City of Towers_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [84]
Pierce remembered the words of the sphinx, the mention of his family. Was this what she’d meant? “Do you know who created me?” he asked.
“One human or another. Does it matter? Which does a sword have more in common with—another blade or the smith who forged it?”
“Perhaps it’s not the metal, but the motive,” he said. “A smith may not pass his blood to his creations, but he shapes them with his dreams.”
“And have you ever had a dream?” She stepped forward, and Pierce moved back to maintain the distance between them. “For a creature of flesh, a dream is a trivial thing, an idle fantasy that comes in the night. We never sleep. But there are those of use who share a dream, one forged from courage and desire. Join us. Help us forge a new future, a place for our people.”
“I have a place,” Pierce said. He slid his flail across his back and reached down for his long bow.
The warforged inclined her head. “Very well. But consider my words—and I suggest you keep them to yourself. When peace finally falls, is the sword anyone’s friend?” She drew her scarf up across her features. “We’ll meet again.”
She stepped back into the street, and in a moment she was gone. Her skills were impressive. Clearly she’d wanted Pierce to spot her when she’d been following him, and he wondered if she’d been spying on him at other times.
As he walked on to the Manticore, he thought about what she’d said. Was she right? Was this the family Flamewind had spoken of? Or did the sphinx have something more specific in mind—the purpose of two swords forged by the same hand, and not merely made at the same forge?
But these thoughts did not trouble him for long. He was warforged. His companions had need of him. Studying the crowds for any signs of Jode, he continued down the streets of High Walls.
What did he want?
She could hear the sounds coming from his mouth, but she couldn’t understand them. The sounds were distorted fragments, robbed of context or meaning. Even his face … she found it difficult to look at him, to study him long enough to read his expressions. Last night she’d dreamed of the skinless man and his master, that they had taken her down below and changed her again. But maybe it wasn’t a dream. Had she been back in the pit? And if so, what had he done? Had he eaten her memories of language? Could she relearn the meaning of these words if she kept tried hard enough? Or was it her ears? Were her ears still her own, or had they been taken away? What could he want with her ears? How much more would he take before he finally let her die?
The man was still talking. She looked down at him and shook her head. Did he want the skinless man? She put her hand to one of her cheeks and pulled at the skin, miming the action of a blade with the other.
Clearly he couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. She held her fingers up around her mouth and wiggled them, but he didn’t seem to understand that either.
Suddenly he tapped his forehead. A thought? He spoke again, but the words were just as meaningless as before. She shook her head. He beckoned to her, indicating that she should sit down. Gingerly, she did so—she rarely sat during the day.
Why was he doing this? What did he want?
He touched his mouth with his forefinger then made a turning gesture with his thumb and forefinger. She tried to study his face for clues, but as she did all of his features seemed to slip away, leaving her looking at a pure smooth slate. She winced and looked away, and as she did his features reappeared. It had to be her, she thought. One more change. One more thing that they’d taken away from her.
The visitor spoke again. She thought there was a twinge of frustration in his nonsense words, but she couldn’t say for certain. What happened next surprised her. He reached out and touched her face. His hands were soft and gentle, and they slowly drifted across