Chapter 1 - Part 3

Eston, Cyre was a city noted for many things. It was known for its rich mines, for the cutting edge artificer’s magic of House Cannith, and for rich flowerbeds and thick, green grass in its carefully maintained parks.

It was not know for its pleasant weather. Especially not this time of year, as Aryth approached its end, and Vult came to usher in the end of the year. Cold rain had been the norm of late, alternating at times with light snow and slush.

At the moment, the city was recovering from a terrible storm. It had been so bad that House Orien had to pause lightning rail service for several hours. Even now, with the sky still covered, the conductors talked openly of hiring Lyrandar rainmakers to push the storm away.

The rest of the city went on as best as it could, hoping that the downspouts and sewers could handle the flow.

Not far from the lightning rail station, the rainwater trickled unendingly from the crack in a gutter, pouring out into the chill. It made a pattering splash that sounded like a man’s soul struggling to stay afloat in a sea of madness.

The rainwater joined the other misshapen puddles that littered the narrow lane, hiding the pockmarks in the cobblestones with forbidding black patches that defied the existence of warmth. The clouds overhead remained gray and locked, impassive giants pausing in their ferocity to behold the damage already wrought. A chill braced the air, and it seemed that not a single element existed in the little lane that bespoke laughter or mirth. Only despair laced with solemnity could be felt. Only hopeless exhaustion could be tasted.

Then the footsteps came.

They were forceful, but not loud. The clouds continued their baleful watch, but it seemed as if they had shrank back a bit, reticent to extend their fearful power on the intruder to the alleyway. A cat darted from its perch atop a railing and hid under an old building, wanting no dealings with this newcomer. The forlorn faces of the street urchins turned towards the sound, and then instinctively drew back, shivering from more than the cold.

The boots were seen first, black heavy things with silver points. They forced attention to their tips that somehow glistened even in the dim light present, as if they were slicing through reality, bringing their wearer irrevocably through the meager defenses that some fools dared to hope for. The boots shattered the implacable puddles, leaving them turning and twisting in the wake of their intrusion, unable to settle down for a long time afterwards. From the high tenement walls above the lane, windows were carefully shut and shuttered. The boots continued, ignoring the disturbances that they caused.

They drew along a tall man, with a lean frame. A long, tattered coat swirled around him with the motion of his movement, hiding his hands in its deep pockets. The coat was a dark gray, so dark that it was almost black, and the bulges beneath it spoke of armor. A sword of great size was strapped to his back, its hilt up and ready to be grabbed. Very little of his other clothing could be seen beneath that long coat, save the boots. They came out repeatedly as the man’s legs worked steadily, with purpose, and with intent.

The man had a drawn face; one aged somewhere in the indefinite zone of a man who is neither old nor young. Gray and black locks competed in the tangled wet mass that concealed his forehead; plastered his shoulders. What color the eyes were remained a mystery, as he wore a broad-brimmed hat more suitable for the summer’s glare that this weather.

Beneath the hat it was as if green eyes glittered. Perhaps cat’s eyes. No one looked very closely. The train conductors had not even been sure if the man was human or goblinoid.

The man finally paused in his movement, coming to a split in the alleyway. Here cobblestones gave way to patchy asphalt, and creeping weeds hugged the corners of buildings. Piles of debris were blocking the way, creating a fearful stench, but the man did not wrinkle his nose. After a minute’s consideration, he chose the left alleyway, and his boots continued their relentless advance, squelching the decaying refuse into an even deeper ignominy.

One rat poked its nose out from a cracked wall, its whiskers quivering against the damp. The man’s faint shadow fell on it, and the thing turned and ran. Its flight was heedless, for even a dumb animal can sense danger.

The man finally came to a decaying carriage house that was set with its back to the alley. The back door of the carriage house had a large padlock on it, thick with rust. It appeared to have not been opened in years.

Powerful hands knotted with warts and thestled with hair that seemed to have alternating bands of orange and black hair grasped the lock. The hands clenched, twisted, wavered, and then finally seemed to spin all the way around before the lock snapped into two pieces. The metal parted with a grinding crack, the silvery shine of the interior metal standing in sharp contrast to the thick layers of dirt and rust that surrounded it. If it resembled anything, it was the jutting bone of a corpse, pale in its hue, and unfamiliar in its exposure. The man’s expression did not change as he broke it, nor did his respiration increase. He dropped the useless metal to the ground, and pushed open the door, ignoring the squeaky protests of the wood.

The interior of the carriage house stank of mold and rodent droppings, with a vague scent of machine oil behind it. Light teased the room, touching down here and there from cracks in the roof, but it did not take root. The carriage house was a place of shadows, some deeper than others. Boxes and broken furniture were rumpled companions to the dried carcasses of chairs, stacks of pots, and a pair of wagon wheels. Water lay a half-inch thick on the floor, and stained the walls like a severed artery.

