphasized how far away they were from open sky—when they could see the sky at all. Most of the streets were more like very large passages, and the courtyards were massive enclosures with bridges leaping beneath shadowed roofs. There was no hint of the rain that had caught them earlier except for drips and leaks and one empty square where water poured in a cascade through cracks in the ceiling.

“Trickle down,” Singe explained to Ashi. “Most of the rain that falls on the upper city ends up in reservoirs, but what doesn’t has to go somewhere. They say that when it rains in Sharn, it takes two days for it to stop.”

In spite of the late hour, the neighborhoods of Deathsgate were livelier than any other they had passed through, rivaling the waterfront of Cliffside and certainly surpassing the restrained hush of Fan Adar in Overlook. The people stumbling in the streets and staggering from the doorways of taverns looked like they had more in common with the sailors of Cliffside as well. All manner of races—from humans, to dwarves, to shifters, halflings, and warforged—were represented. Most them went armed as well. Swords, spears, axes, and maces hung ready for use, and even those in the crowds who carried no obvious weapons walked with a confident and dangerous stride. Singe caught Ashi staring again and nudged her.

“Try not to do that,” he said quietly. “The more you look
like someone new to Sharn, the more people will try to take advantage of you.”

“You’re scared they’ll start a fight?”

“I’m scared
you
might start a fight. Look around.” He nodded to the profusion of banners that decorated the buildings they passed, the strings of pennants that hung across the street, and the paint and posters that daubed bold colors onto dark stone walls. Like Overlook, Deathsgate had been decorated for the coming celebrations of Thronehold. Unlike Overlook, however, the crimson and gold of Breland were not the dominant colors. The black and red of Karrnath, the blue of Aundair, the silver of Thrane, and the green of lost Cyre were all represented in equal or even greater proportion. The colors and crests of a variety of regiments and companies, some Singe knew and others that he didn’t, added to the display.

“The people who gather in Deathsgate come from across Khorvaire, and the majority of them are no strangers to violence,” he said. “They’re old soldiers, mercenaries, treasure hunters, inquisitives, war wizards, bounty hunters, probably even a few assassins. I’d lay odds that every one of them saw something of the Last War. They’re not going to be looking for trouble, but if it finds them, they won’t back down.”

Ashi looked and a little of the intensity faded from her eyes. She nodded slowly. “You and Geth belong here,” she said.

A smile curled one corner of Singe’s lips. “I suppose we do.”

“You’ve forgiven him for what happened at Narath?”

The smile faded and an old ache grew inside the wizard. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “You can’t understand what Narath was like, Ashi.”

She turned her eyes on him, and her gaze was abruptly hot and angry. “Blood in your mouth! I may be an innocent to Sharn, but remember who you’re talking to and how we met. The Bonetree hunters raided and killed in the name of the Dragon Below. We stood in awe of dolgrims and dolgaunts as the perfect children of Khyber. I understand death.”

Singe returned her gaze without flinching. “What was the largest raid you ever took part in?”

“The Bonetree destroyed the Hill Shadow clan shortly after I was made a hunter,” Ashi told him. “Their camp was maybe three times the size of Bull Hollow. We killed their warriors and gave clean death to anyone too old to bring new blood to the Bonetree.”

“The Hill Shadow clan had about a hundred people then.” Singe pressed his lips together tightly for a moment. “More than ten times that number died in Narath. Very few of them were given a clean death. And I was on their side.” He looked away from her. “I wouldn’t say that I’ve forgiven Geth. I might say that I don’t hate him the same way I used to.”

“Dandra thinks there’s more to his story—something he isn’t saying.”

“Dandra doesn’t understand Narath either.” He sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Ashi. We’ve got other things to worry about. Once we get to the House Deneith enclave, I’ll see if there’s a message from Geth, then I want to ask around and see if anyone knows anything that might give us a clue about where Dah’mir and Vennet are hiding. House Deneith often has connections with the city watch, and someone might have heard something.”

“What should I do?” Ashi asked.

“Just stay close. Look around, see what goes on in a Deneith enclave. We should be able to pass without anyone recognizing your mark. Like I said, there aren’t likely to be any actual members of Deneith on duty this late—just mercenaries hiring other mercenaries.”

