Despite the Wayfinder’s justifiable concern, if the sand dragon did indeed escape its glass cage, it apparently decided they weren’t worth chasing, for they saw no further sign of it. They sheltered in the skeleton-like rock formation known as the Bone that night without incident, and the caravan made its way into Trent’s Well a week later, having encountered nothing more serious than assorted mephits and a rabid jackal after that first eventful day of travel.
The small settlement at the base of the Skyrakers was nothing like Zawabi’s Refuge. Where the djinn’s oasis had large, well-built homes and lush trees, Trent’s Well was a mixture of tents, wooden shacks, and disabled wagons situated around an old, crumbling stone well. A path led from the makeshift village up a rocky slope, and a group of armored men were heading up it as Brannan’s wagon skittered to a halt near the largest tent.
“What’s up there?” Sabira asked from her place beside the Wayfinder. She’d taken to riding in the front on the second day of the trip, when cramped quarters and short tempers had combined to force Xujil and the wagon’s original warforged driver to move to another covered cart. The final straw had been when the construct made the mistake of saying they should have left Guisarme to rot instead of endangering the entire caravan trying to save him. After that, it had been either transfer the warforged to another wagon, or bury him, much as he’d suggested be done to Guisarme. Xujil had gone with him, ostensibly to keep him from causing any more trouble, but in reality Sabira thought being around so many surface dwellers wore on the drow’s nerves—or at least being around the eating, breathing, sleeping ones. She didn’t blame the drow for making the move. After being kept awake by Skraad’s cattlelike snoring the last few nights, she’d been contemplating finding another wagon herself. But at least it had kept her from doing more than dozing, and hence, from dreaming, so she hadn’t complained too loudly. Another of the Sovereigns’ small blessings, she supposed. Blessings which were getting smaller all the time.
Since none of the others had wanted to take Xujil’s place next to the Wayfinder after Brannan—predictably—sided with the driver, Sabira found herself there, scanning the sky and sand in front of the caravan, while the rest of her companions took turns doing the same out the rear of the wagon. None of them wanted to be caught unprepared again. Not after the price it cost them last time.
“Up there? That’s what you’re looking for,” Brannan replied, bringing Sabira’s attention back to the present with that damnably perfect smile as much as with his words. “The rest of the settlement, and the entrance to Tarath Marad.”
Sabira eyed the steep slope skeptically, wondering where they’d found room for a town between the boulders and the bluffs.
“Kind of hard to build on that, I’d think,” Greddark commented from behind her, echoing her thoughts. “Well, I mean, for humans. Dwarves are smarter. We wouldn’t bother—we’d just excavate.”
Brannan glanced over his shoulder, turning his smile on the dwarf who’d poked his head out from the back of the slowing wagon to survey the town.
“Indeed. Then the settlers of Trent’s Well must have been veritable geniuses, because they built their town inside a cave that was already there.”
Greddark harrumphed and withdrew back into the wagon, muttering something about unloading. To keep from laughing, Sabira asked another question.
“They dug the well here, but settled up there? That doesn’t seem like the work of ‘veritable geniuses.’ ”
Brannan’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Well, just between you and me, the original settlers were thieves, murderers, and pirates who fled from Stormreach when it was founded because it was too ‘lawful,’ if that gives you any idea of their nature. They built their homes here after sinking the well. But, as you can see, the only thing that survives from that time is the well—the people and the town are lost to history.”
“What happened to them?” She expected some story of horror rising up from nearby Tarath Marad to envelop the unsuspecting citizens of Trent’s Well. Brannan’s tale was quite a bit less bardic.
“They all died. One of those foolish Flamers would probably tell you it was divine justice, but the causes were far more human—greed and stupidity. Two of the residents got into a fight over a handful of silver and one of them wound up dead in the well. The winner thought it would be better not to tell anyone about it and instead left town. When he returned with the regular supply wagon a month later, thinking the whole thing would have blown over and he’d be welcomed back with open arms, he found the entire populace dead in their homes, victims of some virulent illness.”
Sabira just stared at him.
“They drank from the well?” she asked incredulously.
Brannan shrugged.
“They didn’t know it was tainted until it was too late.”
Sabira could only shake her head. An entire town dead over such a small amount of coin. What a waste. Even if they had all been cutthroats, bootleggers, and worse.
“What about the survivor?”
The Wayfinder chuckled as he powered down the wagon.
“Well, the stories differ, but the most common one is that, overcome with remorse, he went looking for a burial place for the townspeople and providentially found a nearby cavern large enough to house a new settlement, complete with a water supply that couldn’t be poisoned—an underground river. He promptly founded a new Trent’s Well, in memory of those poor souls and their unfortunate mishap.”
Ah. The tale was obviously the most common because it painted the survivor in the best possible light following his little “mishap.”
“And now?” She sort of hoped Brannan would tell her the intrepid survivor was at the bottom of the old well too.
