Downshadow w-3

by Erik Scott De Bie

  The need for drink had first come before he had shaved his beard and fled his homeland for the monastery hidden deep in the mountain. Training among the monks had suppressed this desire to connect with his hated blood-for a time, at least. He had drunk himself to a stupor just before he killed the masters of the monastery, took their most sacred of swords, and fled to Waterdeep. And for a while, with the blood he spilled almost as easily as brearhing, he had not felt the urges.

  Until this night-until that thrice-cursed Shadowbane.

  Was this the third time he would drink to excess?

  "Rough eve?" Fayne asked, pointing to the empty bottles-three of them.

  Hard as it was-and it was hard, indeed-Rath set the bottle back on the table and pulled his gaze away from it. He still thought about it-craved the sweet fire on his tongue and in his belly, dulling his base impulses-but she could not see his mind.

  "What do you know of it, girl?" Rath asked. "I am a master at my art-I have never been defeated, or I would be dead." He was saying too much. It was the liquor in his stomach, saturating his blood and making him weak. Making him into a dwarf, when he should be free.

  "And yet," Fayne said, "you look like a man who bears a vendetta. Against a foe who left you alive, perhaps?"

  Rath would dance to her steps no more. "What do you want?"

  "The question," Fayne said, "is more correctly, do I know what you want?"

  The dwarf waved. "I want nothing."

  "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure." Fayne took a slip of parchment from the scrip satchel she had set on the table and showed it to him. It had a single long word on it. A name.

  He read the parchment and his eyes narrowed. "You know this man?" he asked. "Not just know of him, but you know him?"

  "Indeed!" She nodded. "It's only a matter of time before I have his face, too-and I'm sure that would be worth something to you." She reached across the table and laid her fingers across his wrist. "And perhaps I can think of a few other things, aye?"

  Rath looked at her hand on his arm. His face remained expressionless.

  "I had thought," he said, "that your inclinations did not match mine." He nodded to the serving lass, who was delivering a heavy tray of tankards to a group of half-ores. "From your kiss with yon wench of yesterday."

  "You noticed," Fayne said. "Would you like to see it againperhaps in a more intimate setting? Waterdeep is the city of coin, after all."

  "You mean-" Rath grimaced. "How disgusting."

  "You'd be surprised," she said. "Call me… free of mind. I can do many things-even dwarves." She winked. "Especially dwarves."

  Rath curled his lip. "Offer me coin, or begone-I'll have nothing else of you."

  Fayne pouted. "What a pity."

  Rath drank his brandy down and poured another. Fayne took out a second parchment, this with two words written on it, and passed it across the table. He looked at the name.

  "Interesting," he said. "The first shall be my reward for this? Why?"

  "This is personal," she said. "Someone I've hated for a long, long time." Her face and voice were deadly serious. "You are a professional-I do not think you could understand that."

  It was Rath's turn to smile-yet it might have been the brandy. "You'd be surprised at what I would understand." He chuckled. "I am very familiar with hatred."

  Fayne paused at that. "Mmm," she said. "Well. I shall deliver your payment-as noted on that parchment-upon completion. Aught else?"

  As quickly as a snake might lunge, Rath reached across the table and seized the lace at her collar, wrenching her face close to his own. Fayne went pale.

  "You are afraid," he whispered. "Why?"

  Fayne blinked. Her face was calm, but her eyes were fearful. "Release me," she said. "Release me, or-"

  "Or you will strike me?" Rath smiled. "I could kill you in a heartbeat."

  To demonstrate, Rath gave her face a flick with his fingers, splitting open her upper lip. She didn'r wince, and he almost respected her for that. Almost.

  He laid his other hand around her neck. "Answer my question."

  The woman licked where he had broken her lip. "Dreams," she said.

  Rath relaxed his grip. "Dreams?"

  "A girl-a girl in blue fire." Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled. "Know one?"

  The dwarf sighed and released her to flop back to the bench. He leaned back, drained.

  Fayne sucked her broken lip. "So you've caught me," she said. "I suppose I dream of wenches after all-but that isn't a fault, aye?" Discomfited as she was, she winked.

  Rath understood something about her then: how she used allurement to fight anxiety. He smiled wryly. So he wasn't the only one who demeaned himself in moments of weakness.

  He pulled his hand away. "Within three nights," he said, and gestured for her to depart.

