Rich Wulf - Voyage of the Mourning Dawn

Even Seren glanced back at that, fixing the stranger with a bewildered scowl. She hoped this odd person wasn’t trying to pick a fight with the Watch. One man against three guards was bound to go badly for him, and she didn’t want to be in the middle of that. The man noticed Seren looking at him. He winked. What was he doing?

“Go take your advice somewhere else, pirate, before we search you too,” Narem said. “Chances are a Lhazaarite has something in his pockets that doesn’t belong there.”

“Your prejudice does not surprise me, though it saddens me,” he said. “I am Tristam Xain, citizen of Zilargo and an honored guest in this city.” He sighed. His shoulders slumped. “I am wounded.”

“Keep it up and you will be,” Narem said. He looked up at the horseman. “Rolf, detain this man.”

Rolf drew his sword, moving purposefully toward the well-dressed stranger.

“Put your weapon on the ground and back away from it, please,” Rolf said.

“Now this is just going too far,” Tristam answered, removing his spectacles and tucking them into his jacket pocket. “I am a protected guest of the city with powerful friends. I have papers granting me immunity from such action as this. Omax, show them my papers.”

The shadows behind Tristam moved. A bulk that Seren had previously thought to be a large stack of barrels rose and resolved itself into a monstrous figure. It was a foot taller than a man, with shining black wood and gleaming blue metal in place of flesh. Its face was a smooth metal plate, split only by an expressionless line for a mouth and two hollow eyes, glowing with an unnerving blue light. It wore only loose brown trousers and a soft woolen hat. It stepped out of the darkness with movement surprisingly lithe and graceful for a creature of its size. The watchmen each took a step back, and even Narem’s horse whinnied nervously. Seren had seen creatures such as this before.

“Good evening, officers,” Omax said, his cool voice echoing in its metallic chest. “Is there a problem?”

This was a warforged, one of the automatons created by House Cannith to fight in the Last War. Seren’s annoyance was quickly replaced by fear and suspicion. She realized belatedly that the guards had not been looking for her, when by all rights Dalan d’Cannith should have roused the City Watch to investigate the theft. Perhaps he had not wanted the Watch to become involved. Perhaps he wanted to send his own agents to retrieve what Seren had stolen.

Now they were here.

Sergeant Narem climbed out of his saddle, drawing his sword and standing beside Rolf as they watched Tristam and Omax cautiously.

Seren watched the warforged with undisguised fear. She knew the dragonmarked houses could be ruthless, but she wondered if the Canniths were ruthless enough to kill three watchmen just to take back what she had stolen. She didn’t intend to find out. She scampered into the horse’s empty saddle. Rolf charged toward her, but she scattered Jamus’s bag of marbles on the rain-slicked cobbles. The watchman squawked in comical surprise and fell forward on his teeth. Seren seized the horse’s reins, kicked its flanks, and galloped off.

“Stop!” came the cry, followed by the sound of boots falling on cobblestones.

Seren ducked as low in the saddle as she could, hoping that the guards would be unwilling to loose arrows at their own horse. Rolf’s bell clanged again. She saw lights flare in the windows along the road as the locals peered out to see what the trouble was, but she saw no more guards. She kept riding till the Watch, the Lhazaarite stranger, and the warforged were out of sight. Seren was not foolish enough to ride through Wroat on a stolen horse wearing City Watch colors, so she slowed just enough to leap out of the saddle and slap the animal’s flanks. With a frenzied whinny it continued galloping without her. She darted into the nearest alley. In three years she had come to know the back streets of Wroat well. This was hardly the first time she had used this twisted network of alleys, tunnels, and abandoned buildings to escape pursuit.

Seren kept running for ten minutes before slowing to catch her breath. She stopped for a moment in a leatherworker’s shack, using a rag left hanging on a post to wipe the grime from her face, arms, and legs. By all rights she should hurry back to rendezvous with Jamus, but she was tired, cold, and frustrated. She needed a moment to compose herself.

So Seren sat on a stool, took a cigar out of the box she had taken from Officer Shain’s pocket during his energetic search, and enjoyed the finest smoke in all of Eberron.

Seren waited an hour, just to make sure she wasn’t followed, and then headed to the rendezvous point. As she made her way to her destination, the streets became softer beneath her feet. Manicured cobblestones gave way to bare ground, paved only by a random covering of occasional wooden planks. Even these did little to make the path more hospitable, as the rain had turned the streets into mud. The streets sucked at Seren’s shoes until she finally tired of struggling and took them off with a sigh, slinging the muddy things over one shoulder by their laces.

The fishermen’s district was crowded even at this late hour. It was always crowded. People moved quickly through the streets in tight groups, moving urgently toward whatever clandestine business had brought them here. Few spared Seren any more than a suspicious glance. She minded her own path and ignored them; they were content to do the same. She arrived at the meeting place soon enough.

The Friendly Buzzard was an abandoned inn. In the three years she had come here to train with Jamus Roland, it had never been anything but a ruin. Jamus lived here and sometimes met clients here to fence stolen goods. She wasn’t entirely sure whether he owned the place or had simply taken up residence since no one else wanted it. A painted sign still hung above the doors, depicting a comical, grinning buzzard clutching a mug of ale and a loaf of bread in its talons. The wooden stairs squealed noisily as Seren climbed up to the door. The effect wasn’t entirely accidental; Jamus had replaced several of the boards in this place to make it difficult for someone to approach unheard. She tiptoed as she walked inside, setting the sign overhead swinging with a gentle slap as she always did.

The interior of the inn was dimly lit. Seren knew the way and easily navigated the darkness to the stairwell in the back. On the second floor, a long hallway led to a series of what had once been private dining rooms. She continued to the end of the hall, the floor creaking beneath her feet, and opened the last door. Within was a small room featuring a table and three chairs. Only a single candle provided light. Jamus sat with his back to the far wall. His arms were folded tightly and his chin was tucked against his chest. He seemed to be dozing.

Seren frowned. He had been growing tired more often of late, sometimes even dozing off at important times like now. Much like his cough, his exhaustion was something he never spoke of. His silence on the matter was what worried her the most. Jamus Roland could be a manipulative cad and a demanding teacher, but he was all that passed for a friend in this large, uncaring city. Without him, where would she be? The old thief’s body jerked as he was taken by a violent snore. Seren closed the door solidly behind her. Jamus glanced up in surprise, now wide awake.

“Seren,” he said. He flushed with embarrassment. “I’m glad to see you had no trouble getting here.”

“A little trouble,” she corrected him, sitting down across the table. “A few watchmen,” she said. She dropped the muddy sack containing the book on the table between them.