The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III (4 page)

“How far up do we go?” Ashi asked.

“Almost to the top,” said Dandra. “We’re going to Overlook district. That’s where most of the kalashtar in Sharn live.”

The nature of the view and of the passengers on the lift changed as the lift climbed. The windows they saw became increasingly cleaner and more decently covered. The balconies became larger and neater. The passengers likewise seemed more respectable. A busy marketplace marked the midpoint of their ascent. Ashi stared with such fascinated longing at the seething crowds that she almost tumbled over when the lift began moving again. All the while, the ground slipped farther away. Birds and more exotic flying creatures swooped through the canyons between towers. A flock of pigeons broke before the diving form of a hawk, swirling in a feathery storm around a passing harpy, leaving her cursing violently as she fought to climb above the birds. Finally even Ashi stopped looking over the edge of the lift and retreated toward the middle of the platform. Dandra gave her a faint smile. “You get used to the height,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” said Natrac.

The air remained nearly as humid as it had been in the lower city. The wind was sluggish and the clouds above seemed darker than ever. They were very nearly at the top of the lift shaft when the clouds opened, and rain began to fall in dense sheets that turned the city black around them. Falling water beat against the glass roof of the lift, running in long streams into the void below.

“Wonderful timing,” Singe groaned.

Dandra shrugged. “You get used to the rain too.”

The lift slowed and stopped. The railing slid aside, and they stepped from the platform into Overlook.

Gray stone soared above and below them. A bridge leaped from the lift stop to a nearby tower, while coiling stairs climbed and descended to what passed for streets in Sharn’s upper levels. Doorways, stalls, and underpasses were all crowded with people seeking shelter from the rain. In spite of the downpour, they seemed to be in a good mood, a mix of halflings, dwarves, and humans chatting easily with friends and neighbors.

Dandra led them down one of the staircases and along the lower street through the rain. “We’re close,” she said.

While they were in Sharn, they would stay at the apartment that had once been home to Tetkashtai, Medalashana, and Virikhad. The three kalashtar had left it behind, waiting for their return, when they had accepted what they believed was an honest invitation to visit a scholar in Zarash’ak who shared their interest in the interaction between dragonshards and psionics. That scholar had turned out to be Dah’mir, his invitation a deadly lure, and the possibility of their return permanently ended—after all, Dandra and her current company were the only ones who knew that the three kalashtar were now dead.

Occupying the apartment seemed vaguely ghoulish, but, Singe had to admit, eminently practical. He could even understand Dandra’s haste to reach it when they were so close. He just wished the rain had held off a little longer. Singe looked at the sheltering citizens with envy as they hurried past.

Ashi, barely even noticing the rain, just kept looking around. “Are the streets always decorated here?” she asked.

Singe raised his head and squinted against the rain. Wet and
heavy, banners hung from windows and along the faces of shops. Most were the crimson and gold of Breland, but here and there were the colors of other nations. He calculated the date in his head. “Tomorrow is Thronehold,” he said. “A celebration of the end of the Last War. We’re just in time for a—
Twelve moons!”

He flung up one arm, shoving Ashi and Natrac back into an unoccupied doorway, and grabbed for Dandra with the other, pulling her back against the wall with him. None of the others spoke, sudden alarm forcing them to silence, but Dandra looked at him questioningly. Singe pointed along the street and up.

Perched on a gushing rainspout at a point where the street turned was the huddled shape of a very wet black heron. One of Dah’mir’s herons. If Ashi hadn’t drawn his attention to the banners and he hadn’t been looking up, Singe wouldn’t have seen it himself. Dandra drew a sharp breath, and Singe felt the pressure of her mind against his as she reached out in the mental link of
kesh
. He accepted the touch, and an awareness of her—and of Ashi and Natrac as well—blossomed in his thoughts.

Is it watching for us?
Natrac asked.

Does it matter?

