Marsheila Rockwell - The Shard Axe

It might actually rival her own.

“Elix. I resigned my commission and gave up my brooch. I’m not a Marshal anymore.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Sabira stared at him, openmouthed.

“What? Then why—?”

“Please, Saba. I told you I’d explain everything, and I will. Just not here, in the middle of the street, with Host knows who listening in.” He took her arm and guided her, unresisting, out of the alley and back into the light.

Sabira sat in a comfortable chair before the fire, her cloak drying on the hearth while she warmed her feet and sipped Onatar’s Blood from a short-stemmed glass. She and Elix were alone in one of the private sitting rooms in Sentinels Tower, waiting for the Mrorian Envoy to arrive. In addition to the two high-backed chairs by the fireplace, which were separated by a small table, the thickly carpeted chamber held another, much longer table surrounded by somewhat less comfortable seats. Bookcases filled with heavy tomes of law and military history lined one wall, and a crystal-fronted cabinet holding an array of decanters full of various potent libations rested against the opposite wall. Twin maps of Xen’drik and Khorvaire hung above it, and detailed depictions of each of the Five Nations graced the other two walls—though Cyre’s map was, of course, sadly outdated.

“So … when did you become captain?” she asked when it seemed clear Elix wasn’t inclined to talk, let alone explain what either of them was doing there.

He looked at her for a long moment over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable. The smiling Elix from the Jester’s Haunt had disappeared—if, in fact, he had ever been more than a public mask put on for the envoy’s benefit.

“I sent you a letter,” he finally responded, his voice utterly without inflection.

She winced at that. He’d sent her several letters over the years, via other Marshals, Defenders, Blademarks, anyone who might be traveling west of the Brey River who’d have reason to stop by the nearest Marshal outpost. Sometimes she didn’t get them for months after they were sent—once it had even taken two years for his message to catch up with her. But he always seemed to have a general idea of where she was going to be, and when she least expected it, there’d be a letter waiting for her along with her fee when she brought someone in.

She’d stopped reading them years ago, soon after he’d made Marshal. It was just too painful watching him follow in the footsteps Leoned should have taken.

“I move around a lot,” she said by way of apology.

“Apparently.”

Then he shrugged, as if to say her years-long silence didn’t matter to him anymore—and maybe, after all this time, it really didn’t. The thought hurt more than she cared to admit.

“I became captain about the same time you left Khorvaire. A Lyrandar heir went missing in the Blade Desert—a member of the Raincaller’s Guild. Esravash, the House matriarch, wanted the Marshals on it. Since Vulyar has the closest outpost, it fell to me, Jayce, and another Marshal I don’t think you know, Tabeth d’Sark.” He paused for a moment, gazing into the fire, remembering. As she watched him, Sabira couldn’t help but notice how much he looked like his cousin. He had Leoned’s strong jaw and wavy hair, though his eyes were light where Ned’s had been dark. And of course there was the dragonmark; Leoned’s had been on his lower back, where few ever saw it.

“We lost Tabeth to a Valenar war party on the way down and Jayce … Jayce stayed behind to create a diversion so I could get the Lyrandar to safety.” He looked up at her then, his mouth twisted in an unexpectedly bitter smile. “They promoted me after that, thanks in no small part to Esravash’s … generosity . But, then, you know how that is.”

She did, indeed.

Sabira hesitated to offer her congratulations; she didn’t think he’d want them, all things considered. But she felt she should say something —let him know she was proud of him, at least. That Leoned would have been proud. But as she opened her mouth to speak, a knock sounded on the door.

“Ah. That must be our guest.”

They both stood and Elix crossed over to the doorway, glass still in hand.

“Envoy Mountainheart,” he said warmly as he opened the door. “Please come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

The envoy strode past Elix in what was no doubt intended to be a dramatic huff, but Sabira thought it just made him look like a bit of a fop. The basket-hilted rapier he wore at his side only added to that image, but she knew better than to judge a fighter by his arms. She’d once seen a dwarf swordsman in Frostmantle use the needle-thin point of his rapier to pin a fly to a cutpurse’s eye with one hand while downing a mug of highale with the other. Any weapon was dangerous in the hands of a dwarf, even one as puffed up and self-important as this Mountainheart.

“Please be seated,” Elix said.

Sabira, who’d trailed him to the door, did so immediately, wishing she’d thought to fill her glass again before the envoy had entered. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

As if privy to her thoughts, Elix crossed over to the cabinet and set the decanter of Blood on a tray, along with his own glass and a second, larger snifter, the kind traditionally used to imbibe the potent drink back in the Holds. The snifter was larger than a typical wine glass, and was specially crafted to keep the liquid inside at the same temperature as actual blood, since dwarves preferred the spirit served warm.

While Elix readied their drinks, Mountainheart stood by his chair, unwilling to sit before the Marshal did. Sabira wasn’t surprised—it was a common dwarven diplomatic ploy. By being the last to sit, the dwarf ensured he would be, if only for a moment, the tallest person in the room. Since many races equated size with power, the shorter-statured dwarves thus subtly gave notice that they, too, were a race to be reckoned with. Just in case the axes on their backs weren’t convincing enough.

Sabira took the opportunity to scrutinize the dwarf a little more closely. Mountainheart wore reds and browns, but the earthy hues had little significance other than to show his own personal taste. While the various dwarven clans did have familial colors, just as the dragonmarked Houses did, any given dwarf had ties to so many clans and their affiliated families that wearing livery would be pointless.

Dwarves used other means to signal their loyalties, such as their beard regalia, though it was extremely rare to see them wearing the customary ornamentation outside of the Holds. Even here in the dwarven enclave—called Coasthold by some, in deference to the original thirteen Holds—use of the regalia was virtually unknown. Sabira had to wonder why Mountainheart had chosen to wear it now. It had to be for her benefit. She doubted Elix understood the significance.

The carved metal and gemstone beads woven into the braids of a dwarf’s beard served as a complete biography for anyone who knew how to read the signs. Mountainheart, for instance, wore symbols for both the Tordannon and Mroranon clans and House Kundarak, as well as for many of their affiliated families. Other beads were battle tokens, proving that he was just as capable with that rapier as Sabira had supposed. His beard also boasted a smattering of civic bibelots that could indicate anything from brokering a particularly lucrative business deal for his clan to finessing some delicate diplomatic situation—though, given his behavior thus far, Sabira somehow doubted he’d received many accolades for the latter.

And one bead, a faceted platinum bauble set dead center in the middle of his beard, indicated he’d recently been married, though the union had yet to produce any children. That surprised Sabira. The months—and sometimes years—following a dwarven wedding were usually spent trying to produce an heir, a practice that harkened back far into the dwarves’ history on the icy continent of Frostfell, where cold, predators, and tribal rivalries killed them off faster than they could be born. It was rare to see a newlywed outside of the Holds, unless some dire need drew him or her away from home.