by Paul S. Kemp
“Kexen,” Thyld said with his typical brisk nod. “This is … a client.”
Thyld indicated the big man, who nodded.
“Potential client,” Kexen corrected automatically. “Zstulkk takes only the highest paying jobs.”
“Of course,” Thyld acceded with a bow of his misshapen head. “This potential client needs goods moved and protected. I recommended Zstulkk, which naturally brought me to you.”
“Naturally,” Sessa hissed as she slithered down Kexen’s forearm, head first.
The viper, concealed by Kexen’s sleeve, went unnoticed by either Thyld or the Amnian. Her hissing voice was so quiet Kexen only barely heard her himself.
Kexen looked in the mustachioed face of the Amnian and asked, “Nature of the goods?”
“Where did you get that shirt?” asked Thyld, studying Kexen’s overshirt.
He reached out a hand to touch the cuff and Sessa tensed.
Taken aback, Kexen looked curiously at Thyld, then at the black sleeves of the wool shirt he wore.
“Don’t touch it,” he said, and withdrew his arm. “What in the Hells kind of question is that?”
Thyld stiffened, frowned, and wagged a finger at Kexen.
“I’ve recently sworn off the use of expletives,” he said. “Please refrain in my presence.”
Never a man of quick temper, Kexen resisted the urge to shoot Thyld in the belly and walk away. Business was business.
“Very well,” Kexen said to Thyld. He looked at the Amnian and asked again, “Nature of the goods?”
Sessa poked her head out from under Kexen’s cuff, apparently to allow Zstulkk a better view of Thyld. Neither of the humans noticed the serpent and it quickly withdrew into the shirt sleeve.
“Highly magical,” the big man replied to Kexen, with a curious sidelong look at Thyld. His voice was deep but had the lazy diction of a dullard. “Let us leave it at that.”
Kexen nodded, unsurprised. Most of his clients were secretive about their wares. He didn’t need, and typically didn’t want to know what it was his men were guarding.
“Very well,” said Kexen. “How many wagons will you need?
After a thoughtful pause, the man replied, “Only one.”
Kexen raised his eyebrows, looked to Thyld, and said, “You understand that I don’t arrange transport unless the fee, in addition to expenses for the manpower, is in excess of a thousand gold?”
“We understand,” Thyld replied with a smile.
His teeth, Kexen noted, were perfect; he had never noticed that before.
Thyld continued, “The cargo is extremely valuable and my companion here understands and accepts your minimum. He would want not fewer than twenty-five experienced men with substantial magical support. The latter is critical.”
The Amnian nodded agreement.
Kexen raised his eyebrows and nodded. Whatever was in that wagon must be valuable indeed. Sessa gently coiled around his forearm, as though content.
“Costly,” Kexen said. “Location?”
The big man shifted in his chair, shared a look with Thyld, and said, “A meet with a buyer two leagues into the northern tunnels of the Underdark.”
Kexen ran some calculations through his head. The wilds of the Underdark were dangerous territory. He would need to hire experienced men, probably Underdark natives.
“Four thousand gold,” he said, and quickly added, “and I do not haggle.”
Sessa rested her head on his wrist.
The Amnian frowned, but Kexen could see the thoughts behind his eyes. The cargo was valuable, that much was obvious, and there were few organizations in Skullport with the manpower and expertise to provide the kind of protection Thyld and the Amnian had requested. Kexen sat in silence, waiting for the Amnian to draw the obvious conclusion.
“When can you have arrangements completed?” Thyld asked.
Kexen considered the question then said, “I’ll let you know. But not longer than twelve cycles.”
Thyld’s eyes flashed excitement, and Kexen wondered what stake the skulker had in the cargo.
“Done,” the Amnian said, and thumped his fist on the unsteady table, again nearly sending Kexen’s beer to the floor.
Irritated with the sudden movement, Sessa hissed and her tongue flicked Kexen’s arm. He kept it perfectly still. The two men across the table from him seemed not to have heard the serpent.
Thyld smiled and asked of Kexen, “I’ll take my usual finder’s fee?”
Kexen waved a dismissive hand and replied, “Of course.”
“You can leave word for me here,” the Amnian said. “I’ll provide the wagon and pack lizards. You provide the men.”
