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 .
S abira 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 seemedan 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
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 .
S abira 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 seemedan 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
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