by Paul S. Kemp
Vraggen made no comment but Dolgan snorted a laugh. Unlike Azriim, the big man never seemed to change his clothes. His ring mail, sweat stained brown tunic, leather trousers, and calf high boots might as well have been a uniform.
As for Alkenen, he looked every bit an itinerant peddler of the Heartlands. His pockmarked, road-worn face sported a few days’ growth of wispy beard. The sun and rain had long ago faded his weathered overcloak, once probably blue, to an indeterminate gray. His worn leather shoes had soles as thin as a vellum sheet. Perhaps he’d seen thirty winters, perhaps he’d seen fifty. Vraggen couldn’t tell. Funny that such a fool could find himself in the middle of such important events.
Alkenen’s cart looked much like most peddlers’, a sturdy wooden box on four wheels. A “roadship,” Vraggen had heard them called. Goods were stored for travel inside the walk-in main compartment, accessible from a narrow door in the back, and rotating slats were built into the cart’s sides. When turned down and locked into place, the slats could serve as display shelves. Alkenen had already done so and upon his shelves stood a dizzying array of goods—glassware knick-knacks, statuettes of wood and bronze, sterling pendants, old clothing, leather goods, used weapons, tools, even kitchen pots.
“We gonna stand here all day and stare at the cripple, or take care of business?” Dolgan asked. “I’m getting hungry.”
Vraggen didn’t think Dolgan meant he was hungry for food.
“We’ll try my way first,” Vraggen said to the big Cormyrean. “No need to draw attention unnecessarily. If that doesn’t work, we’ll remove him to an isolated alley and you’ll get your chance.”
Dolgan grunted acquiescence, but obviously hoped the peddler would need convincing.
Vraggen said, “Let’s go,” and started across the street.
As they wove their way through the thick crowd, Azriim flipped a copper penny up to a fat apple vendor sitting on the driver’s bench of his cart and plucked a green sour from the back. The vendor gave a nod and the copper vanished.
Alkenen saw them coming and must have sensed their intent. Perhaps he thought them guildsmen looking to chase him off. As they approached, he rose from his stool and tried to hobble into the safety of his cart. Dolgan and Azriim darted forward, intercepted him, and boxed him in against the side of the cart, near the driver’s bench. Alkenen’s draft horse, a road worn gray nag, idly chewed at a quarter-bale of straw set near it.
Wide-eyed and breathing fast, Alkenen swayed on his uneven legs. To maintain his balance, he steadied himself with one hand against the cart.
He looked fearfully at Azriim and Dolgan and asked, “What’s this now? I’m an honest businessman. I’ll summon the Scepters if need be.”
He made wet sounds when he spoke, as though speaking caused his mouth to fill with too much spit.
Azriim took a loud bite of his apple, glared at the peddler, and said nothing. Dolgan took a step nearer Alkenen, fairly blotting out the sun. The peddler sank back and tried to meld with the wood of his cart.
Vraggen, ignoring the peddler for the moment, walked up and surveyed the peddler’s goods, looking for the globe.
“What’s this about?” Alkenen asked again, his voice quaking.
“Shut up,” Dolgan said, in his deep, threatening voice. Alkenen did exactly that.
Vraggen looked carefully at each of the shelves in turn, but did not see the globe. He saw only the mundane wares of a mundane man, with the occasional item of modest value hidden in the mix—something Alkenen had fenced from a petty thief while in Cormyr, no doubt. Here a jade dragon figurine brought from the east, there a tarnished silver serving set lifted from a noble’s manse.
“What is it that the sirs require?” the peddler asked, hopping awkwardly on his deformed leg and warily eyeing Dolgan. “Alkenen has wares of every sort.” He nodded at Azriim. “Even clothes for the sir, who is obviously discerning.”
Azriim took another chomp of the green sour and eyed the peddler darkly. After he swallowed, he said, “You’d have to pay me to wear your common trash, fool. You’ve been told to keep your mouth shut, so do so. And don’t refer to yourself in the third person. It annoys me.”
