The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [4]
It’s a dream, he thought.
Then it ended.
CHAPTER ONE
Wroat, Breland
Barrakas 20, 999 YK
It was raining in Wroat, but the downpour couldn’t wipe the stench of smoke and urine away from Westgate. A pair of filthy dwarves were quarreling over the corpse of a dead rat, likely the first real meat either had seen in days. Others watched the fight from alleys and broken windows.
Wake up. This is no place to let your mind wander.
The voice was a whisper in Thorn’s mind, cold and sharp as a blade. Hardly surprising, given the source. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger. “Trust me, Steel,” she murmured. “I know what I’m doing.”
Then perhaps you’d enlighten me. You’re supposed to report to Essyn at the eighth bell. Why are we across the river?
“There’s someone I have to meet. It’s not a mission, Steel. Nothing you need to worry about.”
When it brings you to Westgate at dusk, it’s definitely something I have to worry about.
A warforged scout scuttled toward her, a battered soldier made from leather and iron and given life so he could die for the crown. He held out his arm in a pitiful gesture, and Thorn saw that the little scout was missing his left hand. He wore a sign around his neck that read Need Repairs, Copper for Steel. Sovereigns Smile on You.
Thorn quickened her pace, moving out of his path.
No sympathy for the constructed?
“They aren’t all daggers with shining souls,” Thorn murmured. She drew Steel from his sheath, laying his blade across her inner forearm. “Alley to the left. Junk pile just ahead. Three more scouts lying in wait. And in case you didn’t notice, your little friend was missing his hand because he had a retractable sword in his forearm.”
You’re awake after all. My apologies.
“I’ve been to Westgate before.”
A century ago Westgate was a thriving market. I remember a poet from Metrol in that square; he’d drawn a larger crowd than you’d find at the Sharn Opera.
“And I suppose you killed him?”
Of course. He was inciting people against the queen. And he rhymed “Wroann” with “groan.”
“So the Last War was fought over Cyran poetry?”
You have to draw the line somewhere, Lantern Thorn. Gro-ann is as good a place as any.
“Very funny. Now I’m afraid it’s into the glove for you. My contact has a thing about weapons.”
Steel vanished before he could respond, drawn into the pocket of space bound to Thorn’s gauntlet. She could produce him with a thought, but for the moment she needed him out of the way. The dagger was her partner, but what lay ahead was between her and her blood; she didn’t want the Citadel involved.
The little room smelled of bandages and antiseptic salves. An oil lamp spilled light across the room—a small chamber dominated by a camp bed with bloodstained sheets. A young man sat on the bed, dipping a surgical blade into a copper bowl filled with clear fluid.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said without looking at her. “Unless you’re just here for dreamlily or alcohol, in which case you can save us both time by leaving.”
“I wouldn’t mind a drink, Nandon,” Thorn said softly. “But I came looking for a friend.”
The man’s fingers tightened on the knife as she spoke. He looked at her, one eye a clear, emerald green, the other a cloudy white. He stood up, carefully setting the bowl on a bedside table. The scalpel was still in his hand. “And what makes you think you’ll find one here?”
She tossed a package on the bed. “I brought you a birthday present.”
Nandon kept his good eye on her as he picked up the parcel. He unwrapped it with one hand, keeping hold of the scalpel. At last he glanced down at the wooden case. “Jorasco?” he said, noting the dragonmarked seal. Setting down the knife, he opened the case. It was a full kit from the House of Healing, complete with panacean salves and a cleansing blade. The blade alone was worth more than all of the goods Thorn could see in the shop. The half-elf took out each item in turn,