Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [12]
If you slept poorly, you have my sympathies, Steel said. But I suggest you set your concerns aside and focus on the mission at hand. Your observations show that Tarkanan has relocated its primary base of operations. You must earn their trust and make your way into the inner circle—and determine the identity and plans of their new leader.
“The Son of Khyber,” Thorn murmured.
Yes. And at the moment we know little save that name. It falls to you to learn his true name and nature. And as such, I suggest you prepare for the coming dawn.
He was right. She surely had a hard day ahead of her. “Fileon said that the mark might cause madness,” she said. “Perhaps I can use that.”
It would explain your strange habit of talking to your dagger.
“Madness.” Thorn smiled as she returned Steel to his sheath, but her suspicions lingered.
Thorn met her second Tarkanan at breakfast, and he came as a surprise. Dreck was a warforged, one of the construct soldiers produced by House Cannith. But he was no warrior. His metal body was tall and lean, with long arms and an assortment of rings on his delicate fingers. But what caught her eye when she met him was the acid-green mark traced across the side of his face, gleaming brighter than the torchlight. It appeared to be an aberrant dragonmark—something that surprised her and Steel alike. The warforged were artificial beings, with alchemical fluid instead of blood, and Thorn had never heard of a warforged manifesting any sort of dragonmark. The warforged set a plate of sausages on the table.
“You seem troubled, Sister Thorn.” Fileon handed Thorn a warm biscuit.
Breakfast was a simple meal, but after her days on the street, anything warm and fresh was a blessing. Fileon’s eyes were cold and appraising. Hardly surprising. Her cover story was sound enough and explained her skills and equipment, but revealing her background as a Lantern was a calculated risk.
“I don’t know if I belong here. I want to learn to control this curse. But I’ve heard of House Tarkanan. You’re thieves and assassins. Killers for hire.”
“And there is no blood on your hands?” A hint of a smile played across Fileon’s withered lips. “The dwarf you killed yesterday—that was for Breland, was it?”
“I was defending myself.”
“As are we. You are a citizen of a new nation, and you wear our flag on your face. And make no mistake, we are at war. The dragonmarked houses have long fueled the fires of public fear. How have you been treated since your mark appeared? What do you see when people look you in the eye, when they see the lines across your face?”
Thorn met his gaze. “No one paid me to kill that man.”
“A thousand pardons, beloved.” Dreck said, his voice deep and musical. His choice of words was strange, yet somehow seemed natural from him. Thorn wondered if he’d been designed to be a bard, or simply a living instrument. “I wonder what path you have walked. In your prior service, did you take payment from the crown? What do you truly know of those whose blood you’ve spilled? Are you so certain that your deeds served the people of Breland, and not simply the whims of king and courtiers?”
“You know nothing about what I’ve done,” Thorn snarled, rising from her seat.
Fileon’s voice was cold. “You are correct, of course. We know nothing of your life. But tell me: Do you know the origins of our house, Sister Thorn? Not the War of the Mark. Not the Tarkanan name. Just the house of thieves and killers. Do you know how we began?”
Thorn shook her head.
“You are younger than I, but old enough to remember the last decade of the war. In the north, the floating fortress of Chydris fell at the battle of Cairn Hill. To the west, the Daughters of Sora Kell emerged from the darkness to proclaim their kingdom of monsters. To the east, the loyalty of the goblins was called into question. King Boranel and his ministers were desperate to find new sources of power