Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

She responded with a kick to the half-orc’s knee, which he couldn’t quite twist far enough to avoid, and she followed it up with an elbow to his jaw which probably hurt her more than it did him. As she shook her arm to relieve the shooting pain, the patrons at the surrounding tables scrambled away, going just far enough not to get hit by any bodily fluids. Sabira could already hear bets circulating; the Jhorash’tar was a ten-to-one favorite.

“You’ll pay for that, you Karrnathi whore,” the half-orc growled, spitting a mouthful of blood at her feet. Nice to see she’d done some damage, after all. Unfortunately, she didn’t really have time for a bar brawl, as fun as it might be to teach this buffoon some manners and watch a score of pampered nobles lose money because they were stupid enough to bet against her.

With a regretful sigh, she flashed her brooch.

“That’s ‘Sentinel Marshal Karrnathi whore’ to you,” she said brightly as a groan of disappointment went up from the gathering crowd. “So unless you want to spend the rest of the night in some dank little cell that smells like piss, with a roommate who probably smells worse, I’d suggest you go find someone else to lavish with your oh-so-considerable charms.”

The half-orc actually looked like he was considering his options for a moment, so she casually reached behind her and unharnessed her urgrosh.

“Do you have any idea what it takes for a human to be awarded one of these? No? Do you really want to find out?”

The half-orc bared his teeth at her in frustration, but as she watched, the scarlet hue slowly faded from his eyes. Apparently he took after his human side when it came to brains, because he shook his head once then turned and stomped toward the dance floor, shoving a hapless waiter out of his way as he went.

As people returned to their tables and small pouches of coin changed hands, Sabira heard the sound of light applause behind her. She turned to see a male dwarf with a wild tangle of blond hair, a short, neatly trimmed beard and piercing brown eyes. He wore a blue silk shirt, its bloused sleeves rolled up to display the corded muscles of a master smith, though Sabira highly doubted that was the smug-looking dwarf’s true occupation. One wrist boasted a finely wrought golden band studded with tiny silver charms. At his waist was a similarly-crafted scabbard bearing the Kundarak manticore, though the hilt emerging from it was strangely curved, with a flask of some type of glowing liquid built into its pommel. Sabira regarded him curiously as she replaced her shard axe in its harness, her not-so-subtle way of telling him she didn’t regard him as a threat.

Yet.

“Nicely done. Wish I could get one of those badges myself-seem to come in handy. Though I don’t suppose many people would accept the idea of a dwarf Marshal.” He cocked his head to the side. “Then again, most people wouldn’t accept the idea of a human Tordannon, either, and yet, here you are.”

Ah. Aggar’s mystery partner had arrived. She should have guessed he’d be just as smart-mouthed and sarcastic as her hearthbrother.

The dwarf stuck out a hand.

“Greddark d’Kundarak: Security Specialist, Artificer and Master Inquisitive, at your service. I believe Aggar has mentioned me?” He had-Greddark was the tinkerer-cum-investigator who’d taught Aggar how to cheat at Jarot’s Bluff. And not very well, either. “Though I suppose that’s Cousin Aggar now, what with his father marrying a Mountainheart. Which would make me your cousin now, too, I suppose.”

Sabira shook his hand.

“I suppose so.”

Greddark’s gaze moved to a point somewhere over her left shoulder and he frowned.

“Well, this little family reunion has been delightful, but I think we might want to move it outside. There’s about a half-dozen men and a dwarf with a hook for a hand headed right for us, and none of them look very happy.”

Sabira glanced back and swore.

Thecla.

Rockwell, Marsheila

Skein of Shadows

Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK

Sharn, Breland.

Host damn it! The last time she’d seen the bald dwarf, he’d been being led off in manacles, cursing her name. When she found out who’d authorized the release of the Dust Dancer ’s first mate, she’d have their badge. That was, assuming she made it out of the Glitterdust alive.

“Friends of yours, I take it?”

Sabira snorted, surveying the lounge. Thecla and his group of thugs were between them and the club entrance, so there was no going out that way. As she scanned the crowded dance floor, she saw what she was looking for-a set of swinging double doors next to the stage. There would be offices on the other side, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a hallway connecting to the kitchen-and an exit.

She just had to get there first.

“Care to dance?” she asked Greddark, motioning toward the writhing mass of sweaty bodies with a jerk of her chin as she began angling through the tables in the general direction of the double doors. The inquisitive realized what she was up to immediately and followed suit, hand on his hilt. Thecla saw where she was headed from the other side of the lounge, and waved for his men to do the same. Catching her eye, he grinned widely and brought his hook up and across his throat.

Sabira rolled her eyes. Someone had been watching too many plays at the Ten Torches Theater down in Lower Menthis. Or maybe at the Livewood back in Stormreach; the ridiculously dramatic gesture did seem more like something the House Phiarlan actors there would favor.

She and Greddark reached one edge of the cavorting mob just as the first of Thecla’s men reached the opposite one. They slid in easily among the dancers, who were whirling to a fast-paced tune from Brantby’s shardhorn, accompanied now by a half-elf on a flute and another on a set of tribal drums from the Shadow Marches. The rhythm coursed up through the dance floor as well-dressed men and women gyrated around her, their laughing faces spinning close and then away again as she made her way toward the stage. At one point, a tall man in a long black surcoat picked her up and spun her in several wild circles, but since the maneuver gave her a good view of her pursuers’ positions and moved her closer to her goal, she decided not to gut him.

In the air, she glanced upward, worried about smacking her head against one of the red everbright globes that floated above the dancers. As she did, she caught a glimpse of the delivery system for the never-ending glitterfall that gave the club its name, and got an idea.

Back on her feet, she quickly found Greddark and leaned close to whisper in his ear, the only way he’d have a chance of hearing her over the pounding music.

“Got a dagger on you?”

The dwarf cocked a bushy eyebrow at her. Then he surveyed the crowd for a moment and stepped away from her. He bumped up against a man dancing with a bottle of wine in each hand, then returned to her side a moment later, a long knife with a bejeweled pommel in his palm.

“I do now.”

He nodded when she finished explaining her plan, then stood by as she sidled up to her erstwhile dance partner, shoving a svelte woman in a clinging glamerweave dress out of the way and holding her hands out to him, an arch look on her face. The man laughingly obliged, hefting her back up into the air and spinning her, his face a little closer to her chest than she would have liked. She threw her arms out and her head back, her hair fanning out in a coppery arc behind her.

She heard Thecla’s shout even above the noise of the crowd and waited until his men had nearly converged on her position before bringing her arms down sharply on either side of the tall man’s neck, hitting the pressure points there and momentarily causing him to lose feeling in both hands. As she’d expected, he dropped her with a howl and she landed in a crouch in front of him, Greddark’s signal to act.