The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [8]
“What story do you want to hear?” Thorn asked, once she’d stumbled to the ground. Her legs were weak and the world was spinning around her, but she kept her mind fixed on one simple thought: don’t vomit on the manticore.
“No. Now is not the time,” the manticore said, looking down at her. “You have forgotten the story I wish to hear. We will meet again, under different moons.”
“What do you—”
He was gone before she’d finished the sentence, leaping over her and rising into the sky. He circled above her, and for a moment his shadow passed across the orange face of Olarune. Then he was lost amid the darkness and the stars.
The manticore’s words followed her as Thorn made her way to the plaza known as the Roar. Even as her balance returned and her stomach settled, the memories of the conversation haunted her. Are we strangers? What did he mean by that? What tale from her past could interest a creature from this savage land? Could he have fought in the war? In the final years of the war, House Tharashk had brokered the services of monstrous mercenaries … could this manticore have served under a Brelish banner?
She wondered if he knew her father.
No, she thought. More likely he was toying with her, taking pleasure in sowing doubt and confusion. Whatever the truth of it, he had served his purpose; Thorn had reached the Roar.
The plaza was lined with taverns, shops, and hostels, all built to cater to travelers and expatriates who longed for a last hint of home in this strange city. It took its name from the bronze statue at the center of the plaza—a mighty dragonne, with the body of a lion and the wings and scales of a dragon. It stood on its hind legs, wings outstretched, roaring at the sky. This was the sigil of the dragonmarked House Tharashk, the House of Finding, and the Tharashk fortress was the most imposing building on the square.
The Tharashk keep was one of the most important outposts of the house beyond its homeland in the Shadow Marches, serving as a central point for prospecting operations along the Graywall Mountains and a recruiting center for the mercenaries the house brought out of Droaam. As governor of Graywall, the mind flayer Xorchylic had granted Tharashk the power to administer justice in the Calabas, and since Thorn had arrived within its bounds, she felt safe from pursuit.
Thorn studied the dragonne. After watching the manticore tear out a centaur’s heart, it was hard to be impressed by this chunk of lifeless metal.
Quiet as the plaza was, there were still signs of life in the early hours of the morning. A handful of orcs and half-orcs dressed in Tharashk livery wrestled and laughed. Two dwarves sang a Mror chant outside Dorn’s Flagon, a tavern known more for the size of its tankards than the quality of the ale.
The black garb Thorn had worn for the meeting with Kalakhesh would have drawn bemused glances from the Tharashk laborers, so she’d changed on her way to the Roar. Shiftweave allowed Thorn to transform her clothing with a simple thought. Her options were limited to only a few different styles, but the ability to switch garments was invaluable in her line of work.
She changed her outfit to the dress of a courtier traveling on diplomatic business, the bear of Breland embroidered on her breast. A few jewels glittered on her traveling gown—not so many as to invite thieves, but enough to suggest her importance. Her dagger hung from her belt—in Droaam, only a fool would be completely unarmed.
The Tharashk keep was a true fortress, built to withstand riots. By contrast, the building that lay directly across the plaza could have served as a summer palace in the golden age of Galifar; it was built for beauty, not war. Whorled marble pillars supported a sloping roof. A hound carved from basalt stood just beyond the gates, frozen in mid leap. The head and forequarters of the dog were bronzed, sharply visible in the coldfire and the light of the