Jeff LaSala - The Darkwood Mask

When he took to the streets, Tallis marked the White Lions wherever he saw them. He could sense the tension within their ranks, the sleight deviations in their patrols and routines. For his vocation, Tallis had made a close study of the habits and patterns of the guards of each of the cities in which he was most active-Korth, Rekkenmark, and Atur.

Every White Lion of Korth would have been briefed at the start of their shift about last night’s massacre. Those who had known the three Lions slain at the Ebonspire now wore black and red brassards to commemorate their sacrifice.

But it was more than anger that disturbed the soldiers’ usual conduct. Pressure had been exerted on them from on high. Tallis could hear it in their terse conversations, could see the severity of their posture.

Three men had spotted Tallis at the Ebonspire, but he wasn’t sure if they could identify him. Those among the garrison who didn’t know his face already would have his description by now and would be looking for him.

Playing the part of the disabled veteran, Tallis shambled his way to the Ebonspire in the city’s topmost district, Highcourt Ward. The great tower was less formidable in the late afternoon light. It sure looked a lot more difficult to scale at night.

A squad of Lions stood at the base, steering pedestrians and coaches away from one side of the street. An abundance of dried blood could be seen amidst the cobbles between their formation. That must have been where Gamnon’s body had hit the street. Where had they moved the Brelish’s corpse? Surely not the Necropolis?

Tallis limped over to the closest Lion. “Someone die, son?” he asked gruffly.

“Business of the realm,” the soldier answered. “Move along, citizen.”

“Bloody shame,” he said, as if his ears were failing him. He looked up to the balconies that jutted from the tower. Thirty-four stories up lay a crime scene with his name no doubt stamped firmly upon it. Might as well be notarized by a Sivis clerk. “Another noble take his own life?”

The White Lion looked more seriously at him now, but there was no recognition in his eyes. The man’s voice was louder. “A foreign dignitary hammered the street, but it’s not my business or yours. Move along now, old man, or you’ll be arrested.”

“No need to yell,” Tallis said and turned away. As he made his way to Verdax’s shop, his mind raced.

Sul, the 8th of Sypheros, 998 YK

Thuranne accompanied Soneste to the House Orien enclave. Soneste watched the bustling cityscape in silence, the skycoaches, the endless parade of pedestrians across the streets and bridges. She felt homesick already.

Soneste had donned her shiftweave clothing, currently a coat of Brelish blue. She carried only a single haversack, her weapons, and a few other items on loan from the agency. Karrnath’s autumn was like midwinter in Breland, so she’d packed extra layers and a pair of thin gloves.

“Some say that a woman discovers herself when she comes to Sharn,” Thuranne said when they turned a corner and saw a tower emblazoned with Orien’s unicorn emblem. “But I’m of the mind that she discovers herself when she leaves it again. Sharn isn’t like the rest of the world, Soneste. Stay here too long and you’re not sure you’re even in Breland anymore. It’s a world unto itself.”

“But it’s Karrnath I’m going to,” Soneste said with a sigh.

“Wrong,” the half-orc replied. “You’re going to Korth. Every city has its own personality, its own secrets and dangers. You will need to adapt, of course, but don’t overlook the wonders or the history. That city is quite possibly Khorvaire’s oldest. Who knows? You might miss these things when you come back to me.”

“Of course,” Soneste said, then fixed her boss with a stern expression. “I can’t help but feel you’re trying to get rid of me, Thura. Maybe there’s a bigger case brewing that you want me nowhere near.”

“Bah! Just name the bastard, then come back to me.” Thuranne smirked, the very picture of a proud employer. “You’ll do Breland-and more importantly, my agency-a great service. Now shut your mouth. We’re here.”

Soneste turned and looked upon the city one more time, basking in the warm sun. Not even a light rain today. Sure, this city could be hostile at times, corruption was rampant, and hypocrisy seeded every echelon of society, but Sharn was still beautiful and her years here had been among the best in her life.

They passed beneath the elaborate gate of the dragonmarked enclave.

Soneste’s mind drifted as Thuranne handled the details, showing their papers to the House Orien agents and paying for the service with a letter of credit sealed with the emblem of the Citadel.

“Listen to me, Soneste,” Thuranne said as the papers were processed. A uniformed man, his coat adorned with a silver brooch denoting him as a dragonmarked heir of House Orien, looked on with a polite and professional smile. “Keep yours senses sharp. You’ve got all the usual disadvantages of being human.” The half-orc winked. “But you’re still the most promising inquisitive I’ve got and we both know it. Just remember-”

“Watch myself,” Soneste cut in. “Thuranne, I know. Mostly, I just need to worry about solving this case right. I can’t take the chance of offending the wrong people.”

“That’s my girl,” Thuranne said. “Also, be careful of Karrnathi men. They’re gold for the eyes, but they’re aggressive and obtuse-Khyber take them all.” Thuranne gave her a quick, arm-crushing hug, then held one hand to Soneste’s shoulder in the custom of orcs. “Just come back to me alive, all right?”

“I will, Mother,” Soneste replied with a deliberate roll of her eyes.

Thuranne d’Velderan walked away, leaving only her matronly, toothy smile lingering in Soneste’s mind.

As she waited, Soneste busied herself with her travel pack, unwilling to let the Orien heir witness her anxiety. She swallowed then faced him again, her expression strictly professional. She’d adapted quickly enough to Sharn’s exorbitant heights when she’d first come here. It was magic, too, that kept the ancient towers from crumbling to the earth. Why did this terrify her? Childhood stories of teleportation mishaps came to mind.

The heir led her to an intricate, marbled mosaic upon the floor depicting the House Orien unicorn.

“We will arrive in another chamber, like this one,” the man explained. “You may find the sensation disorienting, Miss Otänsin, but it is painless and quite instantaneous.”

She nodded, just hoping to get it over with. If her career had been climbing, then this was the precipice she would have to overcome to reach the next great mountain. I can be home again in a matter of days, she thought. Thuranne had assured her that identifying the criminal was her only duty. The Justice Ministry would be responsible for the rest.

“Are you ready?” the Orien heir asked.

“I am,” she lied.

The man held her wrist firmly but gently, then she felt his palm grow hot as he tapped the power of his dragonmark, the great Mark of Passage whose curling design flowed out from his sleeve. Soneste tensed but kept her eyes open. She hadn’t expected to experience such magic in her life. It was a testament to the case behind her. Or the one before her.

There came a shift of light as the subtle shadows in the chamber’s stylized reliefs rearranged themselves in the blink of an eye. For a moment, she felt perfectly still, then the world began to spin at an incredible speed. She took a step to right herself, but that only made the room pitch vertically.