The Inquisitives [4] The Darkwood Mask (15 page)

Charoth stared through the window and watched as the young inquisitive walked beyond his gate. In other circumstances, he might well have sought her employment. He liked the way she’d studied the world around her, focused on everything she saw. Unless he was mistaken, the Brelish inquisitive had been memorizing every detail.

“Gan,” he said.

“My lord?” the changeling answered.

Charoth turned to regard his steward. Since yesterday’s discovery, Gan’s professionalism had become superb. Good. Charoth
didn’t expect he would need to chastise him again for possession of dreamlily, but one could never be too careful.

Given the importance of his work at present, Charoth considered allowing the changeling to use trace amounts of the drug to keep his focus. The very thought of such weakness in his employee enraged him.

Let him suffer.

“I must return to the factory. The next few days are critical to me. I am certain the Brelish will return, but not today. I want to know who else she talks to and where she goes before I see her again.”

“I will see to it, my lord,” Gan answered, his voice sober.

“And your men?” Charoth asked.

“They are where they need to be. They are ready.”

Investigation
Mol, the 9th of Sypheros, 998 YK

T
allis hobbled to the back of the line at the ticket booth in the lightning rail station. Having seen firsthand that the guards at each of the city’s active gates had doubled, he was tempted to just purchase a ticket and test his disguise among the rail security. Even now, five White Lions prowled the wide concourse, watchful among the crowds. Looking for
him
.

He’d meant what he told Lenrik, though. Even if he left the city now, returning would be no easier. If the Justice Ministry was determined to find him this time, would he be any safer in Rekkenmark or Atur? What if he left Karrnath altogether?

No. He’d walk willingly into the depths of Khyber before he let the assassin drive him away from his country. He’d find that bastard and kill him—or her—himself. If he left now, he wouldn’t be able to talk to Haedrun and find out what got all of this started.

Aureon, just a few more days of your favor.…

In front of him, an oddly-dressed shifter with a curious hairstyle and an outlandish handaxe hanging from his belt was the next up. Nice weapon, Tallis thought, then stepped back out of line.

“No good, no good,” he muttered to the woman behind him, enjoying his old veteran’s persona less than he use to. “My daughter won’t want to see me, anyway,” he explained at her questioning look.

Feigning a change of heart, he walked over to stand before the message kiosk, a wide board where travelers could post or check job listings, bounties, or brief notes for one another. This was also one of several ways to contact the Midwife, a little fact known to a select and unlawful few.

Tallis scanned the kiosk. When he felt confident no one was looking, he slipped a folded piece of paper from his own pocket and tacked it to the board.
Former Blademark seeking caravan work. Ask for Azzen at the 7th Wach
. The Midwife’s street eyes would recognize the double letters in the given name and the spelling error of the cited establishment. Double Zs always meant Tallis.

Done with his message, he turned away—

—and found himself face to face with a grinning, disheveled dwarf in a tattered cloak. He stank of filthy clothes and too much time spent in a dockside alehouse.

“Thought that was you, Tally Boy,” he spat.

Tallis knew many of the dregs of the Low District by name. Some he ignored, others he handled personally. Drazen was one he’d never really had the time or inclination to “discipline.”

Beyond the dwarf, a squad of Lions was in view, actively scrutinizing the occupants of the station. Only the very brave or the very stupid argued with the city watch. None protested as the Lions pushed aside broadsheets to see whose face lay behind each.

“You need a bath, Drazen.” Tallis started to move away from the kiosk, slipping his only apparent arm around the dwarf’s as though requiring the assistance of a youngster to walk.

“And you need a new get-up, Tally,” the dwarf laughed, speaking a little too loud for Tallis’s comfort. His eyes darted to the guards, who were getting closer. “Been catching my marks at the rail station, didn’t you know? Recognized you straight away.”

“Now’s not a good time, Draze.”

“I’m thinking it’s not,” the dwarf agreed. “I’m also thinking even your cripple garb won’t hide you from the white kitties today, eh? Unless a certain false old man pays up and a certain dwarf keeps his jawbone clamped.”

Tallis wanted to stick the dwarf right then and there. “You’re clanless already, Drazen,” he whispered angrily. “Keep pushing it, you’ll be beardless soon too.”

“Last chance, Tally. Buy me a meal and a mug of Nightwood and we’ll have a parley, eh? Talk about what
else
you can do for me.”

Two White Lions were close, and Tallis saw them both looking in their direction with a modicum of interest. He couldn’t take a chance any longer. He’d left his message for the Midwife. Now it was time to go. Drazen was an unapologetic thug and would carry through with his threat especially if food was at stake. Under any other circumstances, Tallis might have been able to turn the law against
him
.

Well—why not?

“You’ll get yours soon,” Tallis promised, and then he drove his elbow hard into the dwarf’s stomach. As the dwarf gasped for breath, Tallis disengaged roughly and let himself fall hard to the floor.

“Guards!” he shouted, making his voice sound as gravelly as he could. “This dwarf just stole my gold!”

The White Lions turned to Drazen, whose face was twisted in rage as he labored to breathe. One of the guards pointed an axe at him as the other held his gauntleted hands out in warning. Tallis twisted around and sprang to his feet, loosing his “crippled” arm for better maneuverability.

“Hands out, dwarf!” one of the Lions commanded.

Tallis staggered away from the scene, targeting the nearest exit. As he passed a group of ticket-holders seated at a bench, he turned and pointed behind him. “Some dwarf is stabbing people!” he said with a panicked look on his face.

The travelers fumbled for their luggage and began to move quickly away in different directions. Perfect.

