City of Towers_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [51]
Daine nodded. “So the real question is why. Why does a successful, honest man throw away everything he has and turn to the other side of the law?”
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice,” Lei said. The others turned and looked at her. “Think about it, Jode. Dragonmarks … pure dragonmarks … don’t appear at birth. They appear late in life, usually triggered by stress. If Rasial really had this chilling touch, what if it first manifested during the Race of Eight Winds? What if he killed his mount?”
Jode nodded. “He gets excited during the races, his mount dies … that would be a dilemma.”
“He could have joined the Tarkanans to learn about his mark.”
“And from the sound of it,” Daine said, “once you sign up, you’re in for life. But there are still a few loose ends. I don’t think the Tarkanans know about the connection between Rasial and Alina, and we’d better keep it that way. But what was Rasial doing for Alina? Why did he betray her, and who is he dealing with now? What is he hiding from the Tarkanans? And where is he?”
“All good questions,” Jode said. “But as I recall, we’re supposed to meet Councilor Teral for dinner at the seventh bell.”
“And?” Daine said.
Outside, the seventh bell rang. Jode smiled. “Shall we be off to dinner, Lord Daine?”
Korlan hated Sharn. He was a child of the deep swamps, and he missed the tranquility of his homeland—the nights spent alone with the sounds of shadowtoads, water, crickets, the wind in the rushes …
The towers of Sharn were unnatural, and the constant babble of voices was a constant assault on his ears. He hated the mobs of people; eyes everywhere he looked, watching him, shouting and squabbling, filling the air with noise and stench.
But the marshes were no longer his home. When he was ten, the mark had appeared, the fire flowed in his blood, threatening to consume his spirit if he did not grant it a release. In a moment of madness, he had killed his brother with a gout of fire that burst forth from his hands. That was all it took. He was driven from the Marches, tainted and touched by the Deep Wyrm, and if he returned to his family they would do their best to kill him. For a time he had wandered, feverish and dazed, through the western plains—and then the Tarkanans had found him and taught him to control his gift. He hated Sharn, but it was the home of his true family. It was the only place he would ever belong.
Korlan had the pink skin of a Brelander, but his muscular physique and fiery temper hinted at his inhuman ancestry, and oversized canine teeth protruded from his lips when he was angry. Today, his fangs were in full view. Bal had said that intimidation would be the best approach, and Korlan wanted to get this over with quickly, so he could return to his quiet room in Dragon Towers.
There was a guard in front of the tentflap. But Korlan had grown up hunting duskwisps, and it was a simple matter to slip through the shadows without being seen. A single powerful blow was all it took to send the guard to the ground in a crumpled heap.
His target was already waiting for him when he stepped inside the tent. The man appeared to be unarmed, but Korlan was well aware of how deceiving appearances could be. Korlan concentrated, and there was a moment of terrible pain as the blood in his veins burned with a terrible heat. He focused the pain on his palm, and flames flickered around his fingers.
“I am here for Rasial Tarkanan,” Korlan said, glaring down at his enemy. “You will tell me where he is, and you will tell me what dealings you have had with him.”
“I’m afraid I have other plans.”
It was difficult to read the man’s expression. His face was a horrid mask of raw, wet muscle, and his eyes were sunk deep within his sockets. If he was afraid of Korlan and the flames, he did not show it.
“It wasn’t a request,” Korlan said.
He couldn’t unleash the full force of his burning hands without setting the tent alight, but he’d found that his fiery touch had a way of changing opinions, and