by Paul S. Kemp
“Both,” he whispered, “and neither.”
With that, he turned the mask around and put it on, the first time he had ever done so in Stormweather Towers. It did not bring the expected comfort. Instead, it felt wrong, as obscene as Thamalon’s absence from the manse. He pulled it off and crumpled it in his fist.
“What do you want from me?” he whispered to Mask.
As usual, his god provided him no answers, no signs. Mask never provided answers, only more questions, only more choices.
Months before, in an effort to better understand his Calling, Cale had scoured Thamalon’s personal library for information about Mask and the Lord of Shadows’ faithful. Unsurprisingly, for Mask was the god of shadows and thieves, after all, there was little to be found. He had finally concluded that serving Mask was different than serving other gods. The priests of Faerûn’s other faiths proselytized, ministered, preached, and in that way won converts and served their gods. Mask’s priests did no such thing. There were no Maskarran preachers, no street ministers, no pilgrims. Mask did not require his priests to win converts. Either the darkness spoke to you or it didn’t. If it did, you were already Mask’s. If it didn’t, you never would be.
The darkness had spoken to Cale, had whispered his name and wrapped him in shadow. And now it was telling him to leave Stormweather Towers.
He sighed, finished his wine, and stood. If he was to be reborn in life’s bright struggles, he would have to do it elsewhere. It was time to go.
CHAPTER 2
THE DEAD OF NIGHT
“Well met, mage,” said Norel, as he slid into the chair across the table from Vraggen.
“Norel,” Vraggen acknowledged with a nod. He unfolded his hands to indicate the tin tankards on the table, each foaming with ale. “I purchased ales for us.”
Suspicion narrowed Norel’s eyes to slits. Obviously, he thought the ale might be poisoned. The thought amused Vraggen. As if he could be so … banal.
As quick as the snake that he was, Norel reached across the table and snatched the tankard from in front of Vraggen, rather than the one set before him.
“Appreciated,” Norel said, “but I’ll have this one, if you please.”
From the smug smile on his face, he seemed to think he had made a point.
Vraggen shrugged, took the ale in front of Norel, and said, “Well enough. This one will be mine then.”
Vraggen immediately took a draw, grimacing at the watery taste of the indifferent brew. It reminded him of the swill he had endured as a mage’s apprentice in Tilverton, before that city’s destruction by agents of Shade Enclave.
Seeing Vraggen drink and not fall over dead, Norel grinned and gave an almost sheepish nod—the closest he would come to apologizing for his mistrust, Vraggen supposed—and took a long pull on his ale.
Vraggen watched him while he drank, smiling with an easy disingenuousness, but wondering if he would need to kill him later in the evening. Not with anything as vulgar as poison of course, but dead was still dead.
Time would tell, he supposed.
The two sat at a small table in a back corner of the Silver Lion, a mediocre taproom at the intersection of Vesey Street and Colls Way, a boisterous corner deep in Selgaunt’s Foreign District. It was spring, and near the tenth hour. As usual for the Lion, a thick crowd of merchants, drovers, and caravan guards filled the tables and slammed back drink. The heavy aroma of the Lion’s infamous beef stew—a thick, wretched concoction inexplicably favored by caravanners—hung in the air. When mixed with the ubiquitous smell of pipeweed smoke and sweat, it made Vraggen’s stomach turn. Tankards clanged, plates clattered, and conversation buzzed. Everyone wore steel; everyone drank; and no one paid any attention to Vraggen and Norel.
Exactly as Vraggen required.
He had chosen the Lion as the location to meet Norel for two reasons: first, it was in the Foreign District. Zhent operatives like Norel considered the area a “hot zone,” a high-trade area well patrolled by Selgaunt’s Scepters, the city’s watchmen. Norel would therefore consider himself safe, and not fear the meeting to be a pretense for a hit. Second, the noise of the crowd made eavesdropping difficult by all but the most skilled and determined spy. That was well, for Vraggen wanted no premature disclosure of his plans. Many Zhents thought him dead already, and he wanted them to continue to think as much until he was ready to move.
Vraggen took another draw on his ale. When he placed the tin tankard, engraved with the crude crest of a rearing lion, back on the table, he glanced casually into the crowd behind Norel, looking for his lieutenants.
