Marsheila Rockwell - The Shard Axe

“So, who have you got for us, Marshal?”

Sabira found the notice she wanted on the wall and tore it out of its frame. She held it up next to Caldamus’s face.

“ We’ve got this one. Riv Caldamus, wanted for the murder of Goren ir’Kados, late of Fairhaven.”

The clerk—Sorn, if she remembered right—glanced coolly at her. “Doesn’t look much like his picture.”

Sabira flashed him a coy smile. “Do they ever?”

“Not when you bring them in,” Sorn muttered, but Sabira continued on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Poor thing ran into someone’s elbow while trying to evade arrest. It’s so hard to keep the prisoners safe when they insist on running.”

Sorn’s lips twisted, but Sabira wasn’t sure if he was trying to hide a frown or a smirk.

“So. Where do you want him?” Sabira asked, tucking the wanted notice into the collar of the changeling’s shirt like some fancy napkin.

“Holding,” the clerk answered and gestured over his shoulder to a wooden door inset with a small barred window. As Sabira propelled Caldamus toward the door, Prynn stepped forward.

“I’ll take him,” he said, and Sabira saw a hard glint in his eye that hadn’t been there back on Korthos. Fairly certain the dark look was meant for the changeling and not her, Sabira released her hold. If Prynn wanted to get in a last lick or two before Caldamus was handed over to the Defender’s Guild, far be it from her to stop him.

“I’ll take care of the paperwork, then,” she said, watching the other Marshal shove their prisoner across the threshold with a bit more force than was absolutely necessary. Turning back to the clerk, she couldn’t quite suppress an approving smile.

Sorn raised an eyebrow at her expression but kept his thoughts to himself. Probably a wise choice on his part.

He pushed a neat pile of forms across to her to sign. She didn’t bother reading them; they never changed. Yes, she (and, in this case, Prynn) had a contract to bring in this particular criminal, authorized by Baron Breven himself. As the patriarch of House Deneith and the titular head of the Sentinel Marshals, all contracts went through him first, though she’d be willing to bet the Baron paid those mountains of paper no more mind when adorning them with his signature than she was doing now, embossing this much smaller stack with her own.

Yes, the criminal had been advised of the charges against him before being taken into custody and no, no laws of the nation in which the apprehension had taken place had been violated in the process of said apprehension. Because answering yes to that one meant filling out a detailed report, and there was no way in Khyber that was going to happen. Sabira had places to be—or, rather, places not to be. She just wanted to collect her portion of the fee and get off the streets as quickly as possible.

“Sorry,” Sorn answered in response to her request, taking the proffered papers and tapping them back into an orderly pile. “I’m not authorized to release those funds yet. Captain Greigur has to approve the paperwork first. Come back in an hour. Everything should be ready by then.”

Sabira bit back an impatient sigh. She’d brought in enough bounties here to know she wasn’t going to be able to get them to move any faster, either with pleading or with threats. And graft was out of the question—everyone knew Sentinel Marshals could not be bribed; that and their avowed neutrality were what made them the most sought-after law enforcement agents in the Five Nations and beyond. And even if it were an option, if she had the kind of money it would take to influence a Marshal’s hand, she wouldn’t need this fee so badly in the first place.

She managed a smile that could only be mistaken for polite from a distance, and then only in dim lighting.

“Fine. I’ll be over at Hammersmith’s. If you finish early, send someone over to fetch me, would you?”

Sorn shrugged, and Sabira figured that was as close to an assent as she was likely to get out of him.

She left Sentinels Tower and headed back down to Knight’s Watch and Hammersmith’s, keeping her head down. She made it to the inn without anyone accosting her and, once inside, went straight to the bar and ordered a bottle of Frostmantle Fire. With any luck, she might even get to enjoy some of it before one of her creditors came calling.

While waiting for one of the serving women to bring a bottle out from the back, she turned on her stool to survey the common room. It was high-ceilinged, with wide darkwood beams arching over a large central space dotted with tables and chairs, most of which were still empty at this hour. Purple and green banners hung between the rafters, each depicting one of the three heads of the Deneith chimera—dragon, lion, or goat. Everbright lanterns designed to look like huge dragonshards dangled on long chains, and similarly shaped lanterns glowed from numerous wall sconces, bathing the room’s few patrons in a soft bluish light.

Morin Axelson was asleep facedown in a puddle of drool and ale at the table nearest her, while a warforged named Arcturon stood a few feet behind him, guarding the arched entrance to the fighting areas down below. Across from him, the bard, Colin Ziele, was busy playing for yet another of his string of female admirers. Sabira wasn’t sure why the man was so popular—it certainly couldn’t be because of his music.

The final tavern dweller was a large, hirsute man dressed in woodland colors. A mug rested on the table in front of him, but by the ring of moisture collected at its base, it was clear he wasn’t drinking from it.

He met her gaze over the top of the mug, and Sabira cursed inwardly as he shoved back from his table and made his way over to her, drink forgotten. Apparently he’d taken eye contact as an invitation. Just what she needed to make this morning perfect—the opportunity to fend off the advances of a soldier who, by the looks of him, had taken one too many jobs in the jungles.

She turned away as he approached, reaching for the full tumbler the server had left on the curved counter in front of her. She kept track of the man’s progress in the myriad reflections of the bottles lining the back of the bar; she wouldn’t turn her back on a potential adversary, even if his only attack was likely to be a bad pickup line.

The man sat on the stool next to her, undeterred. His eyes found hers again in the scarlet glass of a flask of Brelish redeye brandy. He nodded to the drink in her hand.

“Bad habit, Lyet. But, then, you have a lot of those, don’t you?”

Sabira narrowed her eyes, regarding him in the bottle.

“Do I know you?” The man looked more like he belonged to House Tharashk than to Deneith.

“I know you . Who wouldn’t? Even without that,” he said, gesturing toward her urgrosh. “You’re the only Marshal in Stormreach known for drowning her sorrows in dwarven whiskey.”

He smiled at her unpleasantly, and Sabira saw that he had more than a few broken teeth. “In fact, the only surer way to identify you than your taste for Mrorian liquor is by your tendency to lose badly at card games held in the backrooms of seedy dockside taverns. But I’m guessing even the boys at the Dinghy wouldn’t stake you at this point, now would they?”

Ah. Now she knew who he was. Or rather, what .

One of Sollego’s enforcers.

Apparently she wasn’t going to get to enjoy her drink after all.

Even as she thought it, the enforcer reached out and grabbed her left arm. A skin-prickling wave washed over her and the common room began to spin and waver. Then it disappeared with a nauseating wrench.