Kexen rose from the table, nodded at each of Thyld and the Amnian, and said, “I’m pleased we’ve reached an agreement. Expect to hear from me soon.”
The Amnian nodded and Thyld smiled a mouthful of perfect teeth.
A few cycles later, still dressed in Thyld’s flabby, dirt-encrusted skin, Azriim stood unobtrusively to the side of a narrow Lower Trade Lane street and awaited Ahmaergo. The so-called “Horned Dwarf,” a high-ranking member of the Xanathar’s organization, had insisted on meeting Thyld in the open street. A symptom of the dwarf’s well-known paranoia, Azriim assumed.
Azriim patted and pinched disgustedly at Thyld’s potbelly as he watched the slaves, sailors, and malnourished skulkers materialize out of the darkness and walk past. A squad of street sweepers hustled by, collecting the rothé dung and worse that littered Skullport’s streets. No one seemed to notice Thyld, so unremarkable a being was the human.
What a pathetic life the man had led, Azriim thought. I did him a favor by eating his head.
A gang of six bugbear slave overseers emerged from a nearby street, each garbed in a leather jack, a series of piercings, and armed with a whip and axe. Laughing and talking loudly in their guttural tongue, they stomped in Azriim’s direction. Their muscular, fur-covered bodies stank of alcohol and pent-up violence. Their bloodshot eyes promised a quick end to any who got in their way.
Like the rest of the skulkers on the street, Azriim-as-Thyld scurried out of their path. Though it galled him, Azriim avoided eye-contact and feigned fear until the savage, ill-dressed creatures passed him by.
Thyld’s rag of a cloak, moist from the ever-damp air, chafed Azriim’s skin. The irritation of his borrowed flesh mirrored his irritability of mind. He was bored. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of casting away his carefully planned ruse and simply attacking the Skulls outright. After all, he and his broodmates had deduced the general area in which must lay the Skulls’ hidden lair, and there too must be the origin of Skullport’s mantle.
He smiled at the thought but dismissed the idea. The Sojourner had instructed him to avoid alerting the Skulls until the seed was planted, and Azriim always obeyed the Sojourner, albeit grudgingly. Besides, the Skulls actually were formidable foes.
Azriim recognized the root of his boredom: things had gone too easily. He felt no challenge, and hence no thrill. He and his broodmates had surveilled the Skulls for over a tenday and located the vicinity of their lair, all the while avoiding notice. They had eliminated Thyld and Azriim had clandestinely stolen his skin and identity. They had annihilated a Xanathar caravan in under a ten count. And they had put an additional spark to the embers of a brewing gang war, embers that would turn into a wildfire after Azriim’s meeting with Ahmaergo.
All too easy, he thought with a sigh. Even Dolgan could have planned it.
He adjusted the sling satchel he wore over his shoulder. Within were some of the magical items he’d taken from the slaughtered Xanathar caravan—fodder to feed Ahmaergo’s ire. He put his back to the warped wooden wall of a brothel, and reminded himself that success in planting the seeds of the Weave Tap would result in his transformation to gray.
Above him, the windows of the brothel leaked giggles, growls, and playful screams. The faint smell of rotted flesh carried through the dark streets and filled his no
strils. Something nearby had died recently. Had he been in his own form, Azriim would have been able to pinpoint the source and the nature of the corpse. His senses in human form, however, were much too dull for such fine work.
Except for the tactile sense, Azriim reminded himself. Human skin was an unequalled medium for transmitting the pleasure of touch. Perhaps after his meeting with Ahmaergo, he would visit the brothel himself.
A few glowballs, seemingly in the possession of no one—escapees, no doubt, from one the city’s glowball dealers—floated randomly down the narrow street. Otherwise, all was cloaked in the gloom of the Underdark. In the distance, the faint voice of a caller announced the hour. Dogs and cats scrounged the shadows of garbage-strewn streets. A gang of skulkers, scrawny adolescents all, lingered at the mouth of a nearby alley, whispering amongst themselves and sifting through a pile of trash. Most would eventually be rounded up by the Iron Ring and sold as slaves, Azriim knew, if the streets didn’t claim them first.