“No, no!” Tallis heard Drazen shouting, spittle flying from his
lips. “That’s Tallis there! He’s playing you all for fools! Tallis! Of Rekkenmark!” The White Lions looked in his direction. One of them nocked an arrow.

Tallis broke into a run.

Soneste had less than an hour until her rendezvous with Jotrem. It would be tight, but she decided she could visit the
Chronicle
archives and still make it back in time. The more information she could find on her own, the easier this would be.

The field offices of the
Korranberg Chronicle
resided within the House Sivis enclave. While not officially employed by the gnomes’ Notaries Guild, the
Chronicle
used the house’s scribes and magewrights to maintain their archives.

Soneste’s own identification papers gained her admittance within the office, for which she was glad. She could have used Hyran’s writ to shorten her wait, but she refrained. The less she waved it around, the less conspicuous her investigation would be.

When her name was called, she approached the front desk. The gnome clerk regarded her from under bushy white brows. His body was aged and lean, but his eyes were fast and sharp.

“What can I help you with, young lady?” he asked.

“I am hoping to peruse the issues that you published in the weeks following the signing of the Thronehold Treaty.”

“Specific dates, young lady,” the gnome demanded.

Soneste thought about it. The Treaty, which had ended the Last War, had been signed in the autumn of 996, almost two years ago. Hyran had said Charoth’s return to Korth was soon after.

“May I see Aryth through Olarune of 996?”

The clerk scowled down at her from his lofty perch. That was forty-eight editions of the
Chronicle
she was asking to see. Even in broadsheet form, that would be a thick sheaf of papers to compile. Soneste knew she could produce Hyran’s writ and gain access without question.

Instead, she said, “Please, sir. It would mean a great deal to me right now.”

The gnome cleared his throat and shook his head. “Fine,” he muttered. Soneste waited in awkward silence as the clerk wrote down her request, signed it, and finally incanted some sort of enchantment to authorize it.

He summoned another employee, a young human, who stared at Soneste with poorly-disguised interest. She was beginning to learn how to differentiate the classes of Karrnathi society. From his sensible clothing and an air of entitled self-respect, this one was clearly middle-class, but he would have been too young for mandatory enlistment in the final years of the war. He was handsome, certainly, but a bit too young for her. She was also beginning to admire the Karrns’ contrast of dark eyes with fair skin. She offered him a smile, if only to expedite the process.

“Take the young lady to a reading room,” the gnome ordered, handing the boy the authorization papers.

“Your weapon must remain, lady,” the younger clerk said, his face turning red. He pointed to her rapier.

Accustomed to the procedure from the
Chronicle
office in Sharn, Soneste complied. She did not volunteer the crysteel dagger still hidden in her boot. After leaving the suggested donation, Soneste was led through a series of corridors lit only by dim cold fire, passing open rooms where historians and other researchers poured over giant tomes. She was brought to a small room of her own, and the boy asked her to wait as he walked awkwardly away.

An oversized open book was propped upright at the center of the room. Its pages were blank. The thick spine was bound to the tabletop by means of a rotating metal hinge, which allowed the reader to angle the contraption as desired. A cylindrical slot at the top of the thick spine was ready to receive. These viewing tomes were an invention of Sivis design, crafted by dragonmarked artificers of the house.

Soon after, another gnome clerk entered the room with a leather kit under one arm. He partially unrolled it upon the table
then produced the first of the rune-scribed rods pocketed within.

The gnome held it up before her and pointed to the name and number carved in fine characters along its length. “This is Mol, the first week of Barrakas, 996,” he said by way of explanation, then slid the rod into the spine of the viewing tome.

The pages of the opened book immediately flooded with large, luminous words. A moment later, the light faded but the text remained. Soneste was looking upon the edition of the
Chronicle
exactly as it had appeared in print on that day. He unrolled the leather portfolio to reveal the remaining rods. There were a lot to go through.

“Thank you,” Soneste said, slipping the gnome a few sovereigns for the inconvenience, which he accepted without a word. He spoke an arcane syllable and the cold fire lamps upon the wall brightened.

When the clerk left her to her research, she immediately set to work. She was aware of the chroniclers checking in on her occasionally, despite their magical safeguards against theft, but she paid them no mind. Her eyes flashed through the large pages quickly, searching for key words that might have some association to Lord Charoth,

When she reached the month of Zarantyr, almost exactly two years past, she found what she was looking for.

Forgehold Disaster Survivor Renounces Own House

Zarantyr 11th, 996 YK

KORTH—Lord Charoth Arkenen d’Cannith, esteemed arcanist and former director of a secret forgehold, formally renounced on Zol all ties to House Cannith. The self-imposed exile stood before barristers of Korth’s Justice Ministry, wearing a mask and concealing his body in dark robes. Agents of the Twelve were summoned to bear witness and scrutinize the mysterious claimant with divination magic
.

Believed slain along with thirty-two other forgehold personnel in Therendor of 992, Lord Charoth reemerged last Nymm to take possession
of his family’s estates. According to the director’s testimony, the unethical demands placed upon him by his house superiors between 990 and 992 YK led to the forgehold’s destruction
.

It was not until the disaster that the existence of the forgehold, a facility sources refer to as the Orphanage, became public knowledge. Lord Charoth, the promising arcanist of the Arkenen family, was presumed dead, along with the forgehold’s entire staff
.

Only the director’s return four years later has suggested otherwise. When asked why he delayed news of his survival, Lord Charoth explained, “I have been in dark and painful places and have tried these last few years to hide this fate. Mine have been the sins of fear and denial. Now that the war has ended, I feel Karrnath can weather such a hard truth, a truth I am ready to admit.”