There they were.
Azriim sat three tables away, his dusky skin gray in the light of the oil lamps, his long pale hair held off his face with a jeweled fillet. Only in Selgaunt’s Foreign District could a half-drow like Azriim go unremarked. Sembians were notoriously prejudiced against elves of any type, but in Selgaunt coin spoke before race. And Azriim’s taste in finery suggested great wealth. Had they been in the Dalelands, Azriim would have been arrested on sight, probably hanged.
Dolgan shared Azriim’s table. The weight of the large Cormyrean, heavy-laden with axes, ring mail, and a round gut, bowed the thick legs of the wooden chair.
Vraggen brought his gaze back to Norel, though the Zhent made only occasional eye contact. “I thought you were dead,” Norel said.
Vraggen smiled and replied, “You can see that I am not. I was merely away from the city for a time.”
Norel gave a quick nod, and took a long pull on his ale. The Zhent operative was struggling to look calm, but Vraggen saw through the facade: the furrowed brow, the white-knuckled grip on his tankard. Norel was nervous.
Norel put back another long gulp of his ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set the tankard down on the table with a smack.
“You wanted me here, mage, and here I am. What you got? A side job?”
A side job—work beneath the attention of the Zhent leadership that an operative might do on his own time to fill his own pockets rather than the coffers of the organization.
“Of a sort,” Vraggen replied, being deliberately vague.
That was mundane enough that it seemed to relax Norel. He leaned forward, an eager gleam in his dark eyes.
“Let’s hear it then.”
Vraggen folded his hands on the table and looked Norel in the face. The Zhent’s initial response to Vraggen’s next words would be important.
“There’s a war brewing in the Network, Norel. It’s time each of us picked a side and fought. Do you see that?”
Norel’s eyes narrowed. He probably was still stuck on the idea of an ordinary side job. It took a moment for him to redirect his thoughts.
“War? You mean—“His eyes went to Vraggen’s brass cloak pin, in the shape of a jawless skull in a sunburst, and his expression showed understanding. “You mean what I think you mean?”
Vraggen nodded but added nothing. He wanted to let Norel’s thoughts run their course.
Norel’s gaze returned to the pin, returned to Vraggen. The Zhent’s thoughts were writ plain on his face. Bane, the god of tyranny, had returned to Faerûn and the resurgent Banites were in the process of retaking their historic place amongst the Zhent leadership. The Cyricists, who had murdered many Banites while seizing power in the Network, found themselves the target of the Banites’ vengeance. An internal schism had rent the organization. Mostly it was fought in the shadows with poison, assassinations, and the like, but of late, the Banites had grown confident, and the murders of Cyricists had become public and ritualized. Message-killings, really. Vraggen had heard that message and heeded it. That was why he’d left Selgaunt in search of the globe.
But Norel knew none of that, or little anyway. Like most Zhents who were not in positions of leadership, Norel wanted to stay neutral and weather the religious storm. But that day was past. Either he would side with Vraggen or he would die.
Ultimately, Vraggen planned to retake the Network with his own p
rivate war on the Banite leadership. For that, he needed soldiers—Zhents without loyalty to the Banites, Zhents like Norel—and power. He was in the process of gathering both. The risks were high, but if he were successful he would have taken the first step in eliminating the Banites from the Zhentarim. Surely Cyric would reward such a coup.
He returned his thoughts to Norel and asked, “Well?”
“Well? Dark and empty, man! Are you mad? It hasn’t been a war. It’s been a slaughter.”
Vraggen could not deny it, though hearing Norel say it aloud brought a flash of rage. It had been a slaughter, at least so far. Cyric was culling his flock of the weak, Vraggen supposed. Unfortunate, but necessary.
Norel, warming to the subject, went on, “I mean, I haven’t seen a priest of Cyric on a job for over a month. Not one that was alive at the end of it, at least.”
Vraggen bit back the impulse to smack the smugness from Norel’s face, and said, “I’m not a priest, Norel.”
Norel’s eyes flashed fear. He looked into Vraggen’s face, only for an instant, and looked away.
“No. I guess you’re not. But you’re still a mad bastard. Seeking a fight with the Banites is … is …” He stuttered, obviously struggling for the right word, and finally settling on the rather unimpressive and repetitive, “… is madness.”