Dolgan smirked, though Vraggen doubted the Cormyrean knew what “third person” even meant.
Obviously discomfited, Alkenen swallowed whatever reply he had thought to make. The sucking sounds continued nevertheless.
After a time, the peddler asked in a very small voice, “Are you guildsmen?”
Vraggen snatched the jade dragon figurine from the shelf and turned from the wares.
“No,” he said, trying to keep the distaste from his expression. Vraggen approached the wretch. “My name is Vraggen, and we are not working for any guild. What we require of you is a particular item. Failing that, we require information regarding its whereabouts. Provide us with that, and we can all be friends.”
He held out the jade figurine, and Alkenen took it, eyes wide.
Vraggen indicated Dolgan and Azriim with his eyes then winked conspiratorially at Alkenen and said, “These are good men to have as friends, peddler. As am I.”
He did not need to say that they were bad men to have as enemies. Alkenen understood.
“No doubt,” Alkenen said, managing an uncomfortable smile. The dragon figurine vanished into the pocket of his trousers. “What item do you seek?”
Vraggen gave a satisfied smile and backed off a step.
“First things, first.”
He nodded to Azriim and Dolgan and they seized Alkenen by the arms. Alarmed, Alkenen began to struggle against their grip; a feeble attempt.
“W-wait,” he sputtered, spraying spit. “No!”
Vraggen began to incant a spell that would cause Alkenen to believe that Vraggen was a trusted friend, a trusted friend to whom he would not lie or tell half-truths. It took only a moment to tap the Shadow Weave and complete the spell. When he finished, an immediate change came over Alkenen. He blinked and shook his head in confusion. Perplexed, he looked at Azriim and Dolgan, who still held him by the arms.
“Vraggen, what’s going on? Call off the muscle, eh?”
Vraggen smiled as sincerely as he could manage and said, “Of course, old friend. My apologies.” He looked pointedly at Azriim and Dolgan. He could not resist. “These two are thick, and often misunderstand my directives.”
Azriim swallowed whatever comment he might have made, but his glare bored holes into Vraggen.
“Release him,” Vraggen commanded, and they did.
Azriim bit into his apple, still staring. Vraggen ignored him and put an arm around Alkenen.
“Now, old friend. The item I’m looking for is a translucent globe of quartz, grayish in color. About so big, with many small gemstones inset. You would’ve purchased this item from a bearded warrior, a member of an adventuring company out of Cormyr who called themselves the Band of the Broken Bow.”
Alkenen rubbed his scruffy beard and said, “I remember that warrior. A few months ago, right? Big fellow, lots of weapons, but needed hard coin. A drinker, I think. Sold that globe to me on the cheap.”
“That’s precisely the item,” Vraggen said, and tried to keep the intensity out of his voice. “Where is the globe now? It’s very valuable to me and I will pay you handsomely for it.”
Alkenen sucked in some renegade spit dribbling down his chin and answered, “Sold it. If I’d a known you—”
Vraggen grabbed the peddler by the shirt and slammed him against the cart.
“Sold it! Sold it? To whom?”
Vraggen could hear the mockery in Azriim’s voice when he said, “Do attempt to control yourself, Vraggen. I know I’m ‘thick,’ but isn’t he your old friend?”
Vraggen shot Azriim an angry stare. The half-drow merely chewed his apple and smiled. Vraggen turned back to Alkenen. The peddler was wide-eyed and too stunned to breathe. Even the sucking sounds had ceased, and a stream of spit dribbled from the side of his open mouth. Vraggen came back to himself.
Alkenen smiled at that, a mouthful of stained teeth.
“Of course,” said the peddler. “As I was saying, I put it together with some other unusual items I had obtained and sold the whole lot to the old man Uskevren. Walked by with his butler, he did. Took an immediate liking to that globe and an orrery. Bought the whole lot of items on the spot.” Alkenen grinned and added, “I told him it came from Evermeet.”
Vraggen breathed the name, “Uskevren.”
