Shadow's Witness

by Paul S. Kemp

  He turned his face into the snow and headed for the gambling dens of the Wharf District.

  In Selgaunt, the gaming houses along Nedreyin Street remained open all day and all night. People of all social backgrounds—nobles, transient adventurers, merchants, rogues—gambled as much as their schedules and finances permitted. Even now, despite the dawn hour and cold weather, Nedreyin Street still had its denizens eager to test Tymora’s favor on the throw of knucklebones or deal of cards. As Cale watched, a crowd of five loud men in heavy cloaks and winter boots strode past the burly doorman and into the Leering Basilisk, a low quality establishment without an attached eatery. At the same time, a pair of noblemen—probably second sons, not heirs—walked hangdog out of the Scarlet Knave two doors down, no doubt lighter by a few fivestars.

  Not yet extinguished by the city’s linkboys, the street lamps sputtered fitfully in the wind blowing off Selgaunt Bay. The smell of sea salt and the reek of the nearby fishmongers’ stalls filled the cold air—the bay did not entirely freeze over until early in the month of Alturiak, and the city’s fishermen habitually worked the waters to the very last. After the horrors he had witnessed on the other side of the city, Cale welcomed the sight of human beings involved in mundane human affairs and vices.

  He walked down the snow-coated street, wary of the shadows in every dark corner. Despite the cold, sleeping drunkards and men who had gambled away their lodging coin lay huddled and shivering under building eaves. Cale eyed them all with a sharp gaze, sure that their cloaks covered gray skin and sharp claws. His concern proved unwarranted—all of them were harmless.

  Searching for word of Jak, he moved quickly from gambling house to gambling house and dropped some fivestars to loosen the tongues of the circumspect bartenders and taciturn doormen. Surprisingly, his coins brought no result—no one had seen the little man. He checked Jak’s usual haunts twice—the Scarlet Knave, the Bent Coin, the Cardhouse—and heard from the regulars that no one had seen the halfling for weeks. At that, Cale began to worry. While he hadn’t expected to find Jak actually gambling at this hour, he had expected to find his friend collapsed in a suite somewhere. That Jak hadn’t been seen at all set off alarms in Cale’s head. He knew that Yrsillar and his servants already had hit several players in Selgaunt’s underworld—no doubt to draw out or find Cale and this other. If Jak was the other, perhaps the demon had already gotten to him?

  Unwilling to consider the possibility, Cale sat at the polished bar of the Cardhouse and spent a silver raven on a cup of warm spiced wine. He drank it down before he headed back outside. By then, dawn had fully broken and the city’s red-cloaked linkboys had appeared. Nimbly, they scaled the street torches and snuffed the blazing coals with metal hoods. Though overcast, the light of morning dispelled the shadows of night and Cale breathed easy for the first time since fleeing the guildhouse. He thought it unlikely that Yrsillar would dare make any moves in the full light of day.

  Now as much worried for Jak’s well being as wanting the little man’s help, Cale made a hard decision. Though he had promised not to return, he knew where he had to go for information about Jak—the Harper safehouse to which Jak had taken him after the affair with the Zhentarim. Brelgin and the Harpers there would know how to reach Jak. If they still used the safehouse. They had not been pleased when Cale had learned of its location and might have decided to abandon it as compromised.

  There’s only one way to find that out, he thought.

  He walked back through the quickly crowding, snowy streets and headed for the Warehouse District. Once there, he navigated from memory a maze of back alleys, cul-de-sacs, and small storehouses until he reached the one-story Harper safehouse. The ramshackle brick building looked like any number of similar, unnamed office buildings in the district—inconspicuous for its mundanity. Having once fled with Jak up from Selgaunt’s sewers into its basement, Cale knew the structure to have a secret lower level three times the area of the surface.

  Through the falling snow, he could see two heavily cloaked men lounging casually against the wooden porch posts. Neither wore visible iron, but their oversized winter cloaks could have concealed a dwarven great axe. Alert expressions and wary eyes belied their uncaring stances—Harper guards. They had to be. So the Harpers did still use the safehouse, and he might still find Jak. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  He walked out from the alley and toward the sentries with empty hands in evidence. They stiffened at his approach and stepped down from the porch onto the narrow, unpaved street. Though the guards’ cloak hoods shadowed most of their features, Cale still recognized one of the two from his encounter with the Harpers in the sewers. A thin, short fellow with slanted green eyes that indicated an elf ancestor not more than two generations removed. The other guard, a heavyset man of medium height, Cale did not remember. He wasted no time with idle greetings.