I think it does
, said Dandra.
Beyond that bend in the street is Fan Adar, the kalashtar neighborhood. I think the heron is watching the kalashtar
.

Singe cursed silently and thought for a moment, then asked.
Does anyone see any others?

The others scanned walls and rooftops. One by one, they shook their heads.
Good
, said Singe. He raised his hand, a spell forming on his lips. Dandra looked at him with alarm.

Singe, a spell will attract attention!

Not this one
. Singe focused his will, crooked his fingers, and murmured a soft word of magic.

Fire magic might have been his strength, but they’d just spent weeks on a wooden ship. If the crew of the
White Bull
had turned on them, throwing flames around wouldn’t have been a good idea, so Singe had made certain he was ready to cast a different kind of spell if the need arose. Up on the rainspout, the heron seemed to shiver slightly, then to sag. Singe lowered his hand and stepped away from the wall. The heron didn’t move, not even when he walked right up and stood underneath it. He turned back and gestured for the others to join him. “It’s
asleep,” he said. “It should stay that way for a while and wake up without even knowing we were here.”

Dandra released her hold on the
kesh
, and the mental link vanished. “Why don’t you use that spell more often?”

He spread his hands. “Not everything falls asleep so easily, but pretty much everything will burn.”

Dandra shook her head and led them around the corner.

It was almost as if they had entered another city. The crowds that had packed the other streets were gone, leaving only a few figures huddled here and there. Singe had a feeling that even if it hadn’t been raining, the streets in this neighborhood would have been quiet and nearly empty. The Thronehold banners, though still present, were subdued. The gray stone of Overlook remained, but the decorations that enlivened it elsewhere were different here: bright flowers in painted window boxes gave way to gray-green herbs in suspended trays, curtains in windows bore curious embroidery that Singe had only seen in Dandra’s clothing, doors carried strange signs and symbols.

“Welcome to Fan Adar,” said Dandra softly.

The few faces that regarded them from arches and stalls shared features distinct from the men and women of the Five Nations. Some had the distinct exotic beauty—long and thin with angular features—that marked a kalashtar. Others had the rounder, softer features of humans, though they and the kalashtar were alike enough that they might have been distant cousins.

In a way, Singe supposed, they were. The humans were Adarans; Dandra had said that the far-off nation of Adar had been the birthplace of kalashtar eighteen hundred years before and that kalashtar and Adarans still lived close together. All had dark hair and eyes, with bronzed skin tones that ranged from the same rich brown as Dandra’s to a pale duskiness. Most wore clothes and sandals similar to hers as well.

Dandra kept to the middle of the street, not returning the dark-eyed gazes. Singe thought he saw recognition in some of the faces they passed, but no one called out and as soon as a kalashtar or Adaran turned to him, Natrac, or Ashi, even the
merest hint of curiosity vanished into blank solemnity.

“Real welcoming sorts, aren’t they?” said Natrac under his breath.

Dandra turned her head just enough to reply. “They’re insular, that’s all. Adar is a place of refuge. Kalashtar and Adarans don’t trust outsiders easily.”

“Even here in Sharn?” Singe asked her. “Dandra, if this was a village and we were passing through here during the war, I’d say the locals were scared of something.”

“If Dah’mir’s herons have been watching the neighborhood,” said Ashi, “maybe they are.”

Singe felt his skin crawl at the suggestion. “Let’s get to the apartment before we start speculating,” he said. “We may need to revise our—”

The shrill howl that erupted to his right stopped the words in his throat. Singe whirled to face a flash of movement and glimpsed a man—a kalashtar—as he leaped from behind a closed-up stall, his eyes wild, wet hair plastered against his head. Ashi’s sword flashed and Natrac’s knife-hand rose, but Singe was closest to the attacking man. He fell back a step, grabbing for his rapier.

