Sabira tensed, preparing to be mobbed by House Ghallanda halflings, but the kitchen staff ignored Thecla’s offer-apparently their jobs were worth more to them than platinum. Either that, or their fear of the club’s owner overcame their greed, which was perhaps not so remarkable if Daask had its hand in the Glitterdust’s till.
The delivery men, on the other hand, had no such compunctions. The two nearest Sabira aimed their empty soarsled at her knees, and only a quick twist of her hips and a sidestep worthy of the dance floor saved her from being served up to Thecla on the floating disk like a pig on a platter.
Greddark, behind her, proved a bit more nimble, grabbing the soarsled by its leading edge and whipping it around, sending it back into the gawking delivery men with a grunt. The two went down flailing, knocking a cooling rack full of oven-fresh beesh-berry tarts from their perch and onto their exposed arms and heads. Their yelps of pain almost succeeded in drowning out Thecla’s growl of frustration.
“Get them!”
She leaped over the writhing men, Greddark on her heels, and was almost to the door when another pair of delivery men entered with another soarsled, this one burdened with a cask of Brelish redeye brandy. Moving too fast to avoid a collision, Sabira did the next best thing and went low, rolling under the wooden disk to safety.
As she sprang to her feet, Greddark yelled.
“Sabira! The cask!”
She didn’t stop to ask why; instead, she brought her urgrosh around and slammed the axe-blade into the smooth wood of the barrel. It exploded into a shower of splinters and alcohol. Greddark jumped out of the way as the crimson flood poured out onto the floor. He brought his own weapon to bear and for a moment, Sabira thought the dwarf had taken leave of his senses and was actually trying to attack the gushing liquid. Then she saw him push a button on the hilt of his short sword. Alchemist’s fire raced from the flask in the pommel down the length of the blade, setting it aflame. When Greddark thrust the sword into the pool of brandy, the whole thing went up with a loud whoosh, nearly singeing his boots.
As the kitchen staff erupted into movement to try and douse the blue and orange flames, Sabira looked over the conflagration at Thecla, who was effectively trapped, unless he decided Arach’s bounty was worth burning for. Olladra knew, for a hundred platinum dragons, she’d consider it.
But Thecla apparently valued his appearance more than that and made no move to cross the flames, instead standing on the other side and glaring, his good hand clenched into a white, quivering fist.
When she saw he was giving up, Sabira flashed him a smug smile and raised her hand in a quick wave. Then she and Greddark darted out the door and into the alleyway, the smell of burnt alcohol fading away behind them as they made their way out into the street and hailed a coach.
As they climbed in, Sabira looked over at the inquisitive.
“Clever. I just hope Breven’s letter of credit will cover my half of the bill.”
Greddark’s lips twisted in an amused smile.
“Better hope it covers the whole thing.”
“And why is that?” she asked warily.
The dwarf laughed.
“You don’t honestly think I gave them my real name, do you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK
Sharn, Breland.
The last of the seven bells was just echoing off the high towers of Upper Central Plateau when Sabira pulled the rope outside the door of the Wayfinder Foundation offices in Korran-Thiven. A deeper note sounded from somewhere within the thin minaret attached to the tower that housed Riak’s Fine Imports. The main tower boasted massive darkwood doors and an intricate carved facade of scenes from inner Xen’drik-quite accurate, from what Sabira could see, though she’d only been there once herself. In contrast, the Wayfinder spire was plain and unremarkable, the only thing differentiating it from a thousand other similar pinnacles throughout the district was a small gold-plated placard next to the pull embossed with a simple “W. F.”
There was no answer for several long moments, and the armed guards in front of Riak’s started giving them unfriendly looks. Of course, in a financial district more obsessed with hoarding wealth than acquiring it, neither the guards nor their demeanor were that unusual. Still, Sabira didn’t particularly want to have to flash her brooch at them to get them to mind their own business-the fewer people who knew she was here, the better, especially if Greddark decided he needed to dabble in arson again.
Finally, a middle-aged woman in silvercloth pants and a matching brocaded jacket opened door.
“You’re late,” she said, looking down her nose disdainfully at Sabira’s glitter-spangled hair. Sabira resisted the urge to brush the sparkling dust off her shoulders and returned the other woman’s irate look with one of her own. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d taken a quarter bell to answer the door. But Sabira had dealt with that aristocratic arrogance more times in her career than she could count, and she knew bringing that fact to the other woman’s attention would be pointless-among the rarified circles of Sharn’s upper city, the truth was always secondary to the balance in your House Kundarak account.
“And getting later the longer we stand here,” she rejoined pointedly, “so if you’d like to let us by…?”
The woman harrumphed, but stepped aside and waved them in.
“Lord ir’Dayne is feeling particularly unwell this evening, so this meeting will be kept short.”
The meeting would last however long it took to make sure Sabira got what she needed, and if the snooty woman in silver didn’t like it, she’d gag her and chain her to a chair. But Sabira decided to keep that to herself for now, since she needed the other woman to guide her to ir’Dayne. The halfling head of the Wayfinder Foundation was widely rumored to be more than a bit paranoid, and Sabira didn’t doubt the office was full of nasty surprises for unwelcome visitors.
Though the small tower was nothing compared to the foundation’s Fairhaven Conclave, it still contained its fair share of oddities and wonders. The short entry hall was filled with Aerenal tapestries, a bookshelf heavy with Dhakaani pottery and trinkets from places as far away as Sarlona and Argonnessen, and various stuffed figures, including the biggest owlbear Sabira had ever seen. A glass case lit by a floating golden everbright globe featured the claws and stinger of a scorrow from Xen’drik, each one easily twice the size of Sabira’s head. The scorrow, a horrible centaurlike hybrid of drow and scorpion, was one of the most feared predators in both Xen’drik’s deserts and her jungles and the foundation had a standing offer for any who were brought in to one of its outposts alive for study. This one, which a placard identified as Menezthadazz, sire of Mendexethazz, hadn’t been that lucky. Then again, considering how the foundation might choose to “study” such a creature, maybe he had.
As the woman led them up several flights of stairs, Sabira was struck by the office’s air of disuse. While the foundation’s headquarters in Fairhaven was always humming with activity, whether it be visitors to the vast two- story museum, students attending lectures, or adventurers getting ready to leave on or returning from foundation- sponsored expeditions, the stillness of the Sharn office was more akin to that of a library. Or a tomb.
Maybe that’s what it was, Sabira thought. Ever since Boroman had returned from his last foray into Xen’drik, he’d been slowly wasting away, the victim of some curse for which even the greatest healers and wizards in Khorvaire could find no cure. Though the halfling tried to remain active in the everyday affairs of the foundation, and still retained executive control over its Conclave, he’d been retiring to the Sharn office more and more frequently over the past year, supposedly to “recuperate.” Given the office’s convenient location in the financial district, Sabira wondered if he weren’t actually getting his affairs in order.
The silver-clothed woman paused before a nondescript door on the tower’s third level and knocked once. Though Sabira heard nothing from the other side, the woman gave her and Greddark a stern look and then pushed the door open and led them inside.
Based on what she’d seen below, Sabira had expected to find an office crammed with a desk, shelves groaning under the weight of maps, and bizarre collectables from the world over shoved into every nook and cranny. Instead, the woman ushered them into a small, almost utilitarian bedroom dominated by a huge canopied bed.
In the middle of the bed, dwarfed by massive pillows and nearly buried in paper, lay a halfling wrapped in a green velvet robe and sucking on a long, curved pipe. Sabira recognized the pungent aroma of firepepper leaves,