If possible, Brannan’s smile grew wider.
“Him? He’s the mayor.”
The large tent Brannan had stopped next to turned out to be a tavern of sorts, with something that looked like a convulsing wolf painted on either side of the entrance. While the Wayfinder was busy overseeing the unloading of the caravan, Sabira and the others went inside.
The interior was hot, dusty, and dim and filled with tables and chairs made from whatever was available—broken bits of crates and wagons, boulders with roughhewn flat surfaces, even the bones of what Sabira surmised were camels, though she didn’t want to look close enough to make sure. A long bar constructed of wooden boxes stood along the far wall, with a warforged who could have been Raff’s twin serving as barkeep.
Sabira wasn’t entirely surprised to see that the place was full of soldiers, miners, and scholarly types, even at this hour—the place was probably only habitable from sunset to mid-morning, after all. And as more and more powerful artifacts came out of Tarath Marad, more people would come here to seek their fortunes. In another month’s time, there might well be two such taverns in the sand.
A bored-looking shifter woman swayed to a kobold’s pipe on a shoddily-constructed stage opposite the bar—the tavern’s namesake, no doubt. The patrons appeared to pay her little mind, but whenever she missed a step, rocks flew from several points inside the tent, causing her to bob and weave in a much more lively imitation of actual dancing.
Sabira found the one open table and waved to what she hoped was a server as the others took what passed for seats on either side of her. When the harried gnome reached them, she didn’t ask them what they wanted, just dumped three mugs in front of them, then stuck out her hand expectantly.
“What’s this?” Greddark asked, sniffing at the rim with a grimace of distaste. Sabira was willing to bet it wasn’t sweet mint tea.
“Tainted Well—house brew. All we got left till the next shipment comes in from Stormreach. Four coppers each. Got some oil for the ’forged if he wants, but that’s a full sovereign.”
Jester politely declined as the others dug out the required amount of coin. After the gnome had left, they looked at each other, no one wanting to be the first to try the foul-smelling concoction.
“It’s not a very auspicious name,” Jester remarked unhelpfully. Sabira decided this probably wasn’t the time to share with them the story of how that name had come about.
“Well, then it matches everything else about this trip,” she said wryly. “Bottoms up.”
The others followed half a breath after her, upending their mugs and swallowing. Sabira had braced herself for a taste to match the smell, but the ale was smooth, going down like velvet with a pleasant earthy flavor and a warm finish.
“Mushrooms,” Greddark said decisively. “And cactus sap, if I’m not mistaken. Probably the flowers too. Could use some ironspice to liven it up, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his fist and signaled for another.
“Might want to slow down there, mate,” a man at the neighboring table said—a Vadalis, judging from the quick glimpse Sabira got of the dragonmark on his neck before his long blond hair fell forward to cover it. Probably a handler for the magebred camels; if Brannan used them, it stood to reason other expeditions did too. “Stuff’s more potent than it looks.”
Greddark snorted.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll order a double.”
Sabira gave the dwarf a dark look and turned on her seat so she was facing the man.
“You’ll have to forgive my friend. He got a little too much sun on the way here, and heat makes him cranky.” She shrugged apologetically. “It’s a dwarf thing.”
The man’s eyes flicked over her once, taking in the quality of her armor and the Siberys shard adorning the urgrosh on her back.
“Deneith?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She nodded, holding out her hand.
“Sabira.”
“Laven d’Vadalis,” he replied, shaking her hand. “Didn’t expect to see any more of you lot here after the last group didn’t make it back.”
“Oh?”
“Pretty blonde took ’em down—Blademarks, I think. None of them ever came back up again.” His eyes—hazel, like Elix’s, Sabira noticed with a sudden pang she forced quickly away—narrowed. “Well, except their guide. One of the Unders.”
“Unders?”
“Drow who live under the mountains and the desert, came up when the caverns were opened. Umbragen’s the name I think they use, but most everyone else just calls them Unders.”
“Yeah, because they get under your skin, and stay there,” one of Laven’s companions interjected. “Like a cactus needle, or a scorpion sting.” The woman’s comment was greeted with grunts of assent from the others at their table.
The corner of Laven’s mouth quirked upward.
“Glynn’s just mad he turned her down,” he quipped, which earned him a half-hearted punch from the woman and chuckles from his friends. Then he turned serious again. “You here to finish what the blonde started?”
Sabira gave him her most ingenuous smile, then lied through her teeth.
“I’m here to get rich. Aren’t you?”
Laven laughed and raised his mug.
“I’ll drink to that.”
As the Vadalis man gulped down his own Tainted Well, Sabira took stock of him and his companions. Laven wore boiled leather armor and carried a worn but well-kept sword. Glynn was similarly dressed, with a brace of daggers across her chest. The two others at the table were also human, one in battered chain and the other in heavy robes Sabira suspected had been fashioned out of a wagon covering.