  “I need to see Brelgin,” he announced when he drew close. From his previous encounter with the Harpers, Cale knew Brelgin to be in charge of the safehouse. “Now.”

  “Brelgin?” said the heavyset guard, “There’s no Brelgin here—”

  “Save it,” interrupted Cale. “I know what you are and what this building is.” He turned to the half-elf, threw back his own hood to reveal his bald head, and asked in elvish, “Do you remember me?”

  The half-elf’s almond eyes flashed recognition. “I remember you,” he replied in common.

  “Good,” Cale said. “Then maybe you can answer my question and save Brelgin and I the agony of a meeting. I’m looking for Jak Fleet. You know I’m a friend. Where can I find him?”

  At the mention of the little man, the half-elf’s expression grew thoughtful. Cale didn’t like his silence.

  “What?” Cale asked, alarmed. He advanced a step on the half-elf and barely resisted the urge to grab the smaller man by the shoulders and shake him. “What’s happened?” Cale had a terrible vision of Jak’s small body sucked empty by the shadow demon.

  The half-elf’s eyes found the street. “You’ll have to ask Brelgin, Erevis Cale. It’s not my place.” He poked a finger into Cale’s chest. “Wait here.”

  “Wait—”

  Both Harpers turned, bounded up the porch steps, and vanished into the safehouse.

  Concerned, but knowing better than to follow them unasked into the safehouse, Cale walked to the porch, sat on the rail, and awaited Brelgin.

  Within a few minutes, the tall Harper leader emerged, hastily wrapped against the cold in a green cloak. Brelgin had shaved his blond beard since last they had met, but Cale could not mistake the arrogance in the Harper leader’s eyes. He stood to face him.

  “You were told never to come here again, Cale.” Brelgin spat Cale’s name like a curse. “You could’ve been followed by one of the snakes you chum with. If you’ve compromised us,” he looked up and down the empty back street, advanced a step, and stared into Cale’s face, “I’ll see to it you’re made sorry.”

  Cale bit back the urge to choke this arrogant ass where he stood. For Jak’s sake, he ignored the threat, swallowed his anger, and managed an even tone. “I’m looking for Fleet.”

  “I know.”

  Cale scrutinized his face. “Where is he?”

  Brelgin hesitated an instant too long before answering. “He’s away on organization business.”

  Cale knew he was lying. He grabbed the Harper leader by the cloak and jerked him close.

  “You’re lying, and I don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. I need to see him. I’m his friend, Brelgin. Even you know that. Where is he?” He shook the Harper leader like a doll.

  From within the safehouse, footsteps thumped toward the front door—Harpers rushing to Brelgin’s aid. Looking impassively into Cale’s face all the while, Brelgin waved them back just as they appeared in the doorway. They backed off.

  “Let me go, Cale,” he said, softly.

  Cale stared at him a long moment, and released him.

  Brelgin readjusted his cloak, st
udied him for a moment, and apparently came to a decision. “I’ll get my gear. You want to see him that bad, I’ll take you to him.”

  Brelgin led Cale north through the city. Despite the snow, cold, and early morning hour, Selgaunt had now come fully back to life. Nobles’ carriages slowly navigated the slush of the streets. Patrols of the city watch, Selgaunt’s Scepters, trooped past in their red tabards. Merchants hawked their wares from shop doors to passersby. Street vendors pushed their carts through the slush. Customers rich and poor shopped, haggled, and bought. To all appearances, the city seemed perfectly normal. Except for the demons that murdered by night.

  Despite his dislike for Brelgin, Cale felt obligated to let the Harper leader know about Yrsillar. He drew close to avoid eavesdroppers and spoke in a low tone, wasting no words.

  “Listen, Brelgin, the Righteous Man is dead.” At that, Brelgin raised his brows thoughtfully.