Vraggen sighed and decided to give Norel one more chance.
“Consider the rewards, Norel. If I’m—if we’re—successful, imagine the power, the wealth. What’s your take per job, now? A twentieth?”
Norel nodded slowly.
“I’m prepared to double that. Think about it. A tenth.”
Vraggen could be free with promises of coin because wealth meant nothing to him. This was to be a religious war, not the pursuit of lucre. But he knew coin would mean something to Norel.
“But the Banites …” Norel said, shaking his head. “I mean, do you want to die?”
Vraggen knew then that Norel was lost. He stared daggers into the Zhent’s face.
“No. Do you?”
Norel’s gaze went hard, though Vraggen could see the fear behind the bravado.
“You threatening me, mage? You think that shadow shite will keep you safe from this?”
His hand went to the hilt of his short sword.
Calm as a windless sea, Vraggen leaned back in his chair and took a slow drink of his ale—using his left hand, the signal to alert Azriim and Dolgan.
“I find your attitude regrettable,” he said softly.
Norel scoffed, but kept one hand on his sword hilt.
“Regrettable? You know what I find? I find you’re a friggin’ fool. Did you think I’d buy into this tripe? That I wouldn’t go straight to Malix? There’s the real coin, selling you out. I don’t give a damn if Cyricists or Banites or the High Prince of the Ninth Hell is running the show, as long as I get my cut.” He smirked derisively and added, “And I’ll keep my twentieth. A dead man can’t spend a tenth.”
Azriim and Dolgan were cutting through the crowd, closing on the table.
Vraggen smiled softly and held Norel’s gaze, so as not to alert him.
“I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by your reaction,” he said, “but I’d hoped you’d agree with my vision. I’d hoped that you’d see the potential in it for you. Of course, if you didn’t, I realized you’d threaten to take it to Malix.”
Malix was the highest ranking Zhent in Selgaunt, and a Banite. He’d pay well to know Vraggen’s whereabouts and plans.
“Then you know I’m looking at a dead man, Cyricist. Unless—” Norel’s eyes grew cunning—“you care to give me a reason why I shouldn’t take it up the chain.”
A play for coin. How common.
Dolgan loomed behind Norel’s chair. Azriim, standing beside his big comrade, could not keep the smile off his face.
“I’ll give you two,” Vraggen said, and he nodded to his agents.
Norel sensed his peril a heartbeat too late. Before he could stand, before he could pull his steel, Dolgan planted a ham hand on each of the Zhent’s shoulders, a hold that might appear innocuously friendly to observers, but that held Norel in his seat as effectively as a vise. In the same instant, Azriim slid gracefully into the empty chair beside the Zhent and put a dagger to his ribs.
“Mind your manners, now,” Azriim ordered with a smile and a wink. His perfect teeth shone in the lamplight.
“One and two,” Vraggen said, and he let Norel digest his situation for a few heartbeats.
The Zhent obviously understood his danger. His breath came fast, and he started to sweat. Flush, he spoke through gritted teeth.
“I’ve got friends. People who know I’m here. If you do anything, you whoresons—”
Azriim pricked him with the blade to cut him off, and said, “I said, ‘mind your manners,’ and that means no expletives.”
The half-drow continued to smile, but the cold glint in his mismatched eyes left no doubt about how deep the dagger would go the next time. Azriim had a peculiar distaste for profanity, one of a number of the half-drow’s idiosyncrasies. Vraggen didn’t understand it, and didn’t try to.
“I believe you’re lying, Norel,” Vraggen said. “No one knows you’re here except the persons at this table.”
“And we’re not telling,” said Azriim with a smile.
Vraggen continued, “Who would you dare tell that you were coming to a meet with a Cyricist? The leader of your cell? Malix?”
Norel’s eyes darted around, seeking escape. Fear squeezed sweat from his pores. He spoke rapidly, his voice almost a hiss.
“I’m not being ‘escorted’ out of here, mage. You want to do something to me, you’ll have to do it here, if you’ve got the stones. Someone will see. The Network will hear—”
He started to squirm but Dolgan held him fast. The big Cormyrean flexed his shoulders and fairly ground Norel into his seat. The Zhent folded over and gave a squeal of pain. Azriim chuckled softly, as though the whole affair was a grand joke. Norel tried to lunge at Azriim but could not escape Dolgan’s grip. The veins of his neck stood out like a network of tree roots. When he spat his next words, strings of spit dangled between his lips.