The kalashtar was on him before he could draw it, hands outstretched. Singe twisted and one hand missed him, but the long fingers of the other grabbed at his sword arm. There was a silver-white flash, a crack like lightning striking close, and sharp pain burst through the wizard’s arm. He shouted, wrenched his arm free, and planted a kick in the kalashtar’s belly.

The man staggered but came surging back, hands reaching once more. There was no room for Singe to draw his sword, no time for him to cast a spell. Moving quickly, he pushed himself inside the kalashtar’s reach, grabbed his arms at the wrists, and forced his hands away. The kalashtar, however, fought with the strength of a madman. Singe yelped as he was heaved off his feet. Natrac, Ashi, and a glimpse of the street—kalashtar and Adarans alike staring in shock—blurred past him.

He ended up with his neck locked in the crook of the other man’s arm. The smell of his unwashed body was thick in Singe’s nose and mouth. The kalashtar screamed again, and his hand
darted at Singe’s face. Silver-white light shimmered around his fingers.

“Ashi! Natrac! Get back!”

A sharp drone rose like a chorus. Out of the corner of his eye, Singe saw Dandra’s face tense with concentration.

Whitefire burst around him and the kalashtar man both, enveloping them in a heat so intense that took Singe’s breath away. He flinched, an automatic reaction and nothing more. The ring he had inherited from his grandfather consumed the magical fire that licked at him. The kalashtar, however, had no such protection. His howl turned into a gasp as the heat sucked the air from his lungs. The hand before Singe’s face fell away, the pressure on his throat eased. Singe tore himself free and the kalashtar swayed, then slumped to the ground. His wet clothes steamed, but the kalashtar was otherwise uninjured.

Singe bent over with his arms on his knees and breathed in cool air before glancing up at Dandra. “Thanks,” he began, but paused as he saw the expression on her face.

She was staring at the fallen man. Singe looked down at him as well. He was as dirty as he had smelled. The rain was making streaks in a face smudged with grime. His clothes were dirty and wet too, but otherwise in good repair. His features carried the slightly stretched look of someone who hadn’t eaten for several days. He had been living rough, Singe guessed, but not for very long. Probably less than a week.

“I know him,” said Dandra, “or at least Tetkashtai knew him. His name is Erimelk. He’s a scribe.” She knelt down beside him. “This isn’t like him.”

“There’s a surprise.” Singe straightened and twisted his arm to see where Erimelk had grabbed him. Blood stained the wet cloth in two big patches. “Twelve moons! He hits hard for a scribe.”

A hiss of warning from Natrac brought Singe’s head up again. The half-orc stood with his knife-hand held low and ready. Ashi kept her sword unsheathed.

The few kalashtar and Adarans who had been lingering on the rainy street were closing in on them, their faces hard with concern. Singe let loose a curse under his breath. He could imagine how the attack must have looked. They weren’t making
a good first impression! “Dandra?” Singe said softly with a glance over his shoulder.

Dandra was still kneeling beside Erimelk, worry on her face.

Before she could rise, before the clustered locals could draw too close, though, a shout rose up. “Erimelk! Light of il-Yannah, you’ve found him, Tetkashtai!”

The locals paused and turned as new figures came hurrying up the street and pushed past them. There were four of them, three men and a woman, all kalashtar. They drew up short as they saw Natrac’s and Ashi’s weapons. The one who had called out, a big man with coarse gray hair and a worn face, was the first to step forward again. “It’s all right,” he said, holding his hands out flat and gesturing for the hunter and the half-orc to be calm. “We’ve been hunting for him. I’m sorry if he’s caused you—ah.” His gaze stopped for a moment on Singe. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s not serious,” Singe said. He glanced at Natrac and Ashi and nodded at them. They lowered their weapons. By the time he had looked back to the old kalashtar, however, the other man had already moved past him to Dandra.

“This is a poor homecoming. I’m sorry, Tetkashtai. Come away from him. You can’t have hurt Erimelk more than he’s hurt himself. We’ll look after him. Here, stand up.”