“Wrong ledger,” the innkeeper said. “Just let me check in back.”
“No need,” Seren said. “We have the wrong place.”
Dalan looked at her keenly. “Wait,” he said to the innkeeper. The bug-eyed little man glanced nervously from them at the rear door. “My niece is correct. We were looking for the Kindred Flame, on the other side of town. Sorry to waste your time.”
The innkeeper turned and ran out the back door. “Help!” he cried. “Officers, help!”
“Khyber,” Dalan swore.
The doors opened behind them. Tristam drew his wand but hesitated. The three panhandlers from the front step blocked the door. They had thrown their cloaks aside, revealing silver breastplates engraved with the Silver Flame.
“Drop your weapon, in the name of the Flame!” said a voice from behind them.
A tall knight with a thin blond beard had emerged from the rear office. He wore armor like the others, with the trappings of an officer. He held a heavy two-handed sword, identical to Zed Arthen’s. When he saw Dalan’s face, his gray eyes darkened.
“You,” the man growled.
“Captain Draikus,” Dalan said, bowing politely. “What an unexpected honor. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“You know him?” Tristam asked, calmly placing his wand on the desk and taking a step back.
“Indeed I do,” Dalan said.
“I thought you said the knights didn’t mess with dragonmarked heirs,” Ijaac said, hand on his morningstar.
“I find they make exceptions,” Dalan replied, “for dragonmarked heirs who see their commanding officer receive due court martial and execution.”
Ijaac blinked. “Ah,” the dwarf said, setting his morningstar on the floor.
Dalan gave a tight smile.
“D’Cannith,” Draikus said, nearly spitting the name on the floor. “In the name of the Silver Flame and the City of Nathyrr, you and your associates are coming with me.”
FOURTEEN
From a glance, it would be difficult to surmise that the room where Shaimin d’Thuranni now found himself was the personal quarters of Fort Ash’s commanding officer. The room was large but only sparsely furnished with a small bed, wash basin, writing table, dented wardrobe, containing no clothing, and an unused chamber pot. The chambers were likely a mere formality. The changeling preferred life aboard airships; it was likely this chamber was never used at all. Shaimin sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped before him, staring into nothing as he turned recent events over in his mind. Three of the six guards stood at the far side of the room, watching the elf nervously as they leaned on their halberds.
Shaimin was aware that Marth no longer trusted him, but for the assassin it was hardly a matter of concern. The guards were of no moment. If he wished to leave this place, he would do so. Even the forest was no longer quite as intimidating as it had been during his first frantic run. From the conversation he had overheard before revealing himself, he now knew it was the badges the Cyrans carried that warded off the undead outside the walls. When he wished to leave, he could strip a guard of his badge and vanish into the forest before anyone was the wiser.
That was, however, not what Shaimin desired. The elf still owed Marth. The changeling had saved his life and reputation back in Wroat, and a Thuranni repaid his debts. However, it had become clear that this debt could not be repaid in the manner requested. Ashrem d’Cannith’s Legacy was a weapon of unimaginable destructive potential, one that might ultimately be brought to bear against Shaimin’s own house. After speaking to Marth, Shaimin had no doubt that the changeling was deeply disturbed. Whatever he had seen in the Mournland had changed him deeply.
Dalan d’Cannith and the others from Karia Naille obviously had already encountered Marth’s darker side, thus their campaign to stop him. Marth had slain their friends, even attempted to kill them. Their reaction was understandable, even if he did not agree with it.
What did Shaimin care about the deaths of people he had never met, people who were of no value to his house? For a Thuranni to judge another man for the blood on his hands would be the height of hypocrisy. All that mattered was his debt to Marth, a man who clearly was no longer himself. What could have happened in the Mournland that transformed him so?
To blame the Day of Mourning was too easy. If Marth were simply mad, he would never have accumulated the resources to build this fortress, maintain his airship, and recruit his followers.
Pondering such mysteries was pointless with such little information to go upon. From the bored demeanor of his guards, it seemed increasingly unlikely that they expected Marth to return and check upon Shaimin before his departure to Sharn. If that was so, then he could afford to wait here no longer.
He knew that there were three more guards in the hall outside. A fight with six well-trained soldiers was more than Shaimin felt confident to handle without incident. To complicate matters further, a cry from any of them would quickly alert the rest of the fortress. If he wished to escape, it would be best if Marth did not realize his intention until he was already gone.
This would require elegance and timing.
He looked up at the guards, offering them a pleasant smile. They moved a bit closer to one another, hands tightening on their weapons. So they had some inkling that he was no one to be trifled with. They were afraid of him. Good.
“So you men are all Cyran, eh?” Shaimin asked.
They did not answer.
“Did any of you fight beside Marth in the war?”
They made no reply.
“Have you been trained not to speak to prisoners?” he asked, “or are you merely afraid of me?”
The soldiers shifted uncomfortably. The leader took the bait. “We are sons of Cyre,” he said. “We fear no one, not even a Thuranni killer.”
“Is that why you neglected to disarm me?” Shaimin asked.
The guards glanced at one another. The one who had spoken had Shaimin’s twin daggers tucked behind his belt. “What are you talking about, elf?” he demanded. “You have already been disarmed.”
“Oh,” Shaimin said innocently. “I thought you allowed me to keep the third dagger out of courtesy. My apologies.” He stood before them with his arms outstretched, inviting them to search him. “I have a dagger hidden on the inside of my left boot. Please, come and remove it.”
“Take it out and hand it to us,” the guard demanded.
“So you can tell your captain I drew a concealed weapon on you?” Shaimin asked. “I think not.”
The lead guard sighed, leaned his halberd against the wall, and stepped toward Shaimin. The other two stood back with their weapons ready. Shaimin carefully memorized the positions of each man, then called upon the power of his dragonmark.
Inky darkness filled the room.
The elf moved with startling speed. He lunged forward, pulling one of his daggers from the first guard’s belt just as he seized the man’s throat with his other hand. The blade sank in the throat of another guard. He twisted his wrist and clenched his hand savagely, crushing the first guard’s windpipe even as he pushed him away. He leaped over the man’s tumbling body onto the third guard, seizing the shaft of his halberd and twisting it to push him off balance. He drew the man’s sword with his free hand and slid it neatly across the man’s neck.
The three guards crumpled on the floor. Dead without a single cry of pain. The darkness melted away, dismissed by its master.
“Trosk?” called one of the guards outside, alarmed by the sounds of the falling bodies. “Everything all right in there?”
“Fine,” Shaimin replied in a passable impersonation of the guard’s voice. “Damned elf wanted his bed moved by the window.”
The guards outside chuckled. Shaimin carefully lodged a halberd in the door frame, wedging the door shut. When the guards swapped shifts they would at least waste some time trying to force the door before doing something useful like searching for him. He recovered his daggers, wiping the blood off on Trosk’s cloak. He pocketed the badge from each man’s cloak before sliding out the window.