“Look,” she said. “The simple fact is, I’m staying. There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it, short of taking me out of here by force or trickery. Is that your plan? Kalen?”
Kalen breathed hard. She was so close—their faces almost touching. Her breasts swelled against his chest. From her eyes, he almost thought she wanted him to grab her and haul her off. His mind reveled in the possibility. The thought dashed all sense from his head.
“Myrin,” Kalen implored. “He—Toytere is using you. To what end, I don’t know, but you need to come with me. I want—” He trailed off.
Myrin did not waver. “You want what?” She looked him right in the eye.
To that, Kalen had no response.
“Good,” Myrin said. “Glad we had this talk.”
They broke apart, both of them breathing hard. Rhett stared at them, his eyes wide.
“Myrin,” Kalen said. “Luskan has been an overflowing latrine for a century. Hundreds of folk far better than you or I have tried to save this city and failed.”
She rose to the challenge. Runes of blue fire appeared on her skin and flames started crackling around her fingers. “Better than you, perhaps.”
“Please, just listen to me.”
“I’m staying.” Myrin turned away, then spoke over her shoulder. “And if you really want to help me, then you’ll just have to stay, too.”
Kalen stared at her back. He saw her shoulders trembling, though with anger or something else, he did not know. She was being stubborn to a fault. It reminded him of Cellica, and why not? The two women had been the best of friends, for the short time they’d known each other. Then Cellica had died and the very same assassin had kidnapped and almost killed Myrin. Why couldn’t she see he only wanted to protect her?
“Rhett,” Kalen said. “I’m leaving. Come with me or stay, it’s all the same.”
Myrin stiffened at those words, but she stood firm.
Rhett, on the other hand, loosed a groan of frustration. “Enough,” he said. “I don’t know what passes between the two of you and I don’t care. But for the space of ten breaths, will you listen to a compromise?”
Try as he might to dismiss the boy as an empty-headed noble fop, Kalen found that Rhett often made a great deal of sense. He nodded.
Myrin too was looking at Rhett with an expectant gaze. “Go on,” she said.
“Right,” Rhett said. “No one can leave anyway, what with the plague.”
The plague. In his drive to find Myrin, Kalen had almost forgotten about the plague. He saw again the dead Dustclaw with risen welts and rotting flesh and the things moving under his skin.
“The Fury,” Myrin said crisply. When Kalen and Rhett both looked at her blankly, she explained. “It’s what the people of Luskan call it. No one knows how it spreads, but once you catch it, you go mad—trying to kill anyone and anything in sight. Eventually, you die in a fight or the plague consumes your mind.”
“Right,” Rhett said with a shiver.
“You seem to know much about it,” Kalen said, struggling to keep his voice calm.
“Toy told me.” Again, Myrin seemed to have left their argument completely behind. She spoke efficiently, as though reciting from memory. “It leaves skeletons of all different races, bleached and stripped of any remaining flesh. Some believe it’s a magical malady.” She shrugged, as though that were not just possible but likely.
With a chill, Kalen remembered the skeleton he’d found in the butcher’s shop, wedged into the closet. Had that also been a victim of the plague? And what of the rat, trapped with the bones, who had perished only heartbeats after attaining freedom?
“I propose that we find the source of the plague,” Rhett went on. “If it’s a natural malady, we find out where it comes from and how it spreads. If it’s a wizard, we stop him. In this way, we help Luskan—which makes Lady Darkdance happy.” He looked at Myrin, who nodded. “With the plague gone, the quarantine will end, which makes me happy. I can go back to interesting duties, if Father can get the Guard to take me back.” Rhett smiled. “Also with the quarantine gone, we can leave Luskan, which makes Saer Shadowbane happy. All three of us get what we want. Right?”
“Right.” Myrin looked positively delighted by that suggestion.
Kalen couldn’t help shaking his head, frustrated but impressed. Perhaps there was something to this boy after all. The sword had chosen him—no doubt it had a purpose. But could Kalen take that chance again, after what had happened to Vaelis? He didn’t often pray and he’d sworn never to beg, but right now, he felt like doing both.
