The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [1]
“A game?” Thorn said, dodging around a chanting gargoyle as she moved toward the tunnel mouth. Behind her, the crowd cried out again as the ogre smashed her enemy into the floor.
If you call murder a game. They’re quite competitive.
“Lovely.” Thorn paused at the edge of the passage. A goblin—or young gnoll—might have no difficulty fighting in the tunnel, but it would be a tight fit for her. “Is he alone?”
I can sense only magical emanations. There’s one additional aura. I believe it’s some type of container, but it’s difficult to read. It’s an excellent abjuration effect—it can’t have been made by his own kind.
“So you don’t know what’s inside.”
No. But I can tell you it’s more than it appears. I doubt there’s a sorcerer in this city who would notice even that.
“Fine. Let’s go.” She slipped the dagger into its sheath and stepped out of the tavern and into the dark passage. As Thorn squeezed through a tight corner, her vision shifted into a different spectrum, each stone highlighted in sharp black and white. Thorn slid a finger along her enchanted ring that provided this gift. As useful as it was in her line of work, Thorn was still uncomfortable with darkvision. She’d received the ring only two months ago, just before the mission at Far Passage.
The crevasse came to an abrupt end. A goblin sat on the floor, a rough burlap bag at his side. He wore the gray rags of a laborer, and his skin was covered with dirt and sores. Looking up at Thorn, he plucked a withered tick from one leg and swallowed it.
Thorn saw no sign of weapons or wands, and at this range she could strike before he could complete the workings of a spell. But the Silent Knives of Darguun were trained to kill with their bare hands, and Thorn knew better than to underestimate the little man. She dropped into a crouch and held out her hands, palms up. “Silence is sharp as a blade,” she said.
“Yes,” said the goblin, his voice low. “Thorn of Breland, is it?”
Thorn gave a slight nod. “Kalakhesh of Darguun?”
“Yes,” the goblin said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Many tales I’ve heard of you, lady. Much for one so young, though perhaps it is the long-eared blood in your veins that keeps your skin so smooth. I felt sorrow when I learned of the death of Magister ir’Torath of Arcanix … all his research lost in that remarkable fire that consumed both house and bone.”
“It’s always a tragedy when knowledge is destroyed.” Thorn said. “I remember hearing about the Arcanix blaze in Sharn, when I was serving with the Royal Guard.” She smiled, but behind the mask she was surprised. Not even the Royal Eyes of Aundair knew she’d killed the old wizard, yet it was clear that the goblin knew the truth.
“Oh, so you were not involved?” Kalakhesh smiled. “Pardons—we know so little of your nations. And the damage at Far Passage, you were surely not part of this. We know your Citadel was the moving hand, but it is said all those involved were killed. And here you stand.”
Thorn stiffened, hating herself for reacting, knowing that the goblin had seen it. She could still hear Dellan’s screams. And she still carried the crystal shards of the explosion in her flesh, embedded in her neck and spine. The stone at the base of her skull pulsed, the pain as sharp as a dagger pressed against her neck.
“We have business in the here and now,” she said, ignoring the pain. “I suggest we tend to it.”
“Yes,” the goblin said. “We do have that.” He slid a hand into the worn sack on the floor, producing a large book bound in black leather and gilded with strips of gold. The image of a sword gleamed on the spine, inlaid with bright silver. A figure in relief rose up from the cover—the full-sized image of a man’s face. Strong features, jaw set, a slight cleft to his chin … familiar, but too faint to recognize.
“I’ll need to verify it,” Thorn said.
“Do as you must. My hand does not leave until I am paid, and it would be