The man waited, listening. He slowly moved his head from side to side, as if noting the inches within each shadow.

Behind him, at the end of the alleyway, was the softest of footsteps. A local urchin, probably a street vagabond or pickpocket, with more greed than sense.

The man slowly turned his head and looked back down the alley at the small face. A bit of his mouth showed under his hat, as he exposed a long canine tooth that looked sharp enough to bore through steel.

The urchin bolted away, not bothering to breathe before he ran.

The man turned his head back and resumed surveying the room. Finally he grunted, and then sprung into action.

He began lifting up boxes, and tearing them open with great fury. Shredded boards drifted away from his frenzied hands in great ragged pieces. The contents of the boxes were mostly mildewed paper, or useless knickknacks. He threw these behind him once he was satisfied that they hid nothing. Other items he examined more closely, especially papers with cognizable writing.

One box was finished, then two. An old desk was demolished. Another box was broken apart, and a tool case was emptied. The man searched ceaselessly, not removing his broad-brimmed hat, somehow still able to find his way in the nearly absolute darkness. His demolition was thorough and unflinching, yet no sweat appeared upon his brow.

“You’re early,” came a woman’s voice.

The man whirled, his sword in his hand, his long coat falling away so that he would have more free movement. His armor was polished scale mail, but neither his sword nor his gear showed any sigil. The mark of no nation and no house adorned him.

His hat stayed on his head, despite the sudden movement, as if it knew to continue hiding his face.

The woman was an elf. She wore a fine gown, as if she was at a royal ball, not in a ruined building in a rough area of town. Fine jewels rested on rings on her fingers, and she wore a necklace of diamonds that gleamed with its own magic. She wore no nation’s mark on her, but the sash about her waist had elegant stitching that depicted a jaguar-type creature with tentacles on its back surmounted on a chain-like weapon.

“Merci Non,” the man said carefully.

“Indeed,” she nodded. “Hello there, Wir. I thought I told your emissary that we would meet here after the noon hour.”

“You told my emissary that we would meet behind the baker’s on Gear Street,” the man told her, his swordpoint not wavering an inch. Wir was not his real name, and they both knew that. Years before, when he had first begun his professional association with House Thuranni, it had been the day of the week that he and Merci Non had met. “I figured out that you were staging from here.”

“Hm, and I wonder how you did that,” Merci Non said in a tone of voice that suggested she knew full well. It was the last thing that Wir’s emissary had sent to him by pigeon, before the emissary – an unassuming gnome who was secretly an adept worshipping Wir’s masters – had vanished.

Wir took a step forward. As usual the necklace that she wore blacked his ability to detect her thoughts. “I need information.” The swordpoint stayed steady. He had ways to get it other than his magical abilities, and he was not above reminding her of it. Very few beings on Khorvaire could take him in a fight.

“Which is why you and I were to meet behind the baker’s,” she responded tartly.

“I need to talk to the golems directly,” Wir told her flatly. “I came here to find a clue to them.”

“They prefer to work through me,” she told him. “You know that.”

“Did you kill the gnome because he found this place or because he was figuring out which of the forged were secret dealing?” Wir asked. He considered his next move quickly. His masters were pressuring him for quick results, but they weren’t yet ready to burn the contacts with the Thuranni.

“Because he wouldn’t let me match what you were paying him,” she smirked. Wir saw her stance shift. No weapon was visible in her hand, but she was ready to do something should he attacked.

Wir slowly resheathed his sword. He could kill her with his bare hands, if need be, so perhaps he should try a little diplomacy. “This is an urgent matter,” he growled. “I have great gold for you and for them.”

“They’re not here,” she said.

He waited a moment, sniffing the air to test her words. “You’re lying,” he told her. He had the satisfaction of watching her hand move towards her necklace. “I don’t need my magic to tell me that. What is it, they were too curious to stay away?”

A shimmering behind Wir made him spin about and draw his sword again. A stone wall wavered and disappeared, showing another room. Light came in from lanterns, as five adamantine-plated warforged stood passively. Four had crossbows fitted over their forearms, pointed straight at Wir. The fifth stood in the middle of the four, wearing a cape as a small homunculus cavorted at his feet.

“You are too persistent, shapechanger,” the middle warforged said. “First, how much gold, and then second, what is it that is so important that it cannot go through normal channels?”

Wir grinned, knowing that despite the crossbows the time had come to barter. He sheathed his sword again, and withdrew some Kundarak bearer bonds from a pouch at his belt.