  If Fayne had gone then, it would have been well, but instead her eyes held him fast. She reached casually across and plucked up his hand. She rubbed it against her cheek, teasing her lips along his thumb. His arm tingled, and his hand looked blasphemously dark against her skin.

  Long after she left the table, her touch lingered.

  Rath folded the parchment upon which she'd named his mark and slid it into his black robe. He raised the brandy to his trembling lips, but the cool liquid tasted like ash on his tongue. He threw the bottle aside with a hiss.

  Even drink did him no good now. She had ruined it for him.

  He needed a woman, he knew, but not her. Not that faceless creature.

  His sharp eyes fell on the serving lass. She had smallish breastswell enough-and a strong, rounded backside. He wouldn't enjoy it, he knew, but he had no choice. He wouldn't go so far as ro say he wanred her, but he knew that he needed her.

  Needed to drive his demons away-to forget.

  "Girl," he said across the tavern, and she stiffened. He raised the mostly empty bottle of brandy. "Come. Drink with me."

  He laid gold on the table.

  ELEVEN

  Shadovar assassin hides among corrupt merchants!" cried a boy for the Daily Luck, hawking his broadsheet on the Street of Silks as evening fell. "Watch denies all rumors!"

  "Shadovar spy rumors srupid!" called a rival broadcrier, a bob-haired girl crying the Merchant's Friend. She stuck out her tongue at the Luck boy. "Daily Luck prints idiocy!" "Does not!" cried the boy. "Does so!"

  A disgruntled Watchman came upon the two and hissed them onto the next street. They ran from him, laughing, hand in hand, and-Kalen thought-likely fell to kissing as soon as they were out of sight. Younglings. He shook his head and smiled ruefully.

  "I swear to the gods, Kalen," said Bors. "If you keep on delaying us for words with which to woo yon strumper-when hard coin will damn well do-I shall declare her the Lady Dren."

  Kalen surveyed the chapbooks just inside the shop. "Leleera likes to read."

  "I suppose we all have our bedchamber pleasures," Bors said. "Kindly don't share." Bors grinned.

  Kalen coughed into his hand, though it was mostly feigned. The weakness had subsided since yestereve, but he could still feel numbness throughout his body. As on any other day.

  They had stopped on the way up the Street of Silks at a shop called the Curious Past, at which Kalen was a frequent customer. The business-which after more than a century was growing to be an ancient treasure in its own right-sold oddities, antiques, and chapbooks about the old world. Kalen scanned the titles of the books stacked on the table as the anxious vendor looked on.

  Both were off duty that day, and as he often did on such days, Bors had invited Kalen to his favorite festhall-the Smiling Siren. Mostly, Kalen knew, Bors did so to interrogate Kalen for intimate information about Araezra. Kalen had not seen his superior that day-she had not reported for duty-but he wasn't about to let his worry show more than was seemly.

  Kalen tried to put her out of his mind. He srudied the wares laid out before him.

  Though all the thirty-or-so-page books were romantic in nature, they ranged from t
he speculative (The Chained Man ofErlkazar, The Blood Queen ofQurth) to the historical (Return of the Shades, the First and Second of Shadows series), and from the salacious (Untold Privy Tales of Cormyr: The Laughing Sisters, The Wayward Witch Queen) to the outright naughty (Adulteries ofLadyAlustra: A Confessional, Seven Sisters for Seven Nights, Tortn's Conquests; this last not a reference ro the god of justice, but a lecherous adventurer of the last century).

  He also found most of Arita's Silver Fox series, up to the eighty-page eighth volume, Fox in the Anauroch. Rumors of the upcoming ninth, Fox and the Blue Fire, had been the talk of literary circles for some months.

  Kalen selected one of the books and handed the vendor five silvers. He slid the book into his satchel and adjusted the thong over his shoulder. The two wore no armor while off duty, but their black greatcoats-hallmark of the Waterdeep Guard-kept vendors from cheating them.

  "Well? Which is it?" Bors winked at the vendor's giggly daughrer.

  "Aye?"

  "Which masterpiece shall Leleera be enjoying this night, man?" asked Bors. "Aught with pirates, nay? I've heard the lasses swoon over pirates these days."

  "All due respect, sir," Kalen said. "Can you even read?"

