The City of Towers: The Dreaming Dark - Book I (5 page)

“Domo, I have returned, and I have three guests. I apologize for arriving unexpectedly. It’s a very long story. Please inform your master at once.”

The warforged did not budge. “You are not unexpected. Nor are you welcome in Round Wind. Leave now.” Its voice was a deep, rolling rumble, and the hostility was unmistakable.

Lei frowned. “What are you talking about, Domo? I am Lei d’Cannith of Metrol!” She held her signet before her like a sword, and her anger caused the Cannith seal to blaze with light. “You will announce me to Lord Hadran at once, or I’ll see you melted into scrap!”

The air seemed to ripple around her hands, and Daine had a flashback of a warforged soldier exploding in the battle of Keldan Ridge.

“I do not take orders from excoriates,” said Domo. “You have no place here. Return to the streets or I shall summon guards and have you removed.”

The words hit Lei like a blow. The fire went out of her, and she took a step back. Daine half-expected Jode to jump in, but even he looked pale. Lei looked back at the warforged, seemingly dazed. “Ex … but … why?”

Domo raised a hand, and Daine heard guards approaching. He stepped forward and took Lei’s arm. “Back off, gemstone. We’re leaving.”

Lei followed blindly, still in a state of shock. As they walked down the long path, Lei paused to look at the statue closest to the door. It was a work in progress—a masculine figure in the robes of a Cannith artificer, but the features were still unformed. Lei stared at the blank face in silence, and then allowed Daine to pull her toward the street.

“We spent all of our silver on the coach,” Jode said, “so I’m afraid we’re going to have to take the long way down. I think we
should go to that High Walls district the gate guard mentioned. If there are other Cyrans there, it’s probably our best chance for finding shelter. Still, we’re going to need coin, and quickly.”

Lei still seemed to be in a daze. She had taken off her Cannith signet ring and was idly turning it around in her hand. Daine couldn’t remember seeing her cry before today, but for the second time today her eyes were glittering in the light of the cold flames.

Pierce was bringing up the rear of the group, and he approached Lei. “My lady, what is wrong? I am afraid I did not understand the conversation at the manor gate.”

Lei stopped walking. Anger and sorrow warred on her face. “I’m
not
your lady, Pierce! Not anymore. I’m ex … ex …”

“Excoriate,” Jode said quietly.

Lei wheeled to face him with fury in her eyes then clenched her fists and turned away. She grabbed Pierce in a fierce embrace, sobbing against the mithral plating of his chest.

Pierce had been forged for war, and none of his companions could match his skills in battle. But he knew little about soothing distress. He put his hands on Lei’s shoulders as if he was worried he might break her.

“My lady, I do not know this word. What is this … excoriate?”

Lei continued sobbing. “Why?” she murmured.

“Excoriation is a tradition among the dragonmarked houses,” Jode said, his tone more subdued than usual. “It is a punishment reserved for those who have severely violated the precepts of the house, not unlike excommunication in the Church of the Silver Flame. It was first put into practice around the time of the War of the Mark … though back then they would actually flay the skin from the victim, stripping away his mark both literally and figuratively.”

“You can’t actually cut away a dragonmark, can you?” Daine asked.

“No, you can’t actually take the mark away. The flaying was a symbolic gesture—though many excoriates must have died during the process. The social implications are what matters. An excoriate is no longer part of the house. Other members
of the house are not to speak with him or aid him in any way. He is barred from all enclaves and estates. He cannot marry within the house. If he claims to be an heir of the house, he can be prosecuted under the laws of Galifar. It’s a serious charge, and it takes the authority of a baron or a house council to order it.”

Daine approached Lei and gently put his hand on her back. “Lei,” he said softly. “Why would they do this to you? What have you done?”

Lei pushed away from Pierce and Daine.
“I don’t know!”
she howled. “All I’ve ever done I’ve done for the house!
How could they do this to me?
”

Blind with rage, she made a savage gesture with her left hand. There was a glitter of silver, and Daine realized that she’d hurled her signet off the great ring of Dalan’s Refuge to fall thousands of feet to the peaks below.

Jode sighed. “That would have bought us at least a night’s lodging.” He shrugged. “Look, Captain, we need to get moving if we’re going to get a roof over our heads.” He made a sidelong gesture with his head. “And I think the natives are getting restless.”

Indeed, a few Brelish guardsmen were watching them from a hundred feet away, and one was idly toying with his crossbow.

“You’re right.” He sighed. “Lei … Lei, we’ll sort this out. Just … give it time. Pierce, could you …” He gestured at Lei, and the warforged soldier carefully picked her up.

“Take heart, my lady,” he rumbled, as they began the long journey down. “This battle has just begun.”