He knew of the family, of course. Everyone with any familiarity with Selgaunt did. He also knew that Thamalon Uskevren had died recently—that news was the talk of the taverns—but something else itched at the back of his brain. Someone in the Zhentarim had once had ties to the Uskevren …
“Drasek Riven,” he said softly, and frowned.
“Who?” Alkenen asked.
Vraggen ignored him. Riven, one of the Network’s top operatives in Selgaunt, had once had cause to surveil the Uskevren manse, but Vraggen couldn’t remember why.
The answer came to him then, all in a rush.
Because Riven had tried for years to get the Zhents to put down the Uskevren butler, who had been a member of the now defunct Night Knives. Likely the same butler who had been with Thamalon Uskevren when he had acquired the globe.
“Cale,” he said softly.
Alkenen’s head bobbed up and down and he said, “Cale! Exactly! He was butler to old Uskevren. Tall prig, he was. Mean looking too.”
Vraggen frowned. Had Cale and Riven allied? Had Riven’s hostility been only a cover? Maybe this Cale had learned what the globe was. Maybe he and Riven had murdered Thamalon to take it for themselves. It seemed too coincidental that the Uskevren patriarch would buy the globe with Cale at his side and die soon after. That work stank of Drasek Riven.
Vraggen looked to Azriim and Dolgan and said, “This complicates matters.” While a simple divination attuned to the Shadow Weave could reveal if the globe was in the family’s mansion, dealing with Cale and Riven would not be as simple. “Cale and Riven are professionals,” he said simply.
Azriim smirked and chewed his apple.
Dolgan gave a hard grin and asked, “Mean looking, huh?”
Vraggen faced Alkenen and gave an insincere smile.
“You’ve been of immeasurable help, friend Alkenen.” Vraggen took ten platinum suns from his belt pouch, gave them to the peddler, and added, “For your trouble.”
Alkenen stared wide-eyed at the coins, a small fortune by his standards.
“Take it. You’ve been a great help to me.”
Alkenen said, “You’re too generous, Vraggen. Anything else I can do—anything—you need only ask. I’ll be in Selgaunt another few days, then I’m off to Marsember for the Festival of the Hart.”
“Thank you, my friend. But nothing more for now.” Vraggen forced himself to hold the smile. “Promise you’ll spend the coin well, and soon. Otherwise, it’ll chew a hole in your pouch.”
Alkenen promised that he would and they parted ways.
When they had walked a block or two away from Alkenen, Azriim said, “Helpful fellow, your friend Alkenen. Maybe you two should get together for tendayly games of sava. Chess maybe. I suspect he’d give you a good game.”
Vraggen resisted the urge to smack the smirk from Azriim’s face, and said, “We’ll track Cale and Riven for a few days. Once we’ve located the globe, we kill them and take it.”
“Easy enough,” Azriim replied.
“We’ll need to involve a few more men.”
“I know just the woman,” said Azriim with a smile.
Vraggen looked a question at the half-drow. He wasn’t sure this was woman’s work.
“Don’t worry,” Azriim said with a laugh. “She’s no lady. And she’s only a woman when it suits her.”
Vraggen nodded. He would trust Azriim’s judgment. Azriim had brought him Dolgan, after all, and the Cormyrean mercenary had been a perfect addition to the core of their team.
“What is this globe anyway?” Dolgan asked. “What’s it do?”
Azriim patted him on the broad shoulder and said, “You’re only asking that now? Where’ve you been for the last three tendays?”
The half-drow laughed at Dolgan’s dull frown. “It doesn’t do much of anything, my big friend. It simply is.”
“Enough,” Vraggen ordered.
There were people all over the street. Azriim’s careless tongue was infuriating.
Dolgan continued to frown, obviously perplexed.
“Never fear, Dolgan,” Azriim said. “There’s a little man with a real brain hidden in that big body somewhere. I’m sure of it. He’ll figure it out in time.”
Dolgan gave the half-drow a good-natured thump on the shoulder.
Vraggen glanced back the way they had come. He could no longer see Alkenen’s cart.
“The charm on the peddler will wear off late this evening. After that, his loose tongue will be a danger to us. Follow him. After he’s spent the coin, kill him.”
