The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III (13 page)

“That would be all he needed. He knows what he saw. I told you, he’s ambitious. He knows what bringing you to the lords of Deneith would do for his status in the house.”

“You know a lot about him.”

Singe let out a sigh. “When I first joined the Frostbrand, he was Robrand d’Deneith’s lieutenant. Robrand dismissed Mithas when his gambling nearly put the company in danger—and not long after that, he made me lieutenant in his place.” He pushed himself upright. “I suppose we were rivals before that, though. Sorcerers and wizards don’t always get along. His magic is instinctive. I had to work at mine, but I surpassed him. Mithas is the kind of person who doesn’t like seeing anyone get ahead of him.”

“Do you think he’ll send House Deneith after us?” Ashi asked.

“Probably not. That would play his hand too soon. I wouldn’t underestimate what he could accomplish on his own, though. This isn’t good. It isn’t good at all.” He rubbed fingers across his eyes in frustration.

The motion brought a crinkle of paper from his vest. He reached into his pocket and extracted the message that had been waiting for him and looked at it. “You know,” he said, “I don’t even know that this is from Geth. I told him to send a message by Orien post, not Sivis messenger.”

“Are you going to look?”

Singe shrugged and broke the wax that had sealed the
message—if Mithas had read it, he managed to seal it up again—and scanned the few lines written on the gray paper in the neat script of a gnome scribe. His mouth twitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but he could still see the words.

“Is it from Geth?”

“It’s from Geth,” he said. He opened his eyes and read the message:

He folded the message again. His jaw ached, he was holding it so tightly. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything more than that, but twelve moons—all that trouble and this is what we get!” He crushed the message in his hand.

“We got something else,” Ashi said. She held out the scrap of paper she had acquired in the Deneith enclave. “This was on the pillar by the Sentinel Marshals display.”

“The pillar of warrant-notices?” Singe took the paper and smoothed it out.

It was indeed a warrant-notice, now somewhat torn by Ashi’s removal of it from the pillar. It had yellowed with age, and Singe guessed that it was many years old. Many years also separated the face printed in woodblock on the notice from the face that Singe knew, but both the face and the name below it were familiar.

Natrac of Graywall. Wanted in Sharn for extortion, arson, armed assault, assault and battery, fraud, theft, suspicion of murder, suspicion of slave-trading …

The hood of his cowl pulled low, Natrac slid a few copper crowns across the bar. The wood was rough, cracked from
moisture and scarred by blades. The old goblin on the other side of the bar had a face to match and big eyes that didn’t look like they missed anything. He made the coins disappear with the practiced ease of an old pickpocket and said in the guttural language of his race, “I’ve seen someone like that second fellow. Wears a hat that shades his face and covers his ears, so I don’t know if he’s a half-elf for sure, but he’s got the build and he doesn’t bother to hide his hair. Long and blond. I know people who would kill for that hair. Wigmakers pay good money.”

Vennet. Natrac’s gut tightened and his belly gurgled from watery ale consumed in nearly a dozen vile taverns. “Where did you see him? When?” he asked in Goblin.

“Two Boot Way near Nightpot Close.” The bartender shrugged skinny shoulders. “I’ve seen him a few times. I cut that way when I come to work.”

“Was there anyone with him? The pale human with green eyes I asked about?”

The goblin examined him for a moment as if assessing whether he could get another bribe out of his mysterious visitor, then shrugged again. “No. Haven’t seen anyone like that.”

“What about a heron … a big, skinny bird with black feathers and green eyes?”

This time the goblin snorted. “You look like you know your way around,
chib
. When have you ever seen a bird in Malleon’s Gate?”

Natrac had to admit that he had a point. He took a sip from the mug of ale that the goblin had put in front of him when he’d first approached the bar.

Dandra and Singe weren’t going to be happy that he’d risked going down to Malleon’s Gate alone. Ashi would be furious that he’d gone to the dangerous district without her. If he’d been going anywhere else, he would have brought all three of them along—Lords of the Host, he thought, I’m not stupid!—but he had told Dandra the truth. Malleon’s Gate wasn’t the place to start a fight. One person could pass through the dens and lairs of the district with far less trouble than four. Especially if he knew his way around. In spite of the years since he’d left Sharn, the important things in Malleon’s Gate hadn’t changed.
A couple of taverns closed, a couple more opened, a few old acquaintances dead, but he didn’t want to see old acquaintances. He’d made a point of talking only to people he didn’t know and who presumably didn’t know him. It had taken longer to get answers, but it had kept his head on his shoulders.

But Singe, Dandra, and Ashi might still have reason to forgive him his secrets. He’d hoped to pick up rumors in Sharn’s underworld that might point to Dah’mir or his activities. He hadn’t actually expected to find solid information on Vennet d’Lyrandar—and finding the treacherous half-elf was as good as finding the dragon. Natrac couldn’t believe the two would be far apart.

Two Boot Way was a common short cut. Vennet could still be almost anywhere in Malleon’s Gate, but knowing he was in the district was a very good start.

Natrac took another sip from his mug, then set it aside and pushed himself away from the bar. “Thanks for the word.”

“This half-elf’s nothing to me,” said the goblin. The little bartender hesitated, then added, “You might want to be careful with him. When I’ve seen him, he’s had a big sailor’s cutlass on his belt and he’s always been talking to himself. I think he might be …” He tapped his temple.