  "Ha!" Bors clapped him on the back. "Well enough, then."

  As they walked to the Siren, a light rain began to fall on what had been a warm day, sending up dust from the cobblestones. It was that time of winter-turning-to-spring when the weather could not choose how to behave. Dust swirled in a breeze that came from the west. "Sea fog tonight," predicted Kalen.

  "Ridiculous!" said Bors. He spread his hands. "You hear this, Waterdeep? Ridiculous!"

  Kalen just smiled-and coughed lightly.

  With the rain and the approaching eve, business slowed. The street lighters-retired Watchmen, mostly-were about their work, lifting long hooks to hang fish-oil lamps. The streets would grow crowded near the gates, which closed at dusk.

  "I don't see," Bors said, munching an apple, "why you bother with lasses of the night, when by all accounts you could tumble a nymph like Rayse for free."

  Kalen ignored rhat. "How are Araezra and Talanna?" he asked quietly.

  "You mean yestereve? Bah." Bors sparked a flinr and lit his tamped pipe. "Talanna fell-again, though at least this time she had the damn ring. Laid up for healing at Torm's temple a few days, but she'll be fine-that girl's tougher n bone dragons." He took a deep pull of pipe smoke. "I'm sure the damned Minstrel'will run a tale in the morn that makes us all look hrasting fools, but no mind."

  Kalen nodded. Cellica would tell him about the broadsheets. He never read them himself-he already knew how bleak the world really was. "What of Araezra?" he asked quietly.

  "Rayse…" He looked down at his hands. "She took yestereve pretty hard, as she always does. Good lass, that one, but hard on herself. Really hard. Thinks she has to be."

  Kalen sighed.

  "Funny you ask about her, when we're on our way to a festhall." Bors clapped him on the shoulder. "Mayhap after we're done there, you'll want to cheer Rayse up, eh?"

  Kalen ignored Bors's jape.

  They passed under the arms of the Siren-cunningly carved as a blushing, sea-skinned and foam-haired maiden whose gauzy skirts would occasionally billow in the right breeze off the bay. The entry room was cunningly sculpted and painted in a forest scene on one side, a beach on the other. Figures in various states of nakedness seemed to dance off the walls-nymphs, dryads, satyrs, and the like, also knights and maidens reclining and embracing under the boughs of trees.

  The images were so lifelike that a small person could blend in by standing still, as was a favorite pastime of Sanchel, the Siren's dwarf madam. Bors and Kalen knew her game, but she startled the Hells out of two young sellswords when she appeared-in thigh boots and a cloak of leaves-from among the trees.

  "Sune smile on you." Then, as they almost pissed themselves: "Boy, girl, or common?"

  "Cuh-common," said one of them. The other stared at her mostly exposed chest, an impressive edifice considering her stature.

  "Love and beauty follow you," said Sanchel. "If you would make your offering?"

  The older of the sellswords elbowed the younger, and he drew a purse out of his belt and handed it toward Sanchel. The dwarf shook her head and pointed instead toward a statue of the goddess that stood within a fountain below the stairs. At her gesture, the boy poured the coins into the water, which instantly turned brighr gold.

  "The goddess is pleased. You are welcome to her hall." Then Sanchel made a bird call and two half-clad celebrants appeared- one lad and one lass. Sanchel pointed each to one of the adventurers. A pause followed, in which the festgirl and fesrboy appraised the patrons critically, then they nodded and took the young men by the arms.

  Sanchel prided herself on knowing the nighttime preferences of her patrons at a glance, and she was right again. The youths looked very pleased at their escorts, and allowed themselves to be led toward the common hall, which would be full of dancing, wine, and song.

  Sanchel turned to Kalen and Bors with the smile she reserved for favored regulars. "Good eve, gentles-I see the Watch is trearing you well?"

  "Hasn't killed us yet." Bors eyed the murals speculatively. "I wonder…"

  Kalen rolled his eyes. This was one of Bors's favorite games, playing this role.

  Sanchel feigned wariness, but her eyes laughed. She knew the game as well and-unlike Kalen-liked it. "Something displeases, honored Commander?"

  "I wonder if your practices fall within the scope of the law," Bors said. "Are all your celebrants here of their own will, and given adequate compensation for their arts?"

