Don Bassingthwaite - The Killing Song

“Changelings,” Natrac spat in explanation. One of the men must have felt Ashi’s gaze or overheard the comment, because he turned and grinned at the hunter as his features melted briefly into a duplicate of Natrac’s face. The half-orc scowled and tugged Ashi onward.

Natrac wore a tunic with a cowl, and Singe saw him pull the cowl up with a sharp motion to hide his face. Curiosity stirred in Singe. Natrac had always been close-mouthed about his past, and the only reason Singe and the others knew that he’d spent time in Sharn at all was because Bava, the half-orc’s old friend in Zarash’ak, had let a fragment of the tale slip. Singe eased closer to Natrac. “Expecting trouble?” he asked.

“Only a dead man doesn’t,” Natrac growled. “Let’s get to the upper city.”

If Ashi had been awed by the sight of the skydocks, she nearly cried out when they stepped onto one of the passenger lifts that carried people instead of cargo from the waterfront up into the lowest levels of the city. The particular lift that they boarded was a ramshackle affair, an old skydock long since retired from heavy work. The glowing line of force that connected lift and crane pulsed visibly as they rose, making the passenger platform shudder and jolt. Heedless of any danger, Ashi leaned out over the rail, staring at the ships and street as they shrank below. Between the hunter’s masking scarf and Natrac’s shrouding cowl, Singe couldn’t help thinking they made a suspicious party. When the lift reached its destination at the top of the cliffs, he slipped a few copper crowns into the hand of the goblin operating it. Singe didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to-the goblin lost interest in them with professional swiftness. He probably made a tidy profit ignoring who and what rode on his lift.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Natrac. “He’s going to know we have something to hide.”

“Only a dead man doesn’t expect trouble,” Singe repeated. “We’re stalking a dragon. I don’t think we can underestimate Dah’mir-or Vennet. They’ve had more time in Sharn than I would have liked. Whatever magic Dah’mir used to transport himself, Vennet, and the binding stones out of Taruuzh Kraat, you can bet it got them to Sharn faster than the White Bull.”

The district where the old lift left them was dominated by warehouses and large workshops built among and into the bases of the great towers of the city. Away from the cliff’s edge, the streets quickly became dank and dark, the air stale and still. The steady light of huge lanterns that burned with cold fire replaced the natural light along the busiest routes. Singe let Natrac take the lead, and the half-orc kept them among a steady parade of traffic crossing the district toward one of the large lifts that would take them all the way up to the airy reaches of the upper city. For all that they walked a well-traveled route, the feel of danger lurked in the air. When the sounds of violence echoed out from a gloom-choked sidestreet, Singe’s hand jumped for his rapier. He kept moving though, pushing Ashi ahead of him when the hunter would have stopped to investigate.

“Trust me,” he told her. “You don’t want to get involved. That’s the way to Malleon’s Gate. Dol Arrah would think twice about going there alone.”

The warning only brought new light to Ashi’s eyes. “Why? What’s Malleon’s Gate?”

“Once it was the heart of Old Sharn,” Dandra said. “Now it’s where the goblins-and other monsters-live.”

“Like Droaam?”

“Worse than Droaam.”

Warehouses gave way to grimy inns and taverns as they approached the lift to the upper city. It was more than twice as large as the first, and much more recently constructed. The floor of the platform looked like a disc of solid metal only a handspan thick. The rails-likewise made of metal-that ringed it were solid and polished; the roof overhead was tinted glass. The lift was also more crowded, though the passengers studiously ignored one another. Once everyone had stepped on board, a section of rail slid across to close the entrance, and the lift rose so smoothly Singe barely noticed when it started to move. Half of the disc fit snugly into a curve in the outer wall of a tower; the other half hung out over open air. Ashi jostled for the best view, and the jaded inhabitants of Sharn gave it to her. The hunter watched as stone dotted with flickering chips of dragonshards-the focus of the magic that supported the lift-rushed past on one side and the face of another tower, complete with dirty or broken windows and cluttered balconies, flew past on the other. Every few minutes, the lift would stop and the railing on one side or another of the platform would part allowing passengers on or off through arches in the tower wall or along bridges to neighboring towers.

“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.