“He is,” grunted Natrac. He turned away from the bar—and froze.

At a table against one wall of the tavern, twin reflections of his face talked and laughed. A third version of him chatted to a young hobgoblin woman at another table. As he watched, a
fourth
Natrac walked in through the tavern door and received a loud hail from his duplicates.

The goblin behind the bar must have misinterpreted his surprise. “They call themselves the Broken Mirror,” he said with disgust in his voice. “Bunch of changeling lunatics—they pick someone and all of them take his appearance until someone else catches their fancy. Some poor sap is going to find trouble at his door in the morning.”

Natrac remembered the changelings on the waterfront that afternoon and the one who had copied his face before he’d pulled up his cowl. He held back a curse. “How many of them are there?” he asked the bartender.

“Five or six. They’ve probably been spread out around Malleon’s Gate through the night. They like to get together after they’ve done their mischief and swap stories. I heard that one time they …”

Natrac didn’t listen to the rest of what the goblin had to say. If his face had been walking through Malleon’s Gate all night, there was going to be more than trouble. It was past time he left the district. The quiet of Overlook was suddenly very appealing. Keeping his head down and his distance from the changelings, he moved for the door.

He was about halfway there when it flew open and a big bugbear squeezed through. Natrac was used to standing a head or more taller than other people, but the bugbear stood a head taller than him. The creature’s thickly-muscled shoulders were as wide as one of the tavern tables and his broad ears were as ragged and scarred as the tabletops. Below wiry brows so thick they merged with the hair on his head, a leathery black nose twitched and sniffed at the air.

In his grip was another Natrac, except that this one’s face was battered and bruised.

Heads turned to meet the bugbear—every voice in the tavern fell silent as he stood aside and a hobgoblin with very large, very prominent teeth entered. His gaze fell on the startled changelings and anyone near them pulled away.

“Which one of you is Paik?” the hobgoblin snarled.

The Natrac that had been flirting with the hobgoblin woman took a step back. His features blurred and melted, assuming the pale moon-faced appearance of a changeling’s natural form. Before the transformation was even complete, the hobgoblin man strode over to him and snapped a hand around his throat. “Where did you see the half-orc whose face you copied?”

Paik croaked out a babbling answer about Cliffside and a stranger just come off a ship. The hobgoblin’s dark eyes grew narrow, and his wolf-like ears stood erect as he listened. Natrac glanced toward the door. No one else in the tavern was moving. If he made a break for the door, the bugbear would notice. He forced himself to remain still.

Paik’s voice trailed off into blubbering pleas. The hobgoblin gave him a shake and dropped him, then swept the room with
his gaze. Natrac held his breath, but the dark eyes passed right over him. After a moment, the hobgoblin raised his voice. “Five gold galifars to anyone who brings me news of the man whose face these
gaa’ma
were wearing. Fifteen if they turn him over to me!”

Just barely visible past his cowl, Natrac saw the bartender’s face go from frightened to surprised to cunning as he figured out the real reason behind his customer’s surprise at the sight of the changelings. The goblin’s arm rose sharply. “Him!” he shouted, pointing at Natrac. “Try him!”

The hobgoblin whirled, but Natrac was already moving. He darted to one side of the bugbear in an attempt to get past him, but the big creature turned swiftly, tracking him. Natrac flicked his knife-hand free of the long sleeve that had concealed it and made a feint with the intention of keeping the bugbear back.

Instead of flinching, the bugbear drew back his meaty arm and flung the changeling at Natrac.

Natrac caught a brief glimpse of his own bruised face and let his knife-hand fall, but he couldn’t get out of the way in time. The heavy weight of the changeling knocked him back into a flimsy table. He went down in a tangle of broken wood and his own limbs. Big, hairy hands grabbed him by one shoulder and the wrist of his knife-hand and hauled him to his feet. Another hand jerked back his cowl.

The hobgoblin stood in front of him with rage smoldering in his eyes. Natrac managed a smile that would have done Singe justice. “Hello, Biish,” he said.

There was a short, heavy club in Biish’s fist. He brought it down so hard and fast that Natrac didn’t even feel the blow before he fell into unconsciousness.

  
G
eth was dreaming. He dreamed that he was on a battlefield, faceless enemies coming at him in unending waves. He felt no fear, though. He howled his courage and strength at his enemies, and met them with his great gauntlet on his right arm and Wrath gripped in his left hand. He tore through them in a whirling, unstoppable dance. Dark blood flowed, flesh and bones split, and his enemies fell before him. Sometimes the shadows parted to reveal the faces of dolgrims or chuul, Bonetree hunters or Aundairian raiders, the soldiers of Breland or Thrane. They all died. His goal lay ahead, clearly visible across the battlefield: the mound of the Bonetree clan. He would reach it soon. He was unstoppable, invulnerable, his body and his spirit in perfect harmony. He threw back his head and roared to a sky lit bright by the Ring of Siberys and all twelve moons.

He didn’t want the dream to end—not just because of the clean exhilaration of the fight, but because his friends and allies fought alongside him. Orshok, Krepis, and Kobus fought with him. Ashi, Natrac, and Ekhaas. Singe and Dandra guarded his back with magical flame and psionic whitefire. Adolan fought beside him, his heavy spear thrusting and spinning.