Mercy, Threefold God, Kalen said silently.
“Very well,” he said finally. “If Myrin really is in command, we can do this thing. But”—he fixed Myrin with his gaze—“will you promise to leave with us when it’s over?”
“Very well.” Myrin nodded. “That’ll give us, me, plenty of time. To make a difference, I mean.”
Suddenly suspicious, Kalen scrutinized Myrin. She was not saying everything. A year ago, she’d worn her thoughts on her face, but now he couldn’t read her as easily.
“Very well,” Kalen said. “Rhett, you’re Myrin’s warder.”
Myrin’s smile evaporated. “What? Sir Reginald?”
“It’s Rhett, actually,” the lad said. “And me? What about you?”
“That’s the bargain,” Kalen said. “Until we find the source of the plague, he’s your guardian. I’ll do what I think best. Or do you refuse?”
Myrin stared at him for a long moment, then she nodded hesitantly. “Very well.”
“And what of that?” Rhett pointed to Vindicator.
“I told you that was yours,” Kalen said.
“Aye, Sir.” Rhett nodded.
Myrin glared at Kalen. This deal did not please her, and he took some satisfaction in that. “Well I, for one, am tired,” she said. “On my seer’s word, I’ve been up all night waiting for some sword-wielding madman and fancy that! Here you are, Kalen.”
Kalen ignored the barb, but it did remind him of the halfling. “And I will watch Toytere,” he said. “When he turns on us, we’ll be ready.”
“Mystra, Kalen! You’d think he was plotting some imminent betrayal right now.”
“So, about that betrayal.”
With practiced grace, Toytere lit his pipe and puffed out a smoke circle, squinting at the Coin Priest—Eden—who sat across from him.
“There be a … complication,” he said.
“Oh, don’t leave it there,” Eden said, sipping her fire red drink. “Say on.”
The dark and loud Whetstone made for a perfect place to meet and conduct business. The festhall catered to those who wanted their primary senses dulled as they took their pleasures. An absence of light dimmed a patron’s sight, a persistent cacophony of horns and drums (enhanced and maintained by magic) shattered the ears, and a steady supply of strong wine and brandy took care of the wits and nerves. The darkness and hanging curtains of opaque fabric hid the more deplorable acts committed among its sheltered tables. The effect allowed festhall patrons to focus on the other aspects of the experience—smells and tastes, sharp pains and pleasures—and to do it in complete privacy.
The halfling and the human, both in cloaks to hide their faces, sat to one side in intrigue-laden privacy and talked. Many betrayals were schemed in such places, and Toytere had come prepared. One did not become chief of one of Luskan’s Five through carelessness or an abundance of trust. These two did better than most through their alliance: Toytere with his Sight, Eden with her considerable power base. He relied upon his usefulness to her, but only to a point.
“Perhaps you’re reconsidering the bargain we made?” she said. “Or perhaps the coin and alliance are not enough? You want more?”
“Nothing like that, me dear.” Toytere narrowed his eyes. “Another player be entering in—Little Dren. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“Perhaps.” Her eyes glittered—gray and platinum—as she considered this
.
Toytere always had difficulty reading Eden’s face, which obscured her thoughts so well. He’d first met the woman when she arrived in Luskan five years ago, but her toughened visage suggested she’d lived here her whole life. Not that he would ever ask, of course—it would not do to seem too interested.
“The crusader should prove no concern,” she said at length. “Only the girl matters.” Eden leaned closer to Toytere and he smelled the thick perfume and blood on her skin. This was a dangerous woman—and very enticing. “How are you handling her, by the way?”
“With utmost hospitality as I bide me time, awaiting the opportune moment,” the halfling replied. “Brandobaris! She actually believes she be in command. What a jest!”
“You always did play the game with a casual hand,” she said.
He grinned with his sharklike teeth. “You’d be surprised what me hands can do.”
“Little surprises me.” Eden rose and proffered her hand. “In that case, my fellow conspirator, I leave you in the goddess’s grace. Do not spurn her gifts.”