  Sanchel rose to the challenge. "What are you suggesting, sir? All in this place serve Sune-and all want for naught. Or"-she smiled- "did you need to interview one yourself?"

  "Mmm, mayhap," said Bors with a grin. He drew out his purse and poured a few coins into the pool. The water glowed. "Clever magic-spares you checking the gold yourself, eh?"

  "Just so," said Sanchel. "And yet you pause, my lord. You are uncertain?"

  Bors's grin grew wider. "Better make it two," he said, adding twice as many coins to the offering. "Bren and Crin, I think."

  Sanchel gave a sweet smile and whistled twice, great trilling bird songs. Kalen wondered if she could speak with birds, if given the opportunity. Two women appeared our of a hidden door in Sune's forest-two dusky-skinned lasses with midnight hair and big, deep black eyes.

  Bren and Crin looked identical, though they shared no blood. One, or perhaps both, was a shapeshifter who matched the other. Requests for "the sisters" were common enough-if costly. They smiled at Bors with their full, tempting lips.

  "Does this one please you?" Sanchel asked them.

  The women looked at Bors Jarthay critically, weighing him with their eyes. Their choosing was the key, Kalen thought. If they did not like the man, no offering was enough, and it would be blasphemy for Bors to coerce or even so much as scowl if they chose "nay."

  Oddly, Kalen found himself thinking of Cellica, the only sister he had ever known, and chuckled inwardly at the thought of her in such a situation. She'd probably box Bors Jarthay around the ears, or-failing that, owing to her size-offer him a punch in a more sensitive spot.

  Bren and Crin did nothing of the sort. They smiled to one another, then bowed to Bors. "This one," they said together, "half a fool and half a hero-this one always amuses us." Sanchel nodded.

  "Perfect," said Bors with a low bow. Then he smiled boldly and quoted, "Beauty begs joy. The silvered glass smiles, its delight unrehearsed."

  The courtesans looked at one another dubiously. Kalen looked at Sanchel, who giggled. Apparently, she understood the private jest.

  "Is something wrong, my ladies?" asked the commander, his smile faltering.

  "The poesy was not so bad," Crin said ro Bren. "Was ir Thann, you think?"

  "Doubtless," said Bren. "And spoken Well, roo."

  "But my ladies unmake me," said Bors with a
small bow. "They have heard this before."

  "Of course," said Crin. "It is in Couplets for Courtiers, is it not? How does it go, Sister?"

  Bren smiled. "Ler me see. 'Your lips curve in swift, sweet echo, but this I swear: the mirror smiled first'… aye, Commander?"

  "Aye, just so."

  "Myself, I'd have preferred aught of Thann s 'Gray-Mist Maiden,'" Crin murmured to herself. " 'Ler years steal beauty, grace, and youth,' or the like."

  "Ladies, I bow to your superior learning," Bors said, bowing low.

  "But which is the lady and which the mirror?" pressed Bren-or perhaps Crin. Kalen wasn't certain any more. He wondered if he had been wrong all along.

  "I should be most pleased to find out." And with that, Bors emptied the rest of his purse into the water, which glowed brightly indeed. "Might we find a place of privacy, ladies, wherein I mightah? Ladies?"

  Bren was looking at the glowing pool. She clicked her tongue and smiled at Crin. "He would impress us with gold where his poetry fails, Sister."

  "How childish," agreed Crin. "Hmpf!"

  The women stuck out their tongues simultaneously at Bors. They brushed past him toward the commons, seemingly disinterested.

  Bors's face fell. "Wait a moment!" the commander cried, and he hurried after them.

  Kalen shook his head. The commander was just another man with more coin than sense.

  In truth, he did not begrudge Bors Jarrhay. Kalen was a man, too, and had the desires of any man. Only the ability… Kalen sighed inwardly.

  "Sir Dren," Sanchel said. "Have your desires shifted, or is it Leleera again? She has asked for you, should you come around-as you well know."

  Kalen turned to her. "Leleera."

  "If you wish to marry her," Sanchel said, "that can be…"

  "No, no," Kalen said. It seemed awkward to claim he and Leleera were merely friends, so he held his tongue. He dropped gold into the pool, which glowed with a radiance more subdued than Bors had wrought with his coin. "As always-an hour longer than the commander stays here. Do not let us leave together."

  "As always." Sanchel nodded and gestured to the stairs. "Sune smile upon you."