R
asial hated the deep tunnels of Khyber’s Gate. The smell of sewage and smoke filled the air, and the cold torches were few and far between, leaving long pools of shadow in the subterranean passages. But business was business. He stood beneath the flickering torch, cleaning his fingernails with his dagger and trying to look calm.

“Rasial?” The voice from the shadows was soft and oily. A moment later, three people emerged from the darkness. As promised, they were unarmed. The man in the lead wore a tattered brown cloak and his face was hidden by a deep cowl. A man and a woman stood behind him, dressed in roughspun cloth patched with burlap. They were covered with dirt and scabs, and their faces were almost devoid of expression. How did I ever come to this? Rasial thought.

“Yeah.”

“Rasial …
Tarkanan?”

“That’s me.”

“I thank you for meeting us so promptly. I trust you have the merchandise that we discussed?” The voice of the hooded man seemed to shift slightly every time he spoke … it was barely noticeable, but the pitch and inflection changed from moment to moment.

“Yeah, I got it.” Rasial tossed the small pouch in the air and caught it with his left hand, revealing the glistening black
dragonmark and the sores upon his palm.

The hooded man seemed hissed. “Yesss, good.”

“The question is if you can uphold your end of our bargain,” said Rasial. “Gold is a start, but until you prove that you can deliver on your promises, this—” he tossed the bag and caught it in his right hand—“stays with me. And if you’re thinking of trying anything stupid—” he extended his left hand, and for a moment the shadows seemed to be drawn toward his palm—“I’d stop now.”

The hooded man laughed, a horrible, gurgling sound. For a moment his face was revealed by the torchlight, and Rasial gasped. It was a horrible ruin, with exposed muscle that seemed to pulse and twitch with his laughter.

“Oh, have no fear, Rasial,” the stranger said. “All your problems will be over soon enough.”

His two companions leaped forward without a sound, moving with unnatural speed and in perfect unison. It was clear Rasial couldn’t outrun them, so he hurled the pouch at the wall of the tunnel, hoping to smash its contents and steal their victory, but to his shock a fleshy tentacle lashed out from the spokesman’s arm and snatched the purse from the air. The next thing he knew, the man with the vacant stare was right in front of him, slashing at him with claws that had grown from his hands.

What were these people?

Rasial spun to the side, but even as he did he felt a burning pain along his ribs. The stranger’s claws tore into his side.

But now it was Rasial’s turn. He slammed his left hand into the man’s face, letting his power flow through his palm and into his attacker. As always, the pain was excruciating, but as bad as it was for him, it was far worse for his victim. The stranger cried out—the first sound he’d made—and fell to his knees, clutching at his face. Rasial smiled. But he had forgotten about the woman. The next thing he knew there was a sharp pain in the pack of his neck, and he found himself falling.

Darkness stole his senses before he hit the ground.

T
hey must have walked half a mile before they found the lift. Now they were slowly dropping toward the bottom of Sharn on a large disk of floating metal. Daine tried to ignore the fact that the only thing standing between him and a drop of two thousand feet was a thin, invisible field of arcane energy. Pierce was carrying Lei cradled in his arms. She had finally fallen asleep. Daine stood at the center of the disk, talking quietly to Jode.

“How do we even know this is real? What if that whetstone of a warforged was playing some sort of a joke?”

Jode shook his tiny head. “It’s just not something you joke about, captain.
Especially
a warforged, doubly so a servant in the house of the lord she’s to be married to. That ’forged belongs to the household, and if the lord wanted to melt him down, he could.”

“What about Hadran, then? Could he have put the ’forged up to it? Or condemned Lei to get out of the marriage? They haven’t seen each other for years, right?”

“No, it still doesn’t make sense. Lei’s family died with Cyre. If Hadran wants out, who’s going to challenge him? Besides, there are established grounds for excoriation. You know that as well as I do. It’s not something you do on a whim, lord or no lord.”

Daine sighed. “Meanwhile, we’re high and dry. So much for
Lord Hadran’s fabled generosity. And if Sharn is anything like Metrol, I imagine the guards won’t like us setting up camp on the street corner.”

Jode smiled. “Leave it to me, Captain. Have I ever let you down?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that.”

Once a residential district, High Walls had been converted to serve as a prison—a fortified ghetto for those deemed a security risk to Breland and Sharn. Now that the war was coming to a close, the gates were open and the portcullises were raised, but the guards remained, and black-cloaked archers walked the walls that gave the region its name. Beyond the gates, the district was a dismal sight. Walls were cracked, windows broken, cobblestones had even been lifted from the streets. The few people who were still about were filthy folk in torn and soiled clothes, watching from alleys or peering out of shattered windows.