“Me lady.” He took her hand but did not kiss it. “Never would I do that.”
She walked out, her braced leg making her limp. The patrons of the Whetstone moved out of her way with palpable respect, fear, or both. Back at the table, Toytere smiled and drained the rest of his ale. This tenday would be a good one, Little Dren or no.
He only hoped that when the time came, he got to kill Kalen Dren himself.
23 KYTHORN (DAWN)
IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING, KALEN FINALLY GAVE up trying to sleep in the foul-smelling warren of the Drowned Rat. The fire had burned down to crackling embers and the dim light of imminent sunrise shone through the boarded-over windows.
Vindicator clasped loosely in his lolling hand, Rhett snored by the smoky hearth, as content as though the common room were that of any other inn in all of Faerûn. Kalen admired the boy’s ability to fall asleep so readily, though he didn’t particularly enjoy the snoring. The roaring sound had no rhythm to it: rather than lull Kalen, it startled him awake if he drifted.
By contrast, Kalen had only managed to doze, never able to let down his guard. He had not dreamed, which was a blessing in and of itself. All too often, when he closed his eyes, he saw bloody dreams and accusing faces. Instead, he dozed and stirred at every noise. Several times, he’d had to stare down Rats who crept toward Rhett, eager to get at his purse or the fabulous sword. Kalen might have enjoyed the game of cat and rat, were it not for Myrin.
Myrin.
What had he expected? That he would show up, fight off a dozen captors, and whisk her off in his arms? He should have known Myrin would resent that, but he’d never expected such stubborn resistance. What could he have said differently?
“I hope you can protect her, boy,” he murmured toward the snoring Rhett. “Or I’ll have my hands full protecting you both.”
“She does not need your protection,” said a voice.
It took Kalen a moment to see Sithe, but when he did, his body lit with tension. She sat cross-legged before the fire, more a dark stain than a woman. Even with her black skin against the gray room, she seemed to vanish unless Kalen looked directly at her.
“You underestimate the wizard, and that is your undoing,” she said without looking at him or even opening her eyes.
“Myrin?” Kalen asked.
“Arrogance.” She turned her head toward him but still had not opened her eyes. “Why do you stare?”
“A proper warrior knows his enemy,” Kalen said.
“Is that what I am?” she asked. “Your enemy?”
They were silent a moment. The embers crackled and flames rose in a brief wind that swept through an open window. The light reflected on the black blade of her axe, which lay on the floor like lurking death. Sithe spoke again.
“Fire has no substance—it exists to consume and has no other purpose.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sithe nodded as though his admission did not surprise her in the least. She rose and made her way to the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder once before climbing.
Kalen rose, flexing his numb limbs. He stepped toward the stairs, then paused, considering. After a moment, he bent and retrieved Vindicator from Rhett’s grasp.
“Rest,” he said to the boy. “I shall return.”
Kalen climbed out onto the roof. In the predawn light, greasy gray clouds threatened rain.
A spire stood up from the middle of the tavern, leaning haphazardly east as though to indicate the coming dawn. The rusted weathercock must once have been a dragon, but it had withered over the years to resemble a bulbous rat, around the same time as the Drowned Rat tavern had earned its unappealing name. Perhaps circumstance and weather had chosen to endorse the moniker.
Sithe waited at the far edge of the roof. The sun peeked over the mountains on the distant horizon to the east, but Sithe’s eyes fell not on its ascending brightness. Rather, she gazed at the fleeing darkness to the west.
“Mourning the disappearance of your mother, Lady Darkness?” Kalen asked. “She’ll be back this eve, no doubt.”
Sithe regarded him coolly. She raised her axe on its long haft.
Kalen drew Vindicator, ignoring the painful warmth of its hilt in his hand. Silver flames flickered along its surface, as subdued as the distant sun in the east.
The genasi rushed forward, sweeping across and into his parry. Kalen blocked, but the force of the blow sent him staggering. Sithe stepped around him with fluid grace and brought the blade down. Kalen blocked and steel screeched. The force of her blow sent him lurching back three steps. He went down to one knee.
