“We also make weapons, Seren,” Tristam said. “For every airship and lightning rail you can name, I can point to the warforged … or to Cyre.”
“Omax is a warforged,” she said. “He seems like a good person. So to speak.”
“He is,” Tristam said, “but that doesn’t change the fact that his people were created to kill. The warforged were supposed to be monsters. The fact that some of them, like Omax, are strong enough to rise above their origins was not intentional.”
“If you think so little of magecraft, then why are you helping Dalan find the Legacy?” she asked.
“Because someone has to make sure it’s used responsibly,” he said. “Whatever it really is, it’s powerful, and I don’t want to see it misused. That was why I was so suspicious toward you, Seren. I can’t stand the thought of anyone exploiting Ashrem’s work. You have to admit we didn’t meet on very good terms. You had one of Ashrem’s journals in your pocket.”
“In a bag, actually,” she said. “But you think you can trust Dalan d’Cannith with Ashrem’s secrets?” She looked at him thoughtfully.
“I do,” Tristam said, though he hesitated just a moment. “Dalan wants what I want. He wants to find the truth before someone else does. But that makes me wonder what we’re doing here.”
“What do you mean?” Seren asked. She looked at him questioningly, then took stock of their surroundings again. A crudely painted sign depicting a full mug of ale hung over a nearby door. A tavern was as good a place to find information as any, so she headed that way.
“We’ve been looking for the Legacy for a long time now,” Tristam said. “Zed Arthen was a member of our original crew, but the search was too much for him. He abandoned us and came here.” He looked at her seriously. “I don’t trust Zed, Seren. I never liked him, even before he left us. The Knights of Thrane don’t cast out one of their own without reason.”
Tristam opened the tavern door for her, breaking the tension with an exaggerated, bow. She chuckled and stepped inside. She was surprised to find no one drinking inside. A barkeep in a dirty apron was setting chairs on tables.
“Closed,” the man said in a bored voice. “Sundown.”
“Sundown?” Seren asked.
“Oh, you’re new,” he said with an annoyed sneer. His right eye drifted to the right. “Black Pit’s no place to be out after dark. Get out quick. Find some place to sleep. Not here.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Tristam said.
The bartender scratched his chin, grunted to himself, and returned to his work, ignoring Tristam. Seren was about to ask the man if he knew Zed Arthen when the door opened behind them. The tower master stepped inside, his clothes stained with jet-black mud. He was followed by the same three thugs as before, as well as two new arrivals. The barkeep quickly flipped the last chair onto the table and hurried out of the room. Seren looked around for any other exit. The only other door was the one the barkeep had just slipped through, and she heard a latch fall heavily in place.
“We saw you lock that tower door, magewright,” the tower master said. He advanced as his thugs fanned out to block any path of escape.
Tristam drew his sword and wand, holding them in a ready stance. “Stay back, Seren,” he said, stepping between them.
“Put the sword away, boy,” the thug said. His comrades drew small crossbows, aiming them at Tristam. “The warforged is the one we want. Just tell us what we need to know and we’ll only give you a beating. We’ll even let the girl go.” He gave Seren a ghastly grin. “Eventually.”
“You haven’t the faintest idea who you’ve insulted,” Tristam said. “My name is Tristam Xain, and I rank among the most skilled swordsmen in the Lhazaar Principalities.”
The man gave Tristam another appraising look and then laughed out loud. Tristam’s bold façade faded noticeably.
Seren looked at the man coldly. “Are you an idiot?” she said. “Omax let you live because he could. We aren’t worth the pain we’d give you. Leave while you can.”
The tower master looked at Seren soberly, then glanced back at Tristam, with a disdainful sneer. He reached for the heavy crossbow at his hip.
A mocking chuckle sounded from the doorway, causing the thug to stay his hand. He turned quickly, aiming his crossbow at the newcomer. A stocky man in a long brown coat stepped into the room. His face was plain and unremarkable except for his sharp blue eyes. A long pipe hung from his lip, leaving a drifting plume of smoke as he entered. The newcomer looked at Seren, Tristam, and each of the men before looking at their leader again.
“This d-doesn’t involve you, Arthen,” the tower master said, stuttering in fear.
“I’m only trying to help you, Hareld,” the man said, tapping out his pipe and tucking it into his coat. “She’s right, you know. You are an idiot,” He looked at Seren with a sly grin. “You can’t even see her hands. Kol Korran knows what sort of weapon she’s hiding under that cloak. The boy’s no threat. I won’t argue that, but look at the girl’s eyes. She’ll kill the first man that makes a move. Who will be first? Hesitate at all, and at least one of you won’t walk away from this. Of course, that’s your best-case scenario. That assumes that I don’t plan to help them. That shifts the odds considerably.”
“Help them?” one of the others said, meekly.
“They are my clients,” Arthen said. He plucked a chair from a nearby table and effortlessly wrenched one of its legs free, hefting it as an improvised club. “Shall we begin?”
The tower master lowered his crossbow and gestured for the others to do the same. “No, no, that’s not necessary,” he said, stumbling over the words. “We’ll … we’ll just go.”
Arthen stepped away from the door, pointing the way with his club. The thugs nearly fell over each other in their haste to depart. When they were gone, Zed dropped the table leg on the floor and looked at Tristam with an unpleasant expression.
“So I’m nothing, Sir Arthen?” Tristam asked, snapping his sword into its scabbard. “I am honored to have risen so highly in your estimation.”
“Don’t start, boy,” he said, leveling a dangerous glare at the artificer. “Don’t call me, ‘Sir.’ ”
Tristam’s face darkened, but he looked away quickly.
Zed looked to Seren, expression softening only marginally. “Zed Arthen, professional inquisitive,” he said, flourishing his long coat in a half-bow.
“Seren Morisse,” she answered, noticing the many pouches and small tools that hung from Arthen’s belt and within his coat. “We’ve been sent …”
“I know who sent you,” he interrupted. “Normally I wouldn’t mind keeping Dalan waiting, but we should get you back to your ship before dark.”
“What happens here at night?” Tristam asked.
“The village is perched on a pit into the deepest hells of Khyber. Do you really need details?” Zed said. “Now let’s go.”
Seren and Tristam filed back out of the tavern with Zed only a step behind. The streets were empty now, long shadows stretching across the road. The inquisitive hurried past them, his pace brisk as he kept a nervous eye on the setting sun.
“Could be nothing, mind you,” Zed said as they jogged to keep up with him. “It’s usually nothing. One night in twenty. Of course, that night is well worth worrying about the other nineteen.”
“Criminals and demons. Why do you live here, Arthen?” Tristam said, shaking his head as they pressed on.
“Fairly preferable to your own circumstances,” Zed said. “Incidentally, Miss Morisse, I know we don’t know one another and I hesitate to give advice to strangers, but I’d avoid becoming tangled up with Dalan d’Cannith.”
“Arthen,” Tristam said in a warning tone.
Zed ignored him. “Whatever reason you have to work with him, whatever reason you think you need him, forget it. He’s either lying to you or not telling you everything. Probably both. Leave him behind.” He paused for a moment. “Once you reach a port safer than Black Pit, just leave. Don’t even say goodbye; just go.”
“Like you did?” Tristam asked, leaning close to whisper the password at the tower door.