Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

First Thecla, and now Caldamus. She was beginning to think someone was going along behind her bailing her collars out as fast as she could arrest them, just to annoy her.

And it was working.

“Same thing you are, I imagine. Protecting the interests of my employers and making sure they aren’t left behind when the balance of power shifts because of what’s happening here.”

Sabira blinked. That was surprisingly direct.

“Why you?” She didn’t have to ask why he wasn’t still in prison-if he’d ever even made it there. He was one of King Boranel of Breland’s Dark Lanterns; the royal had obviously pulled some strings to secure his agent’s release.

“Why you?” he countered, then answered his own question. “Because we know the area. If not well, at least better than any of the other people our respective superiors might choose for the job. And in my case, because there are those in Khorvaire who weren’t thrilled to learn that I’d been found not guilty and set free. It seemed prudent to be elsewhere.”

There was a lot of that going around, apparently.

“Yeah, well, there are those here who aren’t exactly thrilled about it, either,” Sabira muttered, but she pulled back on the shard axe. If he’d been found not guilty in a court of law-even if it was a rigged one-then there was nothing she could do. At least not until he killed someone else.

“So, what did you do with the real mayor?”

“Has anyone checked the bottom of the well?” At her dark look, he held up a quick hand. “A joke, Marshal. Relax. He’s enjoying a state-funded holiday in Sharn. He’ll be returned unharmed and well-compensated to his position when my presence is no longer required.”

“And when will that be?”

Caldamus’s smile was bitter.

“Whenever my employers decide. But they weren’t terribly pleased that I’d been apprehended after my last mission, so I doubt they’ll be recalling me any time soon.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Sabira replied, her voice oozing insincerity. She stepped back and returned the urgrosh to its harness. “Next time I’ll just bring you in dead and save you the demotion.”

“How thoughtful.” He dabbed at the blood on his throat. “Hmph. Now see what you’ve done? I’m going to have to go raid the Mayor’s private stock of healing potions in the back to take care of this. Wouldn’t do for the locals to see their beloved leader injured.”

“I hate to interrupt your charming reunion,” Brannan remarked sardonically from behind them, “but there is still the small matter of the registration and usage fee?”

Sabira looked over at the Wayfinder, who was gesturing to a wooden podium topped by a large leather-bound book.

“Worried about your percentage?” she asked, crossing over to the podium. As she brushed brusquely past him, Caldamus gave a small, nearly inaudible gasp. Sabira didn’t turn; the changeling might be intimidated by the Wayfinder and his wealth, but she wasn’t.

At the podium, she scanned through the ledger entries. Name, purpose, date of entry, date of return, estimated value of artifacts retrieved. The last page was nearly full, with the earliest dates ranging back a week or more. There were a surprising number of her kinsman here, judging by the names, the most common of which was “A. Deneith” It was a common enough alias; the House name had become synonymous with “mercenary” over the years, so whenever someone was traveling incognito, they borrowed the surname. She was surprised Greddark hadn’t used it yet.

She flipped back until she found Tilde’s entry. The names of the Blademarks who’d accompanied the sorceress read like an honor roll of the dead, and Sabira had to swallow more than once as she skimmed the list. Many of these men had served with her and Ned when they were in the Blademarks; some she’d even counted as friends. The last name was the hardest to bear: Harun Edel d’Deneith. She’d saved his life from a rampaging carver outside of Fort Bones in Karrnath, and he’d asked her to stand for him at his wedding. He and his wife had named their first daughter for her. Little Bira would be nine years old now, and missing her father terribly.

As Sabira flipped forward again, she couldn’t help but notice how many of the lines in the “date of return” column remained empty. No wonder Caldamus was collecting his fee prior to entrance into the caverns-more than half of those who entered never returned.

She left the podium without writing in the book; there was no way she was paying Breland-or Brannan-for the privilege of adding eight more ledger entries that might remain forever incomplete.

Caldamus, who’d resumed the human visage of the mayor, blocked her path.

“I really must insist you register and pay the fee, Marshal.”

“Why? You already know I’m here; probably already trolled through my mind to find out who I’m with too.” Caldamus’s eyes widened slightly at her words, and she saw his gaze flick quickly in Brannan’s direction.

Had the Wayfinder been unaware of the fact that the changeling was also a telepath? Interesting.

“My superiors-”

“-Can go straight to Dolurrh for all I care,” Sabira interrupted, losing patience. “You didn’t strike me as a complete fool the last time we met, Caldamus, but maybe the desert sun has addled your brains in the interim, so I’ll make it easy for you-I’m not paying.”

The changeling launched himself at her, reaching for her throat. The move caught Sabira momentarily off guard, because while his face was contorted as if with fury, his eyes were urgent.

He was acting, and it could only be for Brannan’s benefit.

Sabira decided to play along, wondering what Caldamus was up to. She sidestepped the attack, catching the changeling by the collar and hem of his shirt and using his momentum and a quick twist to heave him over her hip. As she pivoted and his mouth passed by her ear, he whispered, “Couldn’t read him before.”

That wasn’t exactly a surprise. Most people who dealt in secrets knew how to shield their thoughts from prying minds, and Sabira was sure the Wayfinder had a lot of secrets.

Caldamus landed on his back in the middle of the floor, the breath whooshing from his lungs. Sabira bent down to pull him back to his feet, her legs braced for the extra weight. He surprised her by grabbing her wrist and slamming his foot up into her stomach. Her body curled involuntarily around the unexpected blow, and he used the sudden shift in her weight to his advantage, yanking on her arm and twisting his own hips to throw her to the side where she collided with the podium, knocking it over with a crash.

He was on her before she could scramble to her feet, his hands around her throat and his face in hers as he pretended to squeeze.

“Could when you touched him,” he breathed before she smashed the ledger she’d grabbed into the side of his head and he rolled off her with a yelp.

She was on him in a heartbeat, knee in his spine as she grasped a handful of hair and yanked his head back.

“Hatred and hunger, Marshal,” he murmured. “Watch yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she muttered under her breath, disgusted with the changeling. And with herself-she’d almost believed him. She slammed his head into the floor. “ There’s your ‘usage fee,’ Caldamus.”

When he groaned and struggled weakly, not yet unconscious, she did it again. Harder.

“And that’s for Goren,” she added as the changeling slumped and lay still beneath her. His hair began to grow longer and lankier in her hand as he morphed back into his natural form. She released her fistful and clambered to her feet.

“Feel free to keep the change.”

She collected Xujil from the mayor’s sitting room and left Brannan to explain to the next person in line that the mayor was suddenly indisposed. She and the drow guide met up with the others in front of the smithy. She was pleased to see that Zi was sporting a new set of dark gray robes which instantly made him seem both more competent and more dangerous. It was a tactic House Deneith often used in conflicts, both on the battlefield and off. Well-kept uniforms weren’t just a utilitarian requirement or a means of increasing morale or solidarity. Much as the fine dress and displayed wealth of a diplomat reminded those he negotiated with of his nation’s resources, the sight of even one soldier in livery was a similar reminder that there was a greater might behind him that could be brought to bear against his enemies. It was both a warning, and a threat.