The Deneith enclave was a small, solid building on the edge of a largely deserted square. A guard wearing a blue jacket embroidered in silver with the emblem of the Watchful Eye superimposed on an upright sword—symbol of the Blademarks mercenary guild—stood outside the door. He straightened as Singe and Ashi approached, but Singe waved him to ease. “Singe, lieutenant of the Blademarks out of Fairhaven,” he said. “Checking for a message delivered here.”

The guard nodded and stood aside. Ashi glanced at him as they entered, then leaned close to Singe to whisper, “That’s all? Shouldn’t he have challenged you?”

“This is a recruiting center for the Blademarks. Deneith
wouldn’t hire many people if they turned them all away at the door. The guard is mostly for show.”

Somewhere inside the building, a chime rang three times. Singe paused just inside the doorway and glanced back at the door guard. It didn’t look like the man had moved, but …

“Something’s wrong?” asked Ashi.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Singe. “That was the commander’s chime. It signals the ranking officer of an enclave that he’s wanted.”

“It could be a coincidence.”

“It could,” he agreed cautiously.

He started walking again, stepping through a small foyer into the main hall of the enclave. The room was large, with recruiting displays lining the walls. Behind the glass of the cases were paintings of and trophies from battles won by Blademarks companies, along with souvenirs brought back by Blademarks mercenaries from their exotic adventures. More displays celebrated the other branches of House Deneith’s operations, the Defenders Guild and the elite Sentinel Marshals. The Defenders Guild display included endorsements from famous people who had hired Deneith’s bodyguards; the Sentinel Marshals display featured a history of the Marshals and their role in capturing lawbreakers across the Five Nations, along with a tall pillar plastered with the warrant-notices of notorious miscreants.

All in all, it was an impressive sight, well-designed to perform its intended purpose of enticing would-be mercenaries to sign up with Deneith’s companies of warriors-for-hire. It was also exactly as empty as Singe had expected it would be at this hour. A few juvenile thugs a little too young for Deneith to take on were staring with fascination at a battered old horn recovered from the infamous Battle of Falcon Hill, but the only other person in the hall was the duty officer standing behind the long counter at the end of the room—until a door behind the counter opened and another Blademarks officer stepped out.

The newcomer was younger, about Singe’s own age, with black hair worn long and vibrantly blue eyes. Those eyes went to Singe and Ashi immediately, and the newcomer exchanged a
brief, quiet word with the duty officer, who promptly vanished through the door. A chill ran along Singe’s back. “Ashi,” the wizard said without turning his head. “Why don’t you wait over there at the Sentinel Marshal’s display?”

“The one closest to the door?”

He nodded and caught a glimpse of her eyes narrowing as she studied the new man behind the counter. “Not a friend?” she asked.

“No. His name is Mithas d’Deneith.”

Her eyebrows rose. “He carries a dragonmark?”

“Worse,” murmured Singe. “He’s ambitious, a gambler—and a sorcerer. Wait for me and watch him in case he tries to cast any spells. I have a feeling that we won’t want to stay here long.”

The hunter glided over to the display with the grace of a hunting cat. Singe crossed the room with long deliberate strides, the chill along his back slowly changing to an angry heat. “Mithas,” he said when he was close enough.

“Etan!” Mithas greeted him with a joy that was blatantly hollow. “What brings you to Sharn?”

“I’d ask you the same thing,” Singe said, “but I’m not really interested. You’ve wriggled your way into command of a recruiting center. Congratulations.” He put his hands on top of the counter. “A message may have been sent here for me. Have you seen it?”

Mithas made a show of looking under the counter. “A message? Let me see … Bayard … Bayard …” He stood straight, still smiling. “No, nothing for—”

“It will be addressed to ‘Singe.’”

“Oh, of course! Singe.” He opened one side of his blue Blademarks uniform jacket and extracted a folded sheet of grayish paper from an inner pocket. “That would be this message. It arrived through House Sivis just the day before last.”

Singe held out his hand. Mithas lifted the message out of reach, and his smile took on a predatory gleam. “What, no thanks? I see a message addressed to my old friend, take personal charge of it, even leave instructions to be summoned when you arrived, and this is what I get for my troubles?”

“More likely you saw my name and wanted to see what you could get out of me. How much money do you need this time
that a command posting can’t pay for it?” An idea sprang into Singe’s head, and he let his hand fall as he grinned. “You’re not the commander here. Twelve moons, I knew no commander would stay the night at a recruiting center!”