Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

For the sake of peace within her own mind, Dandra turned her thoughts away from Singe as he sat down. Urthen came hurrying up from inside the house with another tray laden with bread and tea. “How was your breakfast, Mistress Dandra? I wasn’t certain what kalashtar preferred.”

“It was very good, Urthen,” she assured him.

It was coarse , said Tetkashtai. She spun out a memory of her favorite breakfast: taslek broth taken with an egg swirled into it.

That sounds so bland , Dandra said.

It wasn’t bland , Tetkashtai replied. It was subtle .

Dandra fought her instinct to crinkle her nose for fear of offending Natrac’s servant.

The others joined them slowly, all looking well-rested and-except for Ashi-well-scrubbed. The Bonetree hunter had splashed water over herself and her clothes, but no more. Natrac arrived last to the table. The half-orc wore robes of fine fabric with full sleeves that fell to cover his missing hand. “Urthen,” he said as the old man poured cold tea for him, “there’s a wright in Drum Lane who’s supposed to be particularly talented at making artificial limbs. I think I’d like to call on him tomorrow.”

“I’ll make the arrangements, master.” Urthen handed Natrac a note that had been folded and sealed with a dollop of yellow wax. “A response to the message you sent last night.”

Across the table, Singe raised an eyebrow. “Is this from your would-be historian, Natrac?”

Natrac had been coy about the contact he thought might be able to help them. He’d kept his or her identity a secret, but had hinted that it would be someone likely to impress them-or at least to impress Singe. Dandra was certain the half-orc wanted to prove to him that Zarash’ak was more than just a collection of buildings built on stilts above a swamp. It seemed that he was determined to draw the suspense out until the last minute. His only answer to Singe’s question was a cryptic smile as he struggled to open the folded note with one hand, a smile that turned into a growl as the paper defied his efforts. He raised his right arm, shook the knife mounted over his wrist clear of his sleeve, and slit the paper neatly.

Dandra caught a glimpse of careful, clean handwriting before Natrac held the note up and away from the rest of them. His smile returned and he folded the note once more, tucking it into his robe. “Urthen, we’ll be out for dinner. You know where.” He winked at his servant.

The old man smiled back and bent his head. “Master.” He picked up his tray and moved away.

“You’re still not going to tell us?” asked Dandra.

“You’ll find out.” Natrac sipped his tea. “We shouldn’t waste the day though. Shall we find out what House Tharashk can tell us about the Spires of the Forge?”

Dandra and Singe nodded, but Geth growled and tore into a thick piece of bread. “Not for me,” he said. “You do what you need to do-I’m not going to be stuck inside talking all day.” He looked to Orshok and Ashi. “Do you still want to see the sights of Zarash’ak?”

“Dagga!” said Orshok eagerly.

Ashi shrugged, but gave a little nod.

Natrac set his tea down and spread his hands wide. “If you’re sure,” he said. “It probably would make things easier if there weren’t six of us looming over someone, but …”

“I’m sure,” Geth said flatly.

“If you insist.” The half-orc reached for bread. “We’ll be spending most of our time near the herb market. Why don’t you meet us there around mid-afternoon? The market is easy to find. There’s a shrine to Arawai and Kol Korran in the heart of it. Look for us there.”

“Done.” Geth took another bite of his bread and gave Dandra and Singe the grin of someone who had just escaped from an onerous task.

“That was easier than I thought it would be,” Singe muttered as he stepped out from Natrac’s house and onto the street a short while later.

“Let someone think an idea is their own,” said Natrac with satisfaction, “and they’re more likely to follow it.”

Dandra felt the slightest twinge of guilt as she followed the two men out into the morning sun. “I’m still not sure I like tricking Geth and Ashi,” she said-then held up a hand as Singe looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. “I know,” she added. “It’s for the best.”

While the human and half-orc members of House Tharashk often spent much of their time in the wilderness, Tharashk was still one of the great dragonmarked houses. Its most talented members carried the Mark of Finding. Getting answers from them was going to take respect, diplomacy, and a certain amount of charm. Geth and Ashi, on the other hand, had a tendency to act before they thought. Even Dandra could see that their absence was likely to make their search smoother-and that simply telling them that they should find something else to do wasn’t likely to work. Instead they’d enlisted Orshok in their scheme of persuading the rough pair that the search would be tedious and time-consuming.

The druid had taken to the lie eagerly. Dandra was fairly certain that he had no desire himself to be engaged in talk when he could be exploring Zarash’ak, but she still felt as though she was somehow corrupting the young orc.

Natrac reached out and patted her shoulder as they walked. “Don’t worry, Dandra, they won’t get into trouble. Zarash’ak isn’t as dangerous as all that.”

She gave him a level look. “You told us to carry our weapons.” She shifted her spear in its harness across her back.

The half-orc smiled. “You’re less likely to get trouble if you look like you can give trouble back. That’s just common sense.” He drew her after him. “Come on-we’ve got a lot of the city to see ourselves.”

Dandra had spent the first part of her existence in Sharn, but as Natrac led them deeper into Zarash’ak, she began to think that even the vertical neighborhoods of the City of Towers were nothing compared to the tangled streets of the City of Stilts. Built up from individual stilted platforms and raised walkways, Zarash’ak was a confusing sprawl of a city. The wooden streets turned and crossed seemingly at random. New sights appeared without warning around corners, between buildings, and across bridges.

She smelled the great herb market, however, before she saw it. Zarash’ak was a city of pungent, marshy odors, but gradually Dandra became aware of a new scent on the air. The smell was complex: strong and wet, resinous and sharp. It teased at her nose with soft perfumes and bit at it with harsh, peppery notes. She breathed deep, drawing it all in. “Is that the market?” she asked Natrac.

He nodded then led them around a corner.

A wide wooden plaza opened up before them, crowded with people of many races and alive with noise. Human merchants called out from stalls, declaring the freshness and potency of their products. Half-orc and orc farmers and gatherers sat among big baskets, trying to attract the attention of the traders who would buy their crops in bulk. Porters raced among the crowds, sacks and bales balanced atop their shoulders. Buyers strolled the paths of the market, shouting back at merchants and farmers and porters alike. At the center of the market, a round structure painted green and gold rose above the stalls-the shrine Natrac had mentioned, Dandra guessed.

The astounding odor she had smelled before lay over everything, the mingled scent of innumerable herbs. “Amazing!” she whispered.

What? Tetkashtai demanded. What is it?

The presence could see and hear, but she had no sense of smell, only memories of it. The market smells wonderful , Dandra told her. She tried her best to communicate the odor, but Tetkashtai just scowled.