City of Towers_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [52]
The man moved with astonishing speed, darting down and slamming into Korlan. He was unnaturally strong for his size, and Korlan was thrown back against the side of the tent. Snarling, he rose to his feet, intending to release the full fire he held within. Bal had wanted answers, but there would be other sources.
But as he raised his burning hands, there was a blur before him. His enemy’s tongue snapped out of his mouth, stretching across the space between them. Pain stabbed his throat, and as the tongue withdrew Korlan saw a vicious barb protruding from the tip. A cold chill spread across his body, numbing his nerves and extinguishing the flames. His legs refused to respond to his brain, and he fell. Within seconds he was completely paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch as his foe came toward him.
“I am pleased to see that Rasial’s former friends are looking for him,” the skinless man said. Korlan could not even cringe as the man produced a long knife. With one smooth motion the stranger cut open Korlan’s jerkin, revealing his torso and the aberrant mark that covered his left breast. “Lovely.”
The man smiled, revealing a mouth filled with bloody teeth. He stepped out of Korlan’s field of vision. Korlan heard others enter the tent, but he couldn’t turn his head to look.
“Take him below,” the man said. He came back into view, leering at Korlan with his ruined face. “I’m afraid I have business elsewhere, but my associates will see that you are reunited with young Rasial. I thank you for your contribution to our cause.”
In the early days of Sharn, Togran Square had been a center for commerce. The tents of merchants from across Khorvaire and more exotic lands had filled the open plaza. The plaza was still filled with tents, but the richly decorated cloth had been replaced by patched oilskin. There were hundreds of Cyran refugees in the city, and many of them lived in this makeshift village. After the destruction of Cyre, Breland was the only nation that agreed to provide shelter to the refugees, and many Cyrans had made the long journey south in hopes of reconnecting with relatives that had been established in Sharn before the war. They’d arrived to find that Cyrans and other non-Brelish citizens had been relocated to the ghetto of High Walls and stripped of their livelihood. Like Daine, most of these refugees arrived in Sharn with only the clothes on their backs. In this tent town, nobles and peasants were all alike.
Dozens of people studied Daine as he made his way to the large black tent in the center of the square. Some nodded respectfully, but an equal number seemed sullen or even resentful.
“Not what I’d call a hero’s welcome,” Jode observed.
“Do you see any heroes?” Daine looked into the eyes of the angry refugees and wondered where they had been three years ago, what war had stolen from each of them. “We lost.”
Jode wore his one piece of festive attire—a jaunty burgundy flat cap, embroidered with a spiderweb pattern portrayed in a rainbow of colors. In addition to adding a touch of flair to his drab military leather, the cap hid his dragonmark from view.
“It looks like all the good spaces have been taken,” he said, studying the tents. “I was hoping to get a good view of one of the rubbish fires when we set up a tent of our own.”
Jode was trying to make light of the situation, but he had a point. Unless they completed the job for Alina, they might be living in here in a week.
“If we must, we can pawn something else,” Daine said. His dagger, Lei’s pack … they had a few valuable items left, even if Daine hated the idea of putting these treasures at risk.
“You have to wonder, though,” said Jode, “if we were to buy a tent of our own, what’s to stop us from getting a black one? And if we did get a black tent, Councilor Teral couldn’t tell people to come to the black tent. Do you think he’d do something about it?”
As it turned out, Teral’s tent was difficult to miss. Color aside, it towered over the surrounding tents, and the flag of Cyre was flying from the central