“I wish I knew more about this Sorghan,” Thorn muttered at last, as if talking to herself. “I hate killing a stranger.”
A fair question, Steel said, though his voice was cold. Let me consider it.
It was times like this that Thorn wished she knew more about Steel. She’d received the dagger after Far Passage. Steel had admitted that he’d been assigned to watch her, to make sure she was fully recovered from the incident. She knew that Steel was over a hundred years old, that he’d worked with Dark Lanterns well before the Last War, back when the Citadel served the united kingdom of Galifar. But had he ever been human? Or was he some sort of construct or a bound spirit? In moments such as this, was he drawing on personal knowledge or somehow tapping into the library of the Citadel itself?
Sorghan d’Deneith was born in Karrnath and trained at the Sentinel Tower in Karrlakton, Steel said at last, but he has spent the last five years in Breland. According to the rankings of the house, he’s the most dangerous marshal in residence. However, he has a poor recovery ratio. He prefers to kill rather than take his quarry alive. As a result, he’s usually assigned to pursue criminals already condemned to death.
So even if he was killing aberrants, it was possible he was simply executing convicted criminals. Or Fileon might be telling the truth. Sorghan could be killing innocents between his legitimate contracts, using his reputation to cover his actions.
Thorn reached down and scratched the rat’s head. It looked up, staring at her with beady eyes. “What do you think, little one?”
Your course of action is clear, Steel said. You can’t murder a Sentinel Marshal. There are only three Tarkanans in residence in the manor, and two of them likely know the location of the Son of Khyber. Eliminate two of them, and force the third to reveal his location. A swift assassination completes the assignment.
Thorn’s temper rose. She’d already considered this and dismissed it. The mission was to evaluate the threat posed by the Son of Khyber and to kill him if it became necessary. So far, there was no proof that he was a threat. The Tarkanans were involved in organized crime, but in Sharn, the same could be said of nine out of ten members of the city watch.
She tapped Steel’s pommel. Twice.
You are losing perspective, Lantern. You have a mission. Don’t forget where your loyalties lie.
Thorn raised her thumb to tap the hilt And stopped. There was an ember of anger glowing within her-anger at the dragonmarked houses. She pictured the ambassadors of the Twelve giving orders to the Citadel. She saw the fear in the people around her, the change in their expressions when they saw the mark around her eye. She thought of Fileon, a man who’d sworn his life to Breland only to be sent to his death. And she made up her mind. Perhaps she could still find a way to spare the life of this murderous marshal. If not, it was the Twelve who had set this wheel in motion. Let them bear the price. She reached into her belt pouch and stroked the rat’s head.
“Very well, my friend. Let’s see what destiny has in store for us.”
Steel’s thoughts pierced her mind. Do you intend to kill Sorghan d’Deneith?
Thorn slid the dagger all the way into its sheath and continued down the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dragon Towers Lharvion 20, 999 YK Black Blade ale,” Thorn said, licking the foam from her lips. She slipped a chunk of sharp Karrnathi cheese to the rat on her lap. “It’s hardly worth dying for.”
The rat nibbled on the cheese but gave no other response. Thorn wondered if Zae was watching at that moment and what she made of the comment. While Thorn didn’t care much for the brew, it had proven to be her ally tonight. Sorghan made his home in the Deneith enclave in Dragon Towers, a veritable fortress protected by the best soldiers and wards the house could muster. She’d cracked harder targets, but not many-and never operating on her own, with no resources to speak of and no allies. But Thorn knew soldiers, and she guessed that Sorghan wouldn’t spend his Farnight in the enclave canteen. At which point it became a question of identifying his favorite haunts. Thanks to Steel, she knew that Sorghan was born and raised in Karrnath. One could find Karrnathi Nightwood ale in any Ghallanda tavern, but Sorghan came from the city of Karrlakton, and that meant he’d been nursed on the product of the Black Blade Brewery. There was only one inn that served the brew in Dragon Towers: the Lion and Goat, whose trade sign was a statue of a chimera with the dragon’s head knocked off of it. A few greased palms confirmed her suspicions. Sorghan was a regular, and the barman expected him to show when the evening hours rolled by.
Her preparations made, Thorn made her way to the Deneith enclave, watching the gates from the shadows of the nearest alley. The sketch she’d been given was a good one, and she easily spotted Sorghan when he emerged from the stronghold. If assassination were her only goal, she could have struck on the street the moment he was safely away from the watchful eyes of the Deneith guards. But she still hoped to find a way to win the trust of the Tarkanans without killing the marshal, and so she’d shadowed him as he’d made his way to the inn. Now she watched him from a dark corner, surrounded by off-duty mercenaries and the scents of sweat and spilled beer.
Sorghan was drinking alone tonight, and lightly. It seemed that he was a man who never let his guard down. His back was against the wall, and his free hand rested on his blade. He’d worn his armor to the bar, dark leather reinforced with rivets of blackened steel. He was waiting for someone. He’d turned away two companions in the time it had taken Thorn to finish her beer. But he’d yet to notice her.
He’s protected from poisons, Steel told her. He has a spatial pocket woven into his right gauntlet, as you have in your own gloves. I can’t tell you what’s within.
She tapped the dagger once.
I trust that you know what you’re doing, Lantern Thorn. His chilly emphasis on the word “Lantern” suggested that he still had his doubts. My first loyalty is to the Citadel, and I will be obliged to give a full accounting of your actions.
Thorn lifted her hand from the blade and considered her options. Killing him wasn’t the challenge. As a Dark Lantern, Thorn had been trained in the arts of espionage and counterespionage. Skilled as she was when it came to bypassing a lock or shadowing a mark, assassination was her specialty. She’d already considered three possible ways she could finish Sorghan before he could rise from his chair. And if she’d just wanted him dead, that would have been enough. She’d studied the building, even gone so far as to rent a room on the upper floor. She could cripple him with a swift blow, take to the stairs in the ensuing chaos, and slip out the window before anyone could follow.
Unfortunately, his death alone would accomplish nothing. She needed the brooch, and she couldn’t predict how long it would take to retrieve it from his body. And in a room full of Deneith troops, every second would be precious. Besides, in spite of her anger at the Twelve, Thorn still hoped to keep Sorghan alive. She could look into Fileon’s claims once the mission was over, but for now she’d prefer to get Sorghan safely out of Sharn.
Thorn glanced down at the rat. The creature had finished the last crumb of cheese, and Thorn tucked it into her pouch. Time to act.
A trip to the bar provided her with two more flagons of Black Blade. So armed, she strode over to the corner and took a seat at the table.
“That seat is claimed, my lady.” Sorghan’s voice was deep and rough, and his gray eyes could have been chips of flint. Thorn could see the silver brooch, but he wasn’t wearing it on his cloak. Instead, it was pinned to his armor, partially hidden by dark wool.
“Quite. It was good of you to save it for me.” She pushed a flagon across the table. “I’m happy to repay the favor.”
“I’m in no mood for company.”
“It’s not up to you, Marshal Sorghan.” Thorn let her hood slide back and ran her fingers along the edge of her dragonmark. “I’m afraid I’m on family business.”
Thorn had changed before entering the bar. There was more to the work of the Lantern than mere muscle and steel. During her days in the Citadel, she’d learned to work a few spells. It wasn’t something that came easily or often, but in times like this, it was invaluable. She’d woven an illusion that hid her face and form, and now she appeared to be a minister of House Deneith with the Mark of Sentinel traced across her face. She’d darkened her hair and sharpened her features, highlighting the Karrnathi ideals of beauty.