Azriim raised his eyebrows and stared at Vraggen. Was that respect in his mismatched eyes?
“Seems you’re not such good friends, after all, eh?” said the half-drow.
Vraggen stared back meaningfully and asked, “Why would you say that?”
The staff took the news of Cale’s departure well. Only Brilla the kitchen mistress had cried. Seeing stalwart Brilla blubbering like a child had almost undone Cale. He had fled the kitchen with a knot in his throat and only some of his dignity.
Word had spread to the guards quickly, and many had come up to his room to wish him well. He would leave that very night.
Alone once more, Cale gathered a final bit of gear. Glorious orange light cascaded through his window. The sun was setting on Faerûn, as the sun was setting on his time in Stormweather Towers.
He collected up a few necessities—some candles, a coil of rope, tindertwigs, flint and steel, a few favorite books—and placed them in his worn leather backpack. A peculiar numbness overcame him as he did so. It was as though his skin had grown thick.
With insensate fingers, he peeled off his butler’s attire—hose, doublet, vest, tailored but still ill-fitting pants and shirt—and piled each article neatly on the bed. Next to them lay his leather armor, boots, weapons, and other traveling clothes. The two halves of his soul lay side by side on the bed: fine cloth on the one hand and worn leather on the other.
From now on, he vowed, he would wear only the leather, the clothes that fit the man.
He reached for his breeches, tunic, leather vest, and boots, and pulled each on in turn. After that he strapped on his armor. Each fastened buckle was a nail in the coffin of Mister Cale the butler. When he snapped on his weapons belt, he could not help but smile at the familiar, comfortable weight of steel on his hips. His coin purse, which was filled with the hundred or so platinum suns Tamlin had insisted he take as severance, he stuffed into an inner pocket of his vest.
Fully dressed and in his proper skin, Cale gathered up his cloak and backpack. He felt … true, for the first time in a long time. He would pick up the sphere from the parlor on his way out. Most of the staff would be involved with dinner preparations, so he would be able to exit the manse without further ado or commotion. That was how he wanted it.
He took a last look around his quarters.
A tentative knock on his door turned him around.
He composed himself then said, “Come.”
Thazienne pushed open the door. She wore an informal, sleeveless green dress and a soft frown. As always, she looked beautiful. Her skin shone in the light of the setting sun. Cale fought down the pangs of hurt and desire that he felt when he saw her.
She started to say something, but stopped when her gaze took in his weapons and attire, the cloak and backpack he held in his hand. Her
frown deepened.
“You weren’t going to say good-bye? To me?” Her voice was soft, diffident, the timid voice of the uncertain teenage girl she once had been.
He could not look her in the eyes. His hands fumbled absently with the straps of his pack.
“I hadn’t decided yet,” he said.
That was true. For two days he had vacillated between a need to see her one last time and a fear of what he might say if he did.
She looked at him sharply, and her voice changed into that of the confident woman she had become.
“You hadn’t decided? What is that supposed to mean?”
He returned her sharp look and snapped, “It means I hadn’t decided.”
She took a step back, surprised by his harshness.
Hurt made Cale’s words sound more callous than he intended.
“We said good-bye months ago, Thazienne. You did, at least.”
He thought of the day she had returned to the manse with Steorf, the dolt whose bed Cale was certain she shared. His knuckles whitened around the straps of the backpack.
She understood what he meant. They knew each other too well for her not to know. A flash of red colored her face from chin to ear, though from shame or anger, he could not tell. She spun as though to leave, but stopped herself, turned, and faced him.
She took a deep breath and said, “You were my friend, Erevis. My dear friend.”
She could not have known that those words cut him more deeply than if she had said she hated him. Her friend? Only her friend? He swallowed the emotion that threatened to burst from him. He knew that he had misread her for years, that he had been a fool. He felt his own face color.
“Your friend.” He spoke the words as though they were an expletive. “That’s all?”
She started to reply but stumbled over her tongue.
Finally she said, “When I returned from abroad my mother … told me something.”