Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

Sabira bit her lip to keep from laughing and looked up at the orc.

“What about you? Interested in a job?”

Skraad’s nostrils flared.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How much I make and how many I get to kill,” the orc said with a grin.

“Plenty of both where we’re going.”

The grin widened.

“I’m in. Just have to say good-bye to my brother Garsk first.”

Sabira nodded.

“Meet us at the Bull in a quarter bell, then. We leave on the hour.”

As the orc jogged down the stairs and out of sight, Sabira slapped her urgrosh back into its harness. Then she strode over to the monitors, sidestepping Melcare’s son, who was still lying in the dirt and whimpering softly, even though the blood had long since stopped flowing from the wound in his thigh. He glared at her as she passed, which she thought was rather unfair, considering she’d intentionally avoided the femoral artery. You’d think the man would be grateful he was still alive to feel the pain, dull as it must be by now.

She stopped by Kanjira’s father, who at least had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I hope you find who attacked your daughter. Just make sure you have the right guy before you try to gut him this time, hmm?”

She smiled up at the monitor who’d invited her to leave.

“Great enclave you have here. I’ll make sure to tell all my friends not to visit.”

Then she walked away with Guisarme at her side, wondering how in the name of Khyber a Sentinel Marshal, a dwarf, two warforged, and an orc were going to be able to accomplish what a powerful sorceress and a seasoned group of Blademarks had been unable to. Given a hand like that in Jarot’s Bluff, she’d have folded without a second thought. Unfortunately, quitting wasn’t an option. She could only hope winning still was.

Wir, Barrakas 4, 998 YK

Stormreach, Xen’drik.

Greddark wasn’t waiting for them at the Burnished Bull, but a small warforged with reddish armor was. Glaive introduced him as Jester, though it wasn’t really necessary-the lyre on his back and the rapier at his hip gave him away. Considering the last warforged Sabira had seen carrying a musical instrument had lifted her pouch back in the Mror Holds, she resolved to keep an eye on this one. Given the choice, she’d trust a self-proclaimed thief over a bard any day-at least you knew the thief would try to rob you; the only question was when. With a bard, the questions began with “if” and ended in “how” and the only one you’d ever really know the answer to was “why”-because it would make a great story.

After his introduction, Jester told her that Greddark had instructed him to wait at the bar for her, and said that if he wasn’t back by the time she arrived, to head for the airship and he would meet them there. Then the dwarf had gone over and spoken at length with the dark-haired elf woman before leaving the enclave via the Maker’s Gate.

That piqued Sabira’s curiosity. Was the dwarf’s craving for tea really so strong he had to go seek it out right before they were scheduled to leave? He was worse than a pampered noblewoman in her eighth month!

She strode over to the elf, whose head was buried in her book. The elf woman looked up as she approached, and Sabira caught a glimpse of the book’s title: True Teachings on Death and Resurrection.

Ah. The elf was a Flamer. She should have guessed.

One of the newer religions on Khorvaire, worship of the Silver Flame revolved around a human paladin, Tira Miron, who, together with a couatl, had merged with a pillar of argent fire almost seven hundred years ago to stop a demon from escaping Khyber and destroying all of Eberron. Its worshipers believed that Miron had become immortal in that union and spoke to their leader-the so-called Keeper of the Flame, the one who’d summoned Elix, who was currently an eleven-year-old girl-through the silver fire that still burned beneath Flamekeep, their holy fortress in Thrane. They saw it as their mission to rid Eberron of all evil, though from what Sabira could tell, the exact nature of that evil varied from worshiper to worshiper.

Take, for instance, your average Stormreach Flamer. They saw nothing wrong with raising a fallen comrade from the dead, calling them back from their rightful place within the Flame to continue the battle against evil. On Khorvaire, though, Flamers would consider such an act to be the vilest form of sacrilege.

Sabira wasn’t a Flamer, but having grown up in Karrnath, where the honored dead were often brought back to a semblance of life to continue to protect and defend the homeland, she thought she’d probably side with the Stormreach faction on this one.

“Hail, brave wanderer. I am Inamil Mattor, and in the name of the Silver Flame, I welcome you to this place,” the elf woman said as she approached, giving her a wide, friendly smile.

“I understand my friend spoke to you before leaving the enclave,” Sabira replied, by way of introduction. “Any idea where he went? We’re sort of on a tight schedule here.”

“I speak to many lost souls here in Stormreach,” Inamil responded, her smile losing none of its shine at Sabira’s terseness. “And any who call evil an enemy is one whom I would call friend.”

Sabira sighed. What was it with the people in this enclave, anyway? She really didn’t have time for yet another philosophical debate.

She held her hand up at shoulder height.

“Dwarf. About this tall. Not much in the way of a beard, and he was probably asking if you knew of any taverns in the area that serve tea.”

“Ah. Master Gared. Yes, we did speak. And no, he was not interested in tea. Though, now that you mention it, they do serve a…”

Gared? Really? If the dwarf was going to continue using fake names wherever he went, Sabira was going to have to insist that they at least be a little more original. And he was going to have to give her note cards so she could keep them all straight.

“Yes, that’s wonderful; I’ll be sure to pass it on,” Sabira said, trying to hurry the woman up. “Now, where did you say he went?”

“I didn’t,” Inamil replied, her infuriating smile not slipping an inch, “because I don’t know. But Gared did ask me if the Church maintained a library in Stormreach. I of course mentioned the Sanctuary, which does have an extensive archival collection…”

The Sanctuary was, in theory, an asylum for worshipers of the Silver Flame whose struggles against evil had driven them past the brink of sanity. Better known to locals as “the Catacombs,” the asylum was an imposing domed structure crowned and flanked by great bowls of flickering argent fire. Sabira had been there a time or two to help out a Flamer friar with his wayward niece. But despite its orderly appearance and religious cast, the so-called Sanctuary wasn’t any different from a dozen other similar institutions throughout Khorvaire-it was a place to get rid of the inconvenient and incriminating without actually killing them; nothing more.

Which didn’t explain why Greddark had decided to pay the place a last-minute visit on their way out of Stormreach. But considering that the first of the four bells that marked the hour were beginning to echo throughout the enclave, it wasn’t an answer she was going to get right now.

Sabira thanked the elf woman for her time and then gestured for the others to follow her. Skraad had rejoined the group and Sabira outlined the basics of the expedition to the three of them as they headed through the Maker’s Gate and back out into the Marketplace. She kept it simple; there would be time enough for details when they were in the air.

The Sanctuary was just to the north of the Maker’s Gate in a small, oddly-shaped courtyard that housed only the asylum and a central fountain. The flagstone plaza had three obvious exits: The Maker’s Gate in the southeast and two other openings in the high walls that surrounded the courtyard, one in the west and one in the northwest. The western exit led to the ramshackle district known as Soulgate and the northwestern one opened up into the area of the Marketplace that housed the entrances to both the Kundarak and Jorasco enclaves.