She revised her assessment of Laven and his group; they probably weren’t animal handlers, after all. They looked more like hired hands down on their luck, hoping to make a little coin. A situation she just might be able to help them with.
“So, who’s the best person to work for out here if I want to accomplish that goal?”
Laven set his mug down and regarded her curiously.
“You look more like the order-giving type than the order-taking,” he said after a moment.
“Maybe I just want to know who my competition is,” she replied with an arch look. She didn’t really want to spend time playing games with him, though. She couldn’t go into Tarath Marad with only three swords at her side—not if she wanted to come back out again. Best just to get straight to the point. “Who are you working for?”
The Vadalis man blinked once at her directness.
“We’re sort of … independent contractors,” Glynn answered for him.
Sabira shifted her gaze to the other woman, whose close-cropped black hair did little to hide either her scars or her age.
“Not enough work in Stormreach for you?” Sabira asked her. This was the crux. She wanted men who’d follow her into the depths. She needed men who were desperate enough to do it.
But there were degrees of desperation, and to the reasons behind it. Guisarme, Jester, and Skraad had ultimately followed her because she offered them a better choice—not the only one. Hiring men without options was like loading your quiver with warped quarrels. Sure, some of them would fly true, but it only took one to break in the groove and render the crossbow useless, and you defenseless. She needed to make sure Laven and his group weren’t here in Trent’s Well because there was nowhere else they could go.
The dark-haired woman shrugged.
“I get bored easy.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sabira thought she saw Laven wince. She wondered when Glynn had gotten bored of him.
“So you’re looking for money and excitement?”
“Aren’t you?” Glynn countered, throwing her own earlier question back at her with an impish look.
Sabira smiled. She had a feeling this partnership would work out just fine.
She was about to open her mouth to begin the negotiation process when a hush came over the tavern and all heads turned toward the entrance. Sabira turned to look as well and saw Xujil standing there, scanning the room. His gaze fell on her and he started toward her table. As he passed, people hastily got up from their tables, leaving coin beside their unfinished drinks on their way out.
When it became clear what the drow’s destination was, Laven glanced at Sabira.
“Another cranky friend of yours?”
Sabira met his eyes coolly. If working with the drow was going to be a problem, she needed to know it now. She could find other men to go down into the caverns; she couldn’t find another guide who knew the route Tilde had taken.
“Something like that.”
“Well, this should be fun, then.”
Sabira turned back in her seat to face the drow as he stopped next to her table, the only one aside from Laven’s that was still occupied. Even the kobold piper and shifter dancer had left the tavern, leaving them alone, except for Raff’s twin, who might have been a statue for all the attention he paid them.
“Marshal,” the drow said by way of greeting, and Sabira almost groaned. That was going to drive Laven’s price up, she was sure.
“Something I can do for you?” she asked shortly, not bothering to hide her annoyance.
“The mayor asks everyone who enters Tarath Marad to register with him and pay a small usage fee, to help offset expenses incurred by the town in housing and feeding so many extra people. Since Brannan is unable to register for you, he requires your presence.”
Sabira cocked an eyebrow at that. That was some pretty shrewd governing for a guy who dumped a dead body in a well and didn’t think there’d be consequences.
“Where is he?”
“At the mayor’s home, in the cavern,” the drow replied, unperturbed by her less than welcoming tone.
“Tell him we’ll be along shortly.”
“Brannan asked me to bring you—”
“I’m sure he did, but we’re in the middle of being unavoidably detained. Tell him we’ll be there just as soon as we’re done here.” She knew the drow was from a culture alien to her and that he hadn’t been on the surface long enough to acclimate, but he would have had to be from a completely different plane of existence to mistake her expression.
Xujil inclined his head.
“As you will.”
She waited until the drow had exited the tavern before turning back to Laven and Glynn.
“I believe we were just about to discuss you coming to work for me?”
Glynn gave her a wide smile, and Sabira could fairly see the coin pile growing in the other woman’s head.
“Ir’Kethras too? You do run with some interesting folks, don’t you … Marshal?” Laven asked, hazel eyes gleaming.
Sabira kept her own smile intact, though mentally she was sticking long needles in the soft spots between Xujil’s toes. Rusty ones. Possibly coated in poison.
“Just Sabira. I’m on vacation,” she replied airily. “And as far as Brannan goes—well, you said you wanted to get rich. No better way than by learning from someone who already is.”
She looked Laven and his companions in the eye, one by one.
“We’re going into Tarath Marad, farther in than anyone else has lived to tell about, and that drow everyone seems to hate is the one who’s going to lead us there. I can pay you one hundred platinum apiece. Half now, half when we get back, plus a percentage of the profits on anything we find that we wind up selling. You provide your own weapons and your own bedrolls; I’ll provide the rest. Wealth and a wild time. What do you say?”
Laven didn’t hesitate.
“We’re in.”