The brothel against which Azriim leaned sat sandwiched between a cooper’s workshop and the Black Pot Inn. A black pot hung eponymously over the door of the dilapidated building. Smoke billowed out of the Black Pot’s windows and Azriim caught the tantalizing tang of mistleaf. He resolved that if Ahmaergo did not soon show, he would take a meal at the inn and enjoy the smoke-saturated air. No doubt Thyld’s body would feel the effects of the drug quickly.
Just as he was about to give up on the dwarf and head into the inn, Ahmaergo stomped into view. He appeared to be alone. Azriim grimaced, both because he would not yet get to enjoy the mistleaf haze and because the dwarf dressed like an idiot. Azriim was amazed that such a dolt could have risen so far within the Xanathar’s organization.
Ahmaergo wore a bright yellow shirt with gaudy, embroidered cuffs, a wide black belt, black pantaloons, and enough jewelry to fill a wyrmling’s hoard. A breastplate peeked from under the shirt, a helmet sprouting two horns sat atop his stewpot head, and a huge axe hung across his back. A large iron ring swimming with keys hung from Ahmaergo’s belt—an indication of his profession as a slave trader.
Azriim surreptitiously attuned his vision to see dweomers and saw that the dwarf’s armor, axe, horned helmet, two beard rings, and one of his front teeth all glowed red.
Though unfortunately dressed, Ahmaergo was powerfully built. The horned dwarf cut a swath through the street traffic by the sheer force of his reputation and physicality. Skulkers cleared a path for him more quickly than they had for the bugbears. The dwarf’s heavy gaze looked out from under his thicket of brows, took in Azriim, those skulkers in the immediate vicinity, the layout of the buildings, the rooftops, and the catwalks overhead. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the dwarf brushed past Azriim toward a nearby alley.
“Follow, Thyld,” Ahmaergo ordered.
His voice sounded like stones grating against stones, and his key ring jangled.
Azriim fell in behind the dwarf.
The moment they got off the street and into the deeper darkness of the alley, Ahmaergo whirled on Azriim, took him in two ham hands, and smashed him up against the alley wall. Startled rats scurried past Azriim’s feet and his breath went out of his lungs. Ribs cracked, but the rapid healing of his kind began to reknit them instantly. Ahmaergo punched him hard in the stomach. Azriim doubled over in agony, temporarily unable to breathe.
By the time he recovered himself, Ahmaergo had unslung his axe and had the shining head spike pointed at Azriim’s chest.
“You’ve been in contact with that dog, Kexen, who serves that snake, Ssarmn,” the dwarf spat, and pressed the tip of the head spike into Azriim’s chest. “You trying to game me squid?”
Azriim took that last to be a derogatory reference to Thyld’s membership in the Kraken Society.
“No … game,” Azriim replied, feigning fear and breathlessness.
The dwarf’s gaze darkened.
“Anyone crosses Ahmaergo, that anyone decorates this axe with his blood.”
With effort, Azriim resisted the temptation to smack Ahmaergo for referring to himself in the third person—a personal peeve of Azriim’s. At least the dwarf didn’t make casual use of expletives.
“I did meet with Kexen on a matter unrelated to you or the Xanathar,” Azriim said. “But during that meeting he asked me if I could locate a buyer for certain magical goods.”
Ahmaergo managed to keep his crenellated face expressionless, but Azriim sensed the sudden tension in his body. For days, Skullport’s underworld had been abuzz with news of an ambushed Xanathar caravan and its store of magical goods. The Xanathar, Azriim knew, was eager to avenge the attack and needed only the slightest nudge to move against Ssarmn.
“Continue,” the dwarf commanded. “And be truthful. If Ahmaergo does not like your story, he can have your corpse questioned almost as easily as your living body.”
Azriim let his eyes show concern, though he felt an almost uncontrollable compulsion to gut Ahmaergo.
“Here is evidence of the truth, Ahmaergo,” Azriim said.
He unslung the satchel bag at his shoulder, and the head spike of the axe pressed more firmly into his chest.
“Slowly,” Ahmaergo said, his voice low and dangerous.
Azriim nodded and reached into the satchel. From within, he slowly withdrew four garnet-tipped wooden wands wrapped in leather oilcloth. The appearance of the magical devices had the desired effect. Ahmaergo lowered his axe and seized them from Azriim’s hand.
