Ah. That narrowed it down. Even she knew where that was, and all her previous trips here had begun and ended at the tavern.
“Good luck to you,” Bardiche said, extending his hand.
Sabira hesitated a moment before accepting the grasp.
“Can’t say as I wish you the same, considering, but I hope you and your brethren realize that you’re freer than you know before you do anything rash.” Of course, she didn’t have a lot of faith in epiphanies, so she planned on making sure she wasn’t around, just in case.
She nodded to the monitor and then made her way up the two flights of stairs to the level that featured the Gorgon. As Bardiche had said, it was essentially an enormous bull’s head atop a floating pedestal that seemed to be powered by a gigantic blue orb that glowed and crackled with arcane energies. It was an ostentatious display of power and craftsmanship, one far more suited to the larger metropolises of Khorvaire than to this wild jungle continent. Toven d’Cannith, the head of the enclave, had certainly outdone himself. The sight was enough to make the true heads of the House-Merrix, Jorlana, and Zorlan-green with envy. Either that, or white with fear.
First Greigur with his royal purple crest that had nothing of the traditional Deneith green and yellow in it, and now Toven with his Gorgon to rival the relics of the giants. Sabira was beginning to wonder if all the dragonmarked Houses arranged for their overly-ambitious scions to be sent away to Xen’drik before they could cause problems on the larger continent.
Then again, if that were true, the population of Stormreach would be much, much higher.
Sabira saw a warforged hammering at the side of a building in a tiny dirt courtyard that boasted a single tree and some tall bushes. As she neared, she saw it was indeed a ventilation shaft he was working on, with a large fan that circulated air to workers in levels far below the enclave.
The warforged noticed her and paused in his work. He regarded her with unblinking violet eyes.
“They like to talk about House Cannith and its amazing devices,” he said conversationally. “But somehow they never seem to mention the folks who keep those devices running, day and night.”
“Well, they are the House of Making, not the House of Maintenance,” Sabira replied, wondering belatedly if Bardiche’s idea of “favorable” had anything in common with her own.
Guisarme surprised her by opening his mouth wide in a booming laugh that echoed off the walls of the small enclosure.
As his laughter was trailing off, Sabira heard a noise behind her and turned. A small crowd of men and women had gathered at the sound. None of them looked happy, and some of them bore naked steel.
“Kanjira said the one who attacked her had a hammer-that must be him. Get him!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wir, Barrakas 4, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.
Sabira pulled out her brooch and held it up. “Not happening, folks. I’d suggest you put those weapons down and back off until I can get to the bottom of this.” The group hesitated, not yet unruly enough to challenge a Sentinel Marshal, even if the odds were ten to one in their favor. “Now. What exactly is it Guisarme here is supposed to have done?”
A thin man stepped forward, spurred on by a large woman in garish purple skirts who could only be his wife. Her face was bright red and contorted with hatred as she looked at the warforged, and Sabira was concerned the woman might collapse in an apoplectic fit at any moment.
“That warforged attacked my daughter behind the Crafting Hall! He hit her in the head with that hammer and took her pouch! And now we’re going to teach him a lesson!”
The Crafting Hall was across the square, one of several buildings-like the one Guisarme was working on-that faced the Gorgon and saw a lot of foot traffic. It seemed an unlikely place for a robbery, especially in the middle of the day.
“With that hammer there?” Sabira asked. The crowd was on her right and Guisarme was on her left, so she stepped back toward the building as she gestured, to give the angry parents and their followers a better view. Guisarme held out the small sledge he’d been working with. “The one that is completely free of blood?”
“So? He wiped it off!”
“On what?” Sabira countered. “His clothes-the ones he’s not wearing? The nonexistent grass? Oh, I know. He wiped it off on a rag which he then stashed in the same place where he put the money he stole, somewhere in between this little courtyard and the Crafting Hall less than one hundred feet from here. All while about a dozen people and their iron dogs milled around, including a handful of Cannith monitors. Yes, that makes perfect sense.”
“In the bushes, then!”
Well, that was barely possible, she supposed, though it would make Guisarme the stupidest thief she’d ever encountered. Either that, or the cockiest.
“Look for yourself,” she said magnanimously. As Kanjira’s mother moved forward, Sabira shook her head. “No, not you.” She didn’t trust the woman not to cut herself behind the bushes and drop her own pouch to fabricate evidence against the warforged.
“You.” She pointed at an orc who’d wandered over to the edge of the crowd, attracted by all the commotion. “What’s your name?”
“Skraad Walor,” he replied. “It’s a travesty, seeing a proud warrior treated this way.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant Guisarme or Kanjira’s mother-or possibly Kanjira herself, who was conspicuously absent from the mob that had formed to avenge her.
“Actually, a travesty is what I’m trying to prevent. So, if you wouldn’t mind…?”
The orc pushed his way through the crowd, which had grown in number, though it didn’t yet include any House Cannith monitors. Surely the enclave’s security must be aware of the situation by now. Sabira had to wonder what they were waiting for.
He crossed the dirt yard in three steps and shoved the bushes aside, bending low to examine the ground and disappearing behind the greenery in the process. After a moment of searching, he reappeared, holding up something in his left hand.
A bloodthirsty cheer went up from the mob until the orc stepped back out onto the dirt and proceeded to smooth out the crumpled up paper he’d found. It was a copy of the Stormreach Chronicle.
“Droaam Expedition Lands in Xen’drik!” he read, in a surprisingly good imitation of a Chronicle newsboy. “Invasion Rumors Spread!”
He made a show of examining the broadsheet front and back.
“No blood. No pouch. No warforged prints, either. Sorry.” He balled the paper up and threw it back into the bushes.
Sabira turned to Kanjira’s mother, who was even redder than before, though Sabira would have bet a hefty sum that particular shade of crimson wasn’t humanly possible.
“It seems like you have the wrong warforged. Maybe you might want to get back to Kanjira and try tracking down the real culprit now? Though he’s probably halfway to the harbor by this time.”
Several of the members of the crowd started to move away, murmuring in disappointment. Sabira was relieved to see more than one sword make its way back into its sheath. It would be nice to settle this without having to bloody her shard axe.
Kanjira’s father placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but she shrugged him off. Another man moved up behind her, and by his size and florid complexion, Sabira guessed he was either Kanjira’s maternal uncle or her brother.
“I don’t care what you say, I don’t care who you are-I know that warforged attacked my daughter, and he’s going to pay!”
“Melcare!” her husband yelled in warning, but it was too late. The woman pulled a dagger from her voluminous skirts and darted around Sabira to try to get at Guisarme.
With an annoyed sigh, Sabira set her feet and grabbed the woman’s long braid as she passed. Just as the