  “Some kind of demon has taken over the guild. It has turned the guildsmen into ghouls.” When he said it aloud, it sounded so far-fetched as to be ridiculous, but he plowed on. “I don’t know how it happened, maybe one of the Righteous Man’s summonings went wrong. But whatever the cause, I think all the recent hits in the underworld have been this demon’s doing. It has another demon serving it, a shadow that does its killing. I’m not sure—”

  Brelgin cut him off in a tone colder than the winter air. “Sounds like a problem for you and yours, Cale. None of mine have been hit by this shadow. And if it’s killing criminals, I don’t want to stop it. I want to recruit it.”

  Cale could not believe his ears. He grabbed the Harper leader by the arm, jerked him around, and pulled him to a stop. His voice rose with his anger.

  “Can you possibly be that stupid? This thing isn’t going to stop with criminals. It’s not ever going to stop, not unless someone stops it. Blast you—” He lowered his voice as a fat, middle-aged housewife and her young son passed by and looked at them askance. “Nine Hells, man, it hit Stormweather last night. There aren’t any criminals there.”

  “Except you,” Brelgin snapped, and jerked his arm free of Cale’s grip.

  That hit Cale square in his gut. Trying to mask his shame with anger, he advanced on Brelgin until he stood nose to nose.

  “Listen, you arrogant ass, there’s no telling what this thing will do next. But you can be damned sure that it’ll be coming for yours soon enough. You think the Harpers are immune?” He scoffed. “If you’ve avoided it up to now, you’ve just been lucky.”

  Brelgin returned Cale’s glare and didn’t retreat a handspan. “Until it does,” he said tightly, “it’s your problem.” He spun on his heel and walked off. Stewing, Cale followed.

  For a long time, they walked through the crowded streets in silence. Cale could not understand the Harper leader’s indifference. Yrsillar might eventually pose a threat to the entire city.

  Is it just personal antagonism? he wondered. Or orders from higher up in the organization? Either way, he found it incomprehensible. Seething more and more with each step he took, he finally could no longer hold his anger at bay.

  “You and the Harpers are a bad joke,” he snapped, walking beside Brelgin but not looking at him. “You’ve got everyone thinking that you work for the good—whatever that even is—but when I tell you about a demon running rampant in the city, you tell me that I’m on my own.” He shook his head. “You think that’s working for the good? I know thieves with more courage and more sense. You and your crew are nothing more than a bunch of little boys trying to protect your reputations and play at being men.”

  That stopped Brelgin cold. He whirled on Cale, a snarl on his face. “What do you know about anything good, Cale?” he spat. “You’re a Night Mask murderer.”

  At that, Cale recoiled a step. Surprise wiped away his self-satisfaction.

  “That’s right, we know all about your background, all about your past in Westgate.” He jabbed a finger into Cale’s chest. “I don’t need to hear lectures on what’s good from an assassin.” Brelgin turned and stomped off.

  Too stunned and angry to speak, Cale continued on silently after him. It doesn’t matter who knows now, he thought bitterly. Thamalon already knows. It’s all ending soon anyway, one way or another.

  It hurt Cale to think such thoughts, but there it was. He no longer had anyone he needed to hide his past from—though his deepest secret remained his own. Brelgin and the Harpers knew only that he had been a Night Mask. Not his relationship to the organization. If they had known that …

  He pushed through the crowd at a jog and fell into step beside the Harper leader.

  Tension hung thick between them, and neither man said another word as they continued northward through the city. Expecting to be led to another Harper safehouse, Cale felt surprised and worried when the tall, beautifully crafted churches of the Temple District came into view.

  “The Temple District?” he asked Brelgin.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” grunted the Harper leader. They turned onto the Avenue of Temples.

  Though a few shrines had been raised in other parts of Selgaunt, most had been built on the north side of the city, in the five large blocks known as the Temple District. For as far as Cale could see, spires, domes, bell towers, gold gilt work, statuary, and stained glass dominated the horizon. In the distance, the festive bells of the towering temple of Lliira pealed forth and sent the cheer of the Revelmistress speeding into the sky. To his right, the soft ring of chimes sounded from within the small shrine dedicated to Lathander the Morninglord. A crowd of faithful thronged the avenue. The low murmur of their voices mixed with the bells, chimes, and gongs created an unintentional but strangely harmonious orchestra of the devout.

