Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

Brannan smiled, grimly amused.

“The choice that is no choice. How apropos.” He turned to the warforged who’d clustered about, awaiting their instructions. “You heard him. Finish loading those supplies and mount up! We’ve got a storm to outrun!”

Mol, Barrakas 9, 998 YK

The Menechtarun Desert, Xen’drik.

The caravan was a mix of traditional wheeled wagons and artificer-created schooners with mechanical segmented legs that skittered across the sand like ungainly, cloth-covered scorpions. The wheeled wagons were drawn by three-humped camels and sported runners on the underside of their wooden beds, much like the modified soarsleds the warforged had used to bring supplies up from Zawabi’s Refuge. A good choice, Sabira supposed, for the terrain-the wheels could be used on rockier ground, and the runners for traveling across sand. A better choice would have been to outfit the entire caravan with the mechanical wagons. An even better one would have been to use earth sleds, but apparently Brannan used the considerable wealth he’d gathered through various Wayfinder Foundation expeditions for other things.

Or maybe he just couldn’t find any House Orien pilots willing to work in these conditions, Sabira thought sourly as she pulled the edge of her cloak up to cover her nose and mouth. Sand was already being whipped into a stinging frenzy by the approaching storm, tattooing every bit of exposed flesh with fine grit. She could only imagine how bad it was going to be when they were inside that towering wall-Brannan’s assurances notwithstanding, she didn’t think they had a chance in Dolurrh of outrunning it. At least the cloud of dust was beginning to obscure the sun, and the wind somewhat mitigated the ovenlike heat, drying the sweat that was already trickling down her back, even though it was barely past the seventh morning bell. Small blessings, she supposed. The only kind she was likely to get on this journey, though from which of the Sovereigns they came, she couldn’t say, and wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.

Brannan directed Sabira and her group into the back of one of the multi-legged wagons at the front of the line, already having to shout to be heard over the wind. The Wayfinder hopped into a seat at the front and took the controls, Xujil at his side. The wagon lurched into motion, humming with magical energy and scrabbling across the sand much faster than Sabira had expected. The other mechanical wagons followed, and the three-humped camels were not far behind, having been specially bred not only to hold water in their third hump, but to move more quickly than their mundane counterparts. Though she had no point of reference to measure by, she’d guess they were moving as fast as an earth sled, and had both more maneuverability and a larger carrying capacity. She revised her opinion of Brannan’s parsimony; the man wasn’t cheap, he was just brutally efficient.

Inside the covered wagon, she was free of the worst of the sand’s assault, though the heat beat through the white canvas with no wind to temper it, and Sabira was soon sweating again in the close environs. Thankfully, warforged didn’t perspire, so it wasn’t like being confined to the Defenders’ barracks after a morning of tough drills. Yet. She had a feeling it wouldn’t take long for her, Greddark, and Skraad to do a fair imitation of said barracks-especially the orc, who likely didn’t make a regular habit of bathing, so would exhibit the effects of too much sweat with too little air circulation much sooner than either her or the dwarf. She felt a momentary pang of envy as she glanced over at Guisarme and Jester-warforged couldn’t smell either.

Sabira was sure she’d be envying them for a lot more than just their lack of olfactory nerves before this journey was finished. Warforged didn’t sweat because they didn’t drink water, so they were ideal companions in the desert, unlike their flesh and blood counterparts, who wouldn’t last more than a few days without the precious substance. Just thinking about it made her thirsty and she found herself mentally calculating how many barrels of water there were versus how many would need to drink from them. Here again, though, she had to admire Brannan’s efficiency, for the bulk of his men were warforged who needed neither water nor food on the long trek, and who also wouldn’t be as bothered by the heat or the sand. Aside from the “fleshlings” in her wagon, she’d only seen two other groups comprised mainly of non-constructs-probably treasure hunters seeking to plunder the depths of Tarath Marad. Or else scholarly types from Morgrave University or the Library of Korranberg, who were also seeking to plunder the depths below the Menechtarun, but with somewhat less mercenary intentions.

“So, you want to tell us who the Defender was?”

Sabira blinked at the dwarf’s question, uncomprehending.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Defender who survived the marilith attack,” Greddark supplied pleasantly enough, though there was a calculating glint in his eye. “Seemed like you had a little more venom than usual in your voice when you were talking about him, and somehow I don’t think it was for the Keeper or the demoness.”

Host damn it. She’d known the inquisitive was too observant for his own good; she should have kept that part of the story to herself. Though if he really thought he had any idea of her normal amount of virulence, he was going to find himself not only sadly mistaken, but badly in need of antivenom.

Sabira considered her options. She could ignore the question or try to brush it aside, but she doubted Greddark would let it go. The dwarf had been chewing on it since they’d left the djinn’s refuge; he’d only become more insistent the longer he went without a satisfying answer.

She could bluff, but he not only knew she was a card player, he played himself. He would be expecting that, and it would only serve to whet his appetite further.

Or she could do what she always did on the field of battle, whether she fought with words or with weapons: Meet the blow on the axe-end of her urgrosh, turn it aside, and follow up with the spear tip to her opponent’s gut.

“My father,” she replied shortly. “Who should be safely back in Dreadhold now, where-with any luck-he’ll rot for the rest of his miserable life.”

Her answer caught Greddark-not to mention her other companions-by surprise, but she didn’t give him time to regroup before she countered with her own attack.

“So,” she said, mimicking the dwarf’s earlier tone precisely, “you want to tell us why you stole a book from the library in the Catacombs?”

She’d wanted to ask him before now, but he’d holed up in the engine room of Kupper-Nickel’s airship for most of the trip, supposedly helping the warforged Wayfinder improve the vessel’s efficiency. Probably trying to avoid being asked this very question.

Greddark smiled and inclined his head appreciatively at the reprisal.

“Not stole. Borrowed. That is what one does at a library, no?”

“Not when that library is under the control of the Silver Flame, no,” Sabira answered. “Unless, of course, you happen to be a Flamer yourself. Or an agent of theirs.”

She waited a beat.

“Are you?”

Skraad leaned forward to hear the dwarf’s answer, a frown forming around his long tusks. Sabira wasn’t surprised; he’d incapacitated one of the Silver Flame guards and was likely now wanted in Stormreach as a result. She imagined the orc wouldn’t be too happy to learn it had all been some ruse on Greddark’s part.

Not that she really thought the dwarf was working for the Church. Though the Flamers would sometimes commit a lesser evil to thwart a greater, she didn’t think that pragmatism stretched so far as to include working with a suspected murderer and the cousin of an Aurum member. And even if it did, Aggar would never have sent Greddark to help her if he’d known his cousin was freelancing for some Archbishop or another when he was supposed to be working for her.