Sithe stood, her body fully extended, and her axe ringing from the strike. As before, she wore no armor. Her simple black silks shifted as she moved. She dressed not unlike a thief—one who expects no battle, because she will never be caught.
“Your blade is powerful, but your faith is weak.” Slowly, she lowered her axe until it hung diagonally toward the ground. “You must find stronger faith, if you would be an assassin for a god.”
“I am no such thing.” Kalen felt his anger stir.
Silently, Sithe rushed at him. Vindicator clasped in both hands, Kalen deflected her axe enough that it passed harmlessly over him. Her attack had been a feint, however; she lunged and kicked him in the chest. Vindicator swept past her hip, but she swayed just wide of its silvery edge. He felt some kind of resistance, as though invisible armor protected her.
Kalen growled in frustration. The rage she had awakened in him grew hotter.
They sprang at each other—meeting in the air, their weapons flashing and singing. When they landed back on the roof, Sithe stepped back and coiled, ready to counter. It was a trap, Kalen realized, but his anger drove him to attack anyway. She knocked his lunge aside with the axe’s blade and used Kalen’s own strength to snap the butt of her weapon’s haft into his face. Vindicator clattered to the rooftop.
Kalen flinched as Sithe came toward him, her axe hissing back and forth through the air. It spun over her head and cut toward Kalen’s neck. He was lost.
The axe stopped just a hair from his skin—halted by Sithe’s hand on the haft. She stood facing away, her arms wide. Their eyes met over her shoulder.
They broke apart. Kalen panted, his muscles strained from where he had caught her axe twice on his blade. Sithe, on the other hand, breathed slowly and softly.
“You bear death inside you,” Sithe said. “I can feel it.”
“A spellscar.” Kalen bent to retrieve Vindicator.
She gestured to his leg, which her axe had cut open earlier that night. Blood had seeped through the binding. “A lesser man would not be able to fight.”
“I feel nothing—not pain, not pleasure—unless it strikes deep.”
“That makes you strong.”
“It makes me stupid,” Kalen said. “If I can’t feel, I can’t tell when I’m about to fall.”
Sithe seemed to
accept that … or else saw no purpose in arguing the point. “Faith guides my blade—faith armors my body. What of you?” She leaned toward him and inhaled, her nostrils flaring. “Boiled leather wrought of mortal hands. The power of a decaying body. You have these things, but they are not your strength. These things are nothing to creatures such as we.”
“To servants of Shar?” Kalen nodded to her holy symbol.
“I have a god,” she said. “Do you?”
Kalen gritted his teeth. “Of course I have a god.”
“One you do not know,” Sithe said. “And yet you are surprised you fail him.”
“For all your power,” Kalen said stubbornly, “you have not killed me.”
“I have not tried.” Sithe spun the axe over in her hand.
“Try, then.”
In the next pass, Sithe slammed her axe into Vindicator with enough force to send it flailing wide. It was not strength that drove the axe, but rather sheer providence that struck the weak point in Kalen’s defense. He followed the sword, reeling to one side, and Sithe brought the axe haft around to knock his legs out from under him. He went down with a crash, Vindicator clanging across the roof.
Two moves. In two moves, she had defeated him.
Shaking off his dizziness, Kalen reached out for the sword. One black boot trod on his wrist, a second on his chest. Sithe stood over him, her axe raised in both hands over her head. She’d taken her eyes from him and now gazed into the rising sun.
Rage gave way to despair. He was once again a scrawny boy, rain splashing in his face as he lay gasping in a puddle. A woman screamed in his face and as he tried to rise, she grasped his head and pushed him back into the mud. He could no longer hear—her wails had vanished along with breath, sight, and, soon, life.
Abruptly, Kalen returned to the wet rooftop, gazing up at Sithe and panting.
“Do it then, if you will,” Kalen said. “You might have fooled Myrin, but not me. I know you’ll move against us. Kill me now or I will be there to stop you when you do.”
Eyes yet on the horizon, Sithe lowered her axe. “You are wrong,” she said.
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