Dalan exited the chamber with Tristam, Omax, and Seren following close behind. Once they were a good distance from Gavus, Tristam hurried to catch up with the guild master.
“I think he knows more, Dalan,” Tristam said, glancing back. “He could tell us where Norra Cais is. If anyone can tell us more about Ashrem’s work, it would be her. She was his most brilliant student.”
“I agree that locating Cais should be our primary objective,” Dalan said, “but I think questioning Frauk would be a waste of time. He knows nothing we cannot easily discover on our own. He is a fool, and we are better off without him. I do not enjoy relying on the help of ignorant bigots.”
“Agreed,” Omax said quietly.
“So we’re just letting him go?” Tristam asked. “He’s a valuable lead.”
“He’s already told us Norra is alive, and that she was here weeks ago,” Seren said. “Zed and Eraina can track her down with that much to go on.”
Dalan nodded. “Precisely my thought. Keeping an inquisitive and a Sentinel Marshal among us has its uses. It is obvious that Ashrem chose Frauk to safeguard his secrets only because the magewright has no imagination. Frauk follows orders with the same mindless stupidity as his golems. Tristam, return to the ship and tell the others what we have learned so that Arthen and the Marshal can begin their search. Omax, attend me and we shall see to your repairs while we are here in a House of Making.”
“I can repair him,” Tristam said, slightly offended.
“Ah, but I promised I would bill Gavus for his unprovoked attacks,” Dalan said with a wicked smile, “and Cannith craftsmanship is expensive. Meanwhile, I sorely need you to focus your talents on repairing the ship and studying Overwood’s journals.”
“What about me?” Seren asked.
Dalan looked at the young thief blandly. “What do I care?” he asked. “So long as you cause no trouble, you are free to do as you like.” The guild master took a deep breath and plucked his cap from his head, smoothing one hand over his balding scalp. “Enjoy Korth, Seren. I think we may be here for some time. The rest will do us good. This has been a most exhausting journey.”
Dalan nodded at Omax and turned a corner, heading deeper into the House of Making with the warforged in tow. Tristam looked at Seren sheepishly.
“What?” she asked him, grinning a little and stepping closer to him as they walked.
“I feel like such an idiot,” he said quietly. She slipped her hand into his, and he felt much better. He offered her a crooked smile.
“Why do you feel like an idiot?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I was so angry at Dalan back on the Plains,” he said. “At how he’d used us, manipulated us. Now here I am, taking orders from him again. Nothing ever changes, Seren.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “You’ve changed.”
“For the better?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I think so,” she said.
They stepped out through the doors of House Cannith and into the street. The guards cast bored expressions at them and did not move from their station, huddled under awnings against the misty rain.
“How have I changed?” he asked, unconsciously huddling closer to her for warmth against the rain.
She laughed softly. “When I met you were loud and cocky, but had no confidence,” she said. “Now you’re the opposite. Not as loud … but now you do what’s right without even thinking about it.”
“Don’t be fooled, Seren,” Tristam said with a chuckle. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Let me illustrate,” hissed a voice from behind them. “You are dying.”
The assassin leapt from behind, sliding twin daggers into Tristam’s back.
SIX
It was a curious trait that most halflings adopted easily in human cities. This was not to say that halflings were truly invisible, as if through magic, but that humans usually pretended that they were not there. To the average human, a halfling was not unlike a child, and the comparison extended beyond mere physical resemblance. The typical halfling’s energetic attitude and constant need for attention drove humans to treat halflings with the same selective blindness they reserved for other people’s noisy children. They were there. You saw them. You just pretended you didn’t notice them and hoped that they would get bored and go away.
For many halflings, this phenomenon was extremely irritating. Halfling merchants found it a constant stumbling block, and halfling diplomats often became infuriated at the polite condescension they were offered in human arenas. For a halfling like Gerith, on the other hand, it was a blessing far more often than it was a curse. He had only had to share stories about his day for a mere ten minutes before the meat vendor bitterly shoved a free mince pie in his face to shut him up. Now he sat cross-legged at the side of the road, munching happily. He was oblivious to the drizzle, appearing to enjoy the rain rather than let it bother him. Though the streets were busy this time of night, the crowds parted around the little halfling who had decided to sit down on the street corner. Invisible.
One man walked directly toward Gerith. He was clad in a shabby coat with a short pipe clenched in his mouth. Gerith grinned and gave a little wave, but did not stop eating.
“Busy, Snowshale?” Zed asked, looking down at Gerith curiously.
“I love Karrnath,” Gerith said, mouth full of crust and meat. “It’s such an ugly place, but the food is wonderful. They fry everything! Anything tastes better fried.”
“Fantastic,” Zed said. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”
“I’m keeping an eye on her,” Gerith said. He nodded at a rooftop across the street.
Zed looked up. Blizzard sat hunched in the shadows at the edge of a rooftop, watching the far street with beady black eyes.
“That bird is trained to tail people?” Zed asked, impressed.
“He’s not a bird,” Gerith replied, a little insulted. “And yes, glidewings are very clever beasts. Kind of like flying dogs. My people originally domesticated them as guardians. It wasn’t till centuries later that we bred them big enough to ride. Blizzard is even smarter than most.”
“Remarkable,” Zed said.
The little scout beamed proudly.
Zed shrugged, plucking his pipe out of his mouth and sighing a plume of smoke into the night air. “No signs of Marth or any of his Cyrans in the shipyards,” he said. “If they are repairing the Seventh Moon, they’re not getting supplies to do it here.”
“How would you know he’s here?” Gerith asked. “He’s a changeling.”
“Because it doesn’t matter how well you hide your face, people notice when you buy a few small fortunes worth of soarwood to repair an airship,” Zed said. “The only people in Korth who’ve been placing orders on that scale are Lyrandar merchant vessels.” Zed paused. “And us, of course. All the same, if we can go a few days without seeing that damn warship drop out of the clouds on us, I think we’ll be a little happier.”
“They say it’s the little things that really make you happy,” Gerith agreed. “Pie. Sunsets. Girls in short skirts. No Cyran warships blasting you out of the sky.”
Arthen laughed. “How’s the story coming, Snowshale?”
“Oh, I have high hopes for this one,” he said, swallowing the last bit of pie and wiping his hands on his vest. “We’re in a slow bit right now, but that happens with every story. If there’s nothing but action, then it’s not interesting anymore. You need boring bits to make the rest taste better, like stew needs peas.”
“So I’m peas?” Zed asked.
“A little bit,” Gerith asked. “You need to pick a fight or something, Arthen, or this scene is getting cut out when I tell it to my grandfather.”
“You can’t write me out,” Zed said. “I’m the hero.”