“What’s so godsdamned funny, you black skinned sonofa—”
A deeper stab from Azriim cut short Norel’s tirade. This time, Azriim did not smile.
“I saved your life by keeping that curse in your mouth,” said the half-drow. “Thank me.”
“Bugger off.”
“Thank me.”
Another prick of the blade. Another squeal of pain.
Norel gritted his teeth. Pain paled his face.
“Thank you, you son—” He stopped himself before Azriim cut him again.
The half-drow smiled with satisfaction.
Before things could get louder, Vraggen reached into his robes, removed a thin iron wand, and pointed it at Norel under the table.
“Be still,” he ordered.
Those simple words triggered the magic of the wand. Norel went rigid, held immobile by the power of the wand’s magic.
Dolgan, chuckling in his slow way, loosed his grip on the immobilized Zhent and took a seat at the table. The chair creaked under his weight. A few curious eyes turned their way, but Azriim laughed loudly and slapped Norel on the shoulder.
“You villainous rogue,” he said with a gleeful snort, as though scolding an old friend for getting drunk and bedding a serving girl. “You didn’t?”
Dolgan laughed along, pounding the table with false mirth. The prying eyes of the other patrons went back to their business. Azriim’s laughter immediately died, and his eyes—one pale blue, one deep brown—recaptured their usual hardness.
“He has a foul mouth,” Azriim said to Vraggen and Norel. “Doesn’t he?” He looked at Norel. “You have a foul mouth.” He took Norel’s drink and had a slug. “And you drink swill.”
Looking at the immobile Zhent, Vraggen sighed with disappointment. Norel would have made a fair addition to
their crew. He’d shown backbone, there at the end.
Ah well, he thought, what had to be done, had to be done.
He stared across the table into Norel’s unblinking eyes and said, “As I said, Norel, you’ve made a regrettable decision. You do know what comes next, don’t—”
The smack of Azriim’s asp-quick backhand across Norel’s face stopped Vraggen in mid-sentence. Even Dolgan’s dull eyes widened with surprise.
“I told him, ‘no expletives,’ did I not? I believe I did.” The half-drow spoke in the same relaxed tone of voice that he used when ordering a meal. “You have a foul mouth,” he repeated to Norel
Vraggen glared. “Do attempt to maintain your self-control, Azriim,” he said.
The half-drow sneered and said, “Do I appear to you to be out of control?”
Vraggen indicated Norel. A thick stream of blood flowed down the Zhent’s face from the left nostril.
“I told him, ‘no expletives,’ yet he cursed nevertheless,” Azriim explained. “My striking him was meant as a further rebuke for his disobedience. He deserved it.” Before Vraggen could frame a reply, Azriim added, “And I don’t take orders from you, Vraggen. I’m your partner, not your lackey. I can interpret the globe, and therefore know how to find what you seek. You’re the adept who can gain entrance. That makes us equals.”
Vraggen’s fingers pressed into the soft wood of the table and he hissed, “Watch your tongue, fool.”
He glanced around at the nearby tables, but no one seemed to have taken any notice of the half-drow’s comments. Vraggen sometimes regretted his alliance with Azriim. The half-breed outcast of House Jaelre had a mouth that ran like the River Shining, and he too often took unnecessary risks. Still, Azriim spoke truth—they were partners. Inexplicably, the half-drow had a sage’s understanding of the heavens—he had never explained to Vraggen how he had come by that education, and Vraggen didn’t ask. Vraggen brought to the partnership knowledge of the Zhents and Sembia’s underworld, and a mastery of the Shadow Weave and related arcana.
They had met years before, near Tilverton, when Vraggen had first received training in the use of the Shadow Weave. Since then, their partnership had solidified. Vraggen needed Azriim’s knowledge to find the Fane of Shadows and plumb the secret that lay within, while Azriim needed Vraggen to help him establish a new criminal organization to replace the Zhents in Sembia, an organization with the half-drow at its head. Partners indeed.