“How did you get these?” he asked.
Azriim kept the smile from his lips. “I had a contact arrange the purchase from Kexen. These wands are from among those items for which he asked me to find a buyer. It seems he has many more. When I heard about the … unfortunate events that befell one of the Xanathar’s caravans, I purchased only these, declined further dealings with Kexen, and resolved to inform you.”
“Ssarmn,” Ahmaergo hissed.
“Indeed,” Azriim said. “And there is still more, Ahmaergo.” He adopted the mien of Thyld-the-businessman. “We need only discuss my price first.”
The horned dwarf was notoriously cheap, but he surprised Azriim by saying, “Name it.”
“Four thousand in gold coins,” Azriim said. “Waterd-havian mintage.”
That amount was the exact fee that Kexen had charged Azriim and Dolgan to provide an armed escort for the bait caravan. Azriim enjoyed the symmetry.
“Very well,” Ahmaergo said. “But if this is a set-up, Thyld, or if you tell me a half-truth … death will not come quickly.”
Azriim feigned the appropriate amount of fear while saying, “If I wanted to set you up, I would have employed a middleman to convey this information.”
Ahmaergo tilted his head to concede the point. He also put the wands in an inner pocket of his shirt. Apparently, the dwarf meant to keep them.
Azriim closed his satchel bag and went on, “I have learned that Kexen has arranged for a heavily armed troop of over twenty men and mages to escort a caravan into the northern caves of the Underdark within the next eight cycles.” Azriim and Dolgan were still negotiating the exact time with Kexen. “The remainder of the magical goods are to be in that caravan. I believe he used another agent to arrange a meeting with a buyer.”
The creases in Ahmaergo’s brow deepened to chasms.
“Twenty you say, eh?” He reslung his axe. “You stick down the time and tell me immediately. I know those tunnels. That caravan won’t get more than a quarter league into those tunnels before I kill them all.”
Azriim had to hold back a smile. He knew the tunnels too, and thought he guessed the likely spot that Ahmaergo would set up the ambush.
“I expected nothing less, Ahmaergo,” he said.
IN THE DEEP
Cale came back to himself in darkness, floating on his back in water as black and cold as a devil’s heart. The weight of his gear threatened to pull him under. While not a strong swimmer he managed, sputtering, to right himself and stay afloat. His skin
was clammy and tingled with gooseflesh. His breath sounded loud in his own ears. He knew he had to get out of the cold water quickly or it would suck the body heat from him. The last thing he remembered he had been rolling, tumbling, falling forever over the Dragon’s Jaws—and he found himself somewhere else, with his head above water. A gentle current propelled him slowly downstream.
A vast, winding tunnel loomed over him and ran before and behind as far as he could see. The wide, curving ribbon of the river in which he swam tracked the tunnel’s course, its water still and foreboding. Sharp-tipped stalactites hung from the ceiling, a crowd of pointed fingers accusing the river of something unspeakable. Water dripped from many of the stalactites to plop, with ominous echoes, into the water. Phosphorescent orange lichen clung in sporadic patches to the crannies of the rough wall and ceiling. The plants cast little light and Cale could see in the otherwise pitch darkness only because of his transformed vision. Jagged rocks and stalagmites littered the narrow riverbanks to either side. Smaller side caves too dotted the riverbanks, holes in the walls of the river’s channel that led off into darkness. Some caves were large enough for an ogre, some were small enough to accommodate only a halfling. Some had been worked, others were natural. Bats fluttered overhead. The damp air carried a mineral tang.
The Underdark, Cale realized.
He was half a league under Faerûn’s surface in a world that never saw the sun. He felt comfortable with the darkness, but uncomfortable with the comfort. And the realization that the world literally hung over his head gave him a sense of oppression that he could not shake.
“Jak,” he called, and his voice echoed loudly in the tunnel, reverberating down the river’s course as if there were ten of him. He winced, and more softly called, “Magadon. Riven?”
“Here,” Magadon responded, from somewhere to Cale’s right. A soft splashing sounded. “I’ve got Riven. He’s alive, but nearly drowned.”