  Having deliberately avoided ever setting foot on the Avenue of Temples, Cale found the architectural variety of the temples surprising. The structure of the churches varied so much that the street looked a bit of a hodgepodge. Some had been crafted of granite, some of limestone, and still others of brick. Each had a different layout—here a dome, there a tower, there a squat rectangle. Still, Cale had to admit that the architectural dissonance had a symbolic beauty all its own—the various churches of the gods co-existed in peace on the Avenue of Temples. If only Selgaunt’s underworld were so understanding.

  At many of the church doors, worshipers already gathered for morning services. Monks and priests greeted the faithful as they entered. Clouds of incense smoke wafted from open doors and dispersed in the cool air.

  Cale noted that few carriages drove the avenue and most of the worshipers awaiting entry wore the clothes of commoners. He would have expected as much. Typically, the nobility had private shrines built within their manses, and when necessary, they could buy direct access to a high priest. In Selgaunt, wealth bought blessings as easily as it did bread.

  Shaking his head ruefully, Cale trekked up the avenue behind Brelgin.

  When the smooth marble walls of the temple of Deneir came into view, the Harper leader veered directly for it. Cale followed, his worry growing for his friend.

  Shaped from slabs of gray granite and green marble—both stones quarried from the majestic Thunder Peaks twenty miles to the north of the city—the Godscribe’s two-story, rectangular temple stood open to the street. Though it wore a welcoming stair and beautifully columned portico, no worshipers waited outside to be allowed entry.

  Unsurprising, Cale thought. As part of his Night Mask linguistic training back in Westgate, he had been tutored by a mage who had worshiped Deneir—a half-blind academic named Theevis who spoke as many languages as Cale had birthdays. From Theevis, he had learned that the faith of the Godscribe appealed mostly to scholars, not commoners.

  A marble frieze ran along the top of the temple wall, inscribed with Deneir’s praises in more scripts than even Cale could recognize. Two marble statues, each of an intense, elderly man poring over an open tome, flanked the closed double doors. Above the doors, a phrase had been inscribed in the common tongue—T
o Preserve Knowledge is to Serve Men and Gods. Brelgin jogged up the stairs, pushed open the double doors, and walked through. Cale followed.

  Erevis Cale had been in only two temples in his life, and both of those had been furnished with pews, an offering box, a raised pulpit, and an altar. As far as he could see, Deneir’s temple had none of those. The place looked more of a library than a worship hall. Desks and worn tables filled the carpeted room, each covered in papers, scrolls, inkpots, and open tomes. Tall shelves filled with books stood along the back wall. Chandeliers and three blazing hearths provided heat and light by which to study. The place smelled of ink, leather, and allorath leaf, an herbal paper preservative used by scribes and sages.

  Of the handful of faithful who sat at the desks and studied lost lore, none so much as glanced up when Cale and Brelgin entered.

  A tonsured acolyte in a black and white diagonally striped cloak cleared his throat and smiled at them from his table just inside the doors.

  “Do you require a table, sirs?” he softly asked.

  “No, thank you,” Brelgin replied in equally soft tones. “We’re actually here to meet someone.” He gave the acolyte a smile and they walked past.

  As they navigated the maze of tables and readers, Cale quietly stated, “This isn’t like any temple I’ve ever seen.”

  Brelgin harrumphed as though he found it surprising that Cale had seen the inside of any temples at all.

  “This isn’t the worship hall, Cale. This is only the lending library. The Deneirrath grant anyone access to these writings and charge only what the borrower can afford.”

  Cale nodded appreciatively. If times had been different, he could have enjoyed himself greatly here. It reminded him of Thamalon’s library in Stormweather.

  He followed Brelgin across the library floor to the rows of tall shelves that lined the back of the room. There, they found seated at a desk a middle-aged priestess clad in a turquoise robe. She pored over an ancient book, muttering to herself as she read, and occasionally wrote furiously on a separate piece of parchment. Cale and Brelgin stood before her for a few